Page 72 of The Dead Saint

The storm had vanished, the summer world gone. An illusion conjured by the creature or the Saint. A vision. The rain had stopped, but the cold remained, the sky no longer blue and the flowers sagging and browning with the biting frost. Winter had followed them through the arched stone fingers, and Adrian was shaking her. His hands framed her face, fear radiating outward in a palpable cloud. Fear for her.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded and pressed her hands to his, feeling how cold they both were.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I met the Saint,” she rasped, her throat dry.

She wanted cool water and hot tea, furs and a fire, a swift dip in an icy stream. She wanted sweet wine and something warm to eat. Things to drive away what had happened, to soothe not only her raw throat but also the horrible feeling blooming in her chest like a poisonous flower.

“The Saint,” Adrian echoed. Surprise and curiosity colored his words.

“Yes.” Sorcha moved, stepping beyond his grasp.

She needed to move, restless with knowledge, wanting to ride away from this place, wanting to take the relic and go. It weighed on her, everything she’d seen—intense and heavy, unforgettable.

Sorcha wanted to forget it all.

But this was coming. It was rushing toward her and inescapable.

The relic called to her, beckoning—willing her to fulfill her promise.

“We need to take the relic and go,” Sorcha said, striding toward the gilded bone and lifting the heavy weight of it with a grunt. “I don’t want to stay in this place.”

As soon as she touched it, a wind began to howl, flattening the grasses that still stood, whistling in her ears. Out of the trees beyond the altar, a creature appeared. It stood as tall as Adrian but twice as broad, covered in thick white fur. But it did not resemble the werewolves. This was something else—something far stranger. Throwing back its head, it let out a long, mournful call filled with the promise of pain. Fear crystallized in her blood.

Sorcha stumbled under the weight of the femur. The Saint needed her—these creatures wanted her—but it made no sense that he would not make it easy. Adrian pulled out his sword and faced the creature determinedly. Snow fell from the sky, a blizzard obscuring their vision. It was impossible to see, blinded by snow and stinging ice.

The creature howled, and then the howls became words, undulating and drawn out.

“Mine. He is mine.”

Sorcha shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold.

“Get back to Nox!” Adrian urged Sorcha toward the trees.

She stumbled, managing to keep upright and moving. Returning to the stone hands took less time—distance covered in seconds. The creature’s howls followed, but it appeared to let them go. They stumbled through the arched fingers—snow following, wind screaming.

Sorcha dropped to her knees, clutching the bone to her chest.

I’ve got you, she promised.

No, the relic replied, filling her head. I have you.

She cried out, shocked, and thrust the relic toward Adrian. “Take it!” she pleaded, not wanting to hold it a moment longer and keep the connection open. There would be enough of that in the future, the certainty rushing toward her like an arrow aimed at her heart.

But Adrian didn’t. Instead, he dropped to his knees beside her and reached out, cupping her face in his cold hands.

She trembled at his touch, cheeks reddening beneath his intense gaze. He leaned in, one hand smoothing across her shoulder, wrapping around her lower back to pull her close against him.

“Sorcha, I?—”

A voice interrupted him, calling his name, searching and closing in. Adrian dropped his hands. Tilting away from her, he pushed to his feet.

“Here!” he shouted, steel in his tone—hard enough to break the world.

Where had the softness gone? Vanished. Shoved down. And what of it? He wouldn’t have kissed her, wouldn’t have caressed her.

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