Page 94 of The Dead Saint

She wanted to cover her ears. Never again did she want to hear her name spoken this way.

“Keep going,” Adrian said.

The priest’s voice was shrill as he continued, one bone-thin finger pointed at her heart—accusation and demand in the gesture. “You will fulfill your duties! You are the vessel. You are his face in this world. How will you face his judgment knowing you left me this way?”

She shivered, tugging the torn cloak around her, looking up at the winter sky. He wasn’t one of the many who had lied to her—promising one thing while meaning another—but it didn’t matter. He was one of them.

He held the ceremonial blade out to her, hope filling his face, hinting at the man he might have been before the siege, before the deaths.

She took it, feeling its warmth from being held so close to his body. It was a heavy weight in her hand, full of expectation and intention.

“I will tell him how well you fulfilled your duties, Sorcha.”

“You don’t have to tell him,” she said. “He knows.”

He smiled, exposing black teeth and gums, fumbling with the soiled tunic and pulling it apart until he exposed his bony chest. Bruises covered his skin, dark discoloration that hinted at internal decay. It was kindness and mercy, the only thing left she could offer.

Sorcha plunged the blade into his chest, scraping against bone, hitting soft organs. There was little resistance, almost none, and it brought with it the memory of the priest in the prince’s court, the quiet determination of her family. A sob broke from her throat, and she gritted her teeth, fighting to keep it in as the priest sat heavily on the steps, the blade lodged in place.

Revenant and Thompson were whispering, the crows screaming. Sorcha closed her eyes, straining to hear the old man breathe, waiting for the moment it stopped. It didn’t take long. He was gone so quickly, so ready to depart.

I will tell him how you fulfilled your duties, he’d promised. But she hoped he wouldn’t, that she would never face the creature who had begun to dream with her, who’d crept into her waking hours.

She turned, leaving the man on the steps, walking past the group she’d come with, continuing without looking back and leaving them to follow.

The skull murmured to her, the words not yet distinguishable but getting clearer.

* * *

There were more and more birds. Black messengers called to witness a rebirth so they could carry it to the ends of the earth.

She looked up to watch a flock of starlings dip and rise, an amorphous shape moving across the sky, liquid in a solid form. In their movement, she thought she saw things—the future and past, the present and what might have been.

“Do you see something, witch?”

She brought her eyes back to earth, to the muddy, bloody place she stood in. Revenant was watching the flock, standing so near, though she had not heard him approach. He held his sword unsheathed in one hand, drawn and ready, sharp and deadly. Had he come for her?

She glanced around. No one else was close. The camp was far enough away that if she screamed, they wouldn’t be able to reach her in time to stop a killing blow.

“He’s not in camp,” Revenant said as if he read her mind.

“I wasn’t looking for him.”

“Weren’t you?” He turned to her, staring her full in the face. His own expression was full of an emotion she had no name for—disgust or fear, anger or pity. “In the village where I was born, we had a witch. She was ancient, crippled, and blind. But when she channeled the demons of the underworld, she would dance and sing, her clouded eyes cleared, her face smoothing out.”

Sorcha swallowed, an edge of fear creeping toward her, sidling in. “What happened to her?”

“I killed her.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact.

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason to kill a witch?”

“I am not a witch.”

“You keep saying that. I don’t believe you. He’s been different since you’ve arrived, lost the edge that made him worthy of the prince.”

“It’s your prince that wanted me here. I wasn’t given the choice.”

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