Page 12 of The Dead Saint

“It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head, pulling her sleeve down to hide the small part of the larger tattoo. “He won’t get what he wants.”

The Wolf rocked back on his heels. “He will. I will make sure he does.”

“Do you even know what that means? What the Saint means?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know the stories here. I grew up thousands of miles away. I only know what the court whispers.”

“And what do they say?”

“He’ll bring back the dead.”

“He will bring death.” Her eyes glittered, hardness and slow simmering anger building. “He is death. Walking, consuming, physical death.” The words came out softly, belying the fury inside. “Does the prince think the Saint will do his bidding? That he can bend a god to his will?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you were his monster. Shouldn’t a dog know what his master is thinking?”

The Wolf’s hand clenched, his face betraying nothing—eyes black pits of nothing. The leather across his knuckles creaked, pulled taut.

Sorcha watched his fist until his fingers relaxed, the angry response quelled. Or maybe saved for a better moment, when others weren’t watching.

“His mother is dying,” he said, voice flat and hard.

Sorcha sucked in a breath, surprised. She hadn’t expected something like this, so ordinary and very human.

“People die,” she said.

He nodded.

“No one comes back from the dead,” she whispered.

All the blood in the temple, her sisters and brothers—the only family she had ever known—all dead around her, all trusting her to do what she had been born for. The only thing she was good for.

Resurrect the Saint.

“Don’t they? Isn’t that what your religion teaches?”

She bit her lip, looking down at her pale hands and the dried blood beneath her bitten-down nails. “Are you religious?”

He shook his head, waiting until she looked up to speak. “You’re a death cult.”

You will be the instrument of our resurrection. He will walk the earth again because of you.

They’d killed themselves so easily. It had shocked her how quickly they brought blade to flesh, poison to lips. The gates breached, houses burning, the air stinking of death. The earth beneath her trembling, quaking, as if it might split at any moment.

She closed her eyes, squeezing it all out, forcing it down and away.

He grasped her chin, turning her face to his, forcing her to look at him. His grip was strong, unyielding, and her heart began to pound, her skin tingling with his touch.

“You don’t believe it,” he said.

Not a question, a statement, seeing it all on her face.

“I don’t have to believe it for it to be true.”

He grabbed her arm, pushing the sleeve back again to reveal the tattoo. “And these?”

The words spilled out of her, flowing without thought.“I was chosen, born beneath the right stars at the right time. Divine. I grew up in the temple. There is always a vessel. Always a girl at the right time and place.”

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