Page 32 of The Dead Saint

With no relic here and no promise of finding any if they continued on, maybe she really could walk away from this. Sorcha touched her shoulder, the tattoo beneath the fabric showing this place—the Silvas. The arm bone, depicted surrounded by ferns and branches, had been stolen or destroyed. Could the Saint return if pieces were missing? She wasn’t sure, couldn’t be. Nothing she’d read had specifically addressed missing relics.

Sorcha considered all of this as she returned to the area they’d claimed as their camp. The horses were tethered in the entrance within the first arches they’d passed through, but they’d refused to go up the stairs. The men had been uneasy about leaving them in the woods. There had been too many strange sounds with no visible cause.

They were all uneasy with the watchfulness of the Silvas.

Where they were now had once been a large chapel, a place for worshippers to come and make their petitions. It would have been crowded at one point, full of the faithful, each person searching for an answer to their prayer.

The temple she’d grown up in had been like that, with pilgrims coming from all over to see the hand of the Saint—a hand capable of miracles. A hand to bless them or hurt them. Sorcha had witnessed it once in her childhood—before the tattoos had begun, before the teaching had started in earnest.

There had been a man with graying hair, hard eyes, his jaw clenched around his pain and anger. He’d touched the relic with his eyes closed, lips moving with his silent plea. But when he’d opened his eyes, they were no longer clear. Blood leaked from his tear ducts, and his skin aged rapidly, wrinkling and drying out in a matter of seconds. She’d brought her hand up, covering her mouth to contain the cry of horror. A priest had led him away, out of the temple and onto the street where the man had been left to find his way home.

Not a true believer. Not a faithful worshipper.

Until then, the powers of the relic had only been hypothetical. She’d never witnessed the response of a true believer’s prayer and only read about what might happen if you asked for something but didn’t believe it.

For months, she’d been afraid to touch the relic, searching her heart and wondering if, deep inside, she had something in common with the pilgrim.

Kahina Kira had chuckled and squeezed her shoulder, offering comfort and compassion. Sorcha, you have been chosen. You could never fail him.

Guilt touched her then. She should have wanted the relic to be here. She should want to bring the Saint back into the world. Instead, she found herself thankful, relieved to find it missing.

Gone.

Gone like the priests who had taken care of this place. Gone like the pilgrims who had filled this temple. Gone and forgotten here in the heart of the Silvas.

A howl filled the night, spiraling out, expanding as it rose above the tree tops. The call caressed the moon as it climbed above the trees and into view.

Sorcha stopped breathing, frozen as another howl joined the first. Then another. She turned, searching the faces of the men around her. The Wolf was not among them.

The men were looking at each other, questions on their faces.

“Wolves?” Thompson asked.

“Possibly,” Domenico replied.

Wolves. Were they here to pay their respects to the Wolf? Or were they here to drag each person out of the temple and into the woods? Fresh meat—dinner and dessert all in one. The watchfulness of before, the feeling that something lurked beyond the screen of trees to either side of the path, must have been those wolves.

The Wolf appeared through an arch that led deeper into the temple, a direction they’d already searched. He gripped his sword in one hand and a long dagger in the other. Briefly, he surveyed his men, gaze skating over Sorcha and finally landing on Revenant. They exchanged a nod.

Long, mournful cries filled the air. They came from beyond the walls in every direction. The calls echoed through the trees, lingering like a lover’s words, threats and promises of what would come.

“What is that?” Juri asked.

The Wolf moved to the arch, standing motionless and looking down the steps and out into the Silvas—listening. The men watched him, waiting for their leader’s response.

With a slow shake of his head, he replied, “I don’t know.”

Sorcha wrapped her arms around herself, listening to the cries and trying to pick out one that might be closer than the rest. Anything that might indicate something was creeping up on them. But it was impossible to be sure. Everything, even the scuff of boots on stone, her own breathing, seemed to be amplified by the space.

When the Wolf turned back to them, his face was stone, eyes as dark as the temple around them. Sorcha could feel how the men changed around her, how they were tuned to him, shoulders straightening, hands going to their sword hilts.

“Light a fire. Stay in groups of three if you leave this room. I don’t want anyone going out alone for any reason. We’re all on watch.”

Several men nodded, others looking around the space for anything that might burn. Sorcha followed their gaze, wondering how far they would have to go to find wood for a fire. Wondering if something else would find them first.

“Someone had a fire here recently,” Domenico said. He kicked at a few scattered ashes, the remains of a half-burnt branch. He picked it up, gesturing to the small alcove. “It wasn’t a large fire though. Looks like they burned anything worth burning in this room already. Maybe they gathered more from the woods.”

“Maybe,” Adrian agreed.

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