Page 93 of The Dead Saint

“No.” Adrian shook his head, eyes straight ahead.

But he would have before. Sorcha knew he would have. Only her presence kept him from being the monster. But she could see his calm facade cracking.

The priest returned, shuffling forward, a wrinkled golden sash wrapped around his waist.

“Sorcha,” the priest said, clutching her arm, rank breath steaming out of his black mouth. “He’s here.”

“How long have you been down here?” She kept her voice low, focusing on the priest as she followed him, working to keep her disgust and horror from showing.

All around the room were bodies that had been mangled and chewed.

“Since the city was sacked. We hid and stayed underground for many weeks. We protected the Saint. Only afterward was I able to bring him back here.”

The priest gestured to where a large object lay beneath a swath of crimson fabric on a black stone altar. It was surrounded by hundreds of candles. When Sorcha didn’t step forward, the priest did. He grasped the edge of the fabric with a trembling hand and pulled it away.

Empty eye sockets seemed to fix on her, seeing her from another world, ready to join her in this one.

Vessel. It wasn’t a word so much as a feeling. The Saint’s voice, here in this place. She felt him in her bones, in the space between each rib. Her mind was awash with a tide of images—a battlefield, a golden man, a burning sword.

“He’s ready to leave with you. It will be a glorious return.” The man smiled, exposing rotten teeth and bleeding gums. He held up one finger and hurried to a dim corner where a low bench was piled high with unlit candles and books. “I have something for you.”

“Wrap the relic in the cloth. It’s time to go.” Adrian gestured to Revenant.

But the second-in-command was already moving, collecting the relic and grunting as he took the weight on his shoulder.

Sorcha skimmed the room again—chewed bones, rotten gums, the priest who looked more dead than alive. She would have given anything to leave this place behind.

The priest came shuffling back, carrying a bundle.

“A beautiful thing,” he murmured, unwrapping layer after layer of soft cloth. His eyes darted up, searching her face, and a faint smile touched his cracked lips. The priest held out a golden knife, intricate scrollwork covering the blade, the handle a dark polished stone. A ceremonial blade—one meant for ritual and sacrifice. “Beautiful, like you.”

“I have to go,” Sorcha whispered, stepping back.

Not here. Not now. Not after everything else that has happened.

“No.” The man shook his head, desperation in every line of his body. “You can’t leave. Not yet.”

Adrian grabbed Sorcha’s arm and dragged her back the way they’d come. She stumbled past the exposed cells, avoiding the desiccated bodies, trying to block out the priest’s cries as he followed. The tapping in the walls grew louder, as insistent as the man following them.

Revenant went ahead, calling to Thompson as soon as they reached the main area. Cool air blew away the stink of decay and the cloying incense. Sorcha shuddered, pulling her cloak tight as Adrian urged her ahead of him. Hurrying on, trying to block out the priest’s pleas, she rushed for the doors and began to make her way down the stairs.

“Sorcha! Vessel!”

I am not those things. I am not a killer. I am not the only physical tie to a god on this earth. I did not choose this. I will not let things end like this here.

Revenant was telling Thompson what they’d seen. Adrian was beside her. Ahead, she could see Epona, Nox, and the other horses. She wanted to ride out of this place and never come back.

Adrian offered no comfort, no understanding, in front of his men. Right now, she hated him for it.

With a jerk and cry of surprise, she was brought up short as she was grabbed by the clasp of her cloak.

The priest gripped the fabric with claw-like hands—pale as death in the muted light of the overcast sky, eyes sunken and lips cracked and bloody. He was already dead, moving through the temple without realizing it. It would be a mercy to kill him now, before he wasted into nothing, gnawing on the bones of his brothers and sisters.

“Please kill me, Sorcha.” The priest pulled at her cloak, the fabric straining and then ripping. “Sorcha, you must.”

Shaking her head, she stepped back as the tear in the fabric widened. “I can’t.”

“Sorcha, please.”

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