Page 95 of The Dead Saint

“And when you’ve served your purpose, I will kill you.”

She wanted to tell him. Shock him. Silence his threat. It was meaningless. She would die without his assistance. The idea warmed her, kept the fear from taking over. And there was a fierce pleasure in knowing she would deny him what he wanted. What he felt was revenge and justice for altering the man he’d sworn his life to. So, she shrugged, not giving him the satisfaction he craved, the fear he’d hoped to instill in her.

“Do you know about the Saint?”

“It’s a cult. A myth and lies.”

“Your prince doesn’t seem to think so.”

He shook his head, not wanting to speak the treasonous words. “You’re nothing more than a witch. A temple whore. I’ve heard the creatures speaking to you, temple girl and vessel. I know what you are.”

“You’ve heard them, seen them, so how can you deny them and believe the Saint is nothing but a story?”

Emotions battled on his face, his own personal beliefs at war with how he thought the world was, what he believed it was. Flat, black and white.

“You don’t have to believe in them for them to exist. He will come for you regardless of your beliefs.”

His grip tightened on the sword, fierce light in his yellow eyes.

“The prince believes. Others do too. You have no idea what I am, what is coming for you.” She took a step forward, lowering her voice. “He will devour believers and nonbelievers alike. No one will be spared.”

“Not even you, witch?”

He’d come to it without her saying it aloud. She didn’t respond, turning on her heel and walking toward the camp. Don’t run or he’ll cut you down. A hunting dog scenting blood, the nearness of a successful kill.

He laughed, hatred and triumph in it. “I’m looking forward to your death, temple girl.”

* * *

They came down out of the mountains and met the remaining Tomeis in the foothills. Sorcha barely registered it. Her mind spun around the priest’s death—relived the dagger sliding into his thin frame, releasing him from the world he desperately wanted to escape. She hadn’t even known his name. But he’d known her. How many others out there carried her name in their heads, waiting for her to perform magic she didn’t understand and give up a life she’d barely lived?

Adrian rode beside her, silent and stone-faced, one balled fist resting on his thigh. He’d retreated from her again, because they could only share themselves in the dark. It had been a mistake to think she could be happy with those stolen moments. Now that he’d touched her, she wanted nothing more than for him to do it again. But each time she spoke to him or lingered beside him too long, the Tomeis stopped to watch.

The landscape was vastly different from anything they’d seen so far. A world of sand and bare rock in shades of rust and faded red. The maps had shown volcanoes to the east and a collection of towering rock formations. Thompson kept checking the maps as they went, muttering to himself while the rest of the men remained quiet. By the time Prince Eine’s caravan came into view, Sorcha was relieved. With so many other people around, maybe Revenant would stop watching her with such intense hatred.

“Stay with me,” Adrian said as they approached the group of fifty or more.

Sorcha nodded, sticking close as the others fell back and took up places in the line of slow-moving horses and richly painted carts.

When the prince saw them, he called a halt, the long line of people and horses stopping to rest.

“You have the skull?” Eine asked without looking at her, his gaze focused on the barren horizon to the east.

“Yes,” Adrian said.

“Put it in the cart with the other relics.” Eine waved a dismissive hand.

* * *

Sorcha was aware of the other women traveling with the caravan. They rode on the litter with the empress, perfuming the decaying body and rewrapping the shroud as it was soiled. It was a constant process of replacing it and working to cover the horrific smell. Every few hours, they sprayed a cloying perfume at the swaying curtains surrounding them, then each other, and then the empress.

Despite this, no one wanted to be close to the litter. But it traveled in the front of the column, behind Prince Eine, and was unavoidable. Sorcha had been curious—watchful and waiting until an opportunity presented itself to approach them. She wanted information, wanted to know what had been happening in the world, and didn’t trust Prince Eine or the others to be truthful. And she missed Ines. More than anything, she wanted someone who would remind her of her friend.

They’d stopped to rest beside a stream, the horses taken off their leads, the men fanning out to relieve themselves in private locations. Someone had built a small fire.

Sorcha had gone down to the stream, wanting to wash her face despite the chill, desperate to clean her hands. The priest’s blood had been washed away, but every time she looked down at her hands, she saw it. Thick and red. The end of his life. A life she’d taken.

A woman had been alone on the bank, crouched at the edge to collect water. Sorcha had greeted her, hopeful for a connection—struck with homesickness. The woman had not responded, shrouded in her layered veils, features impossible to make out. She’d stood, the two facing each other without speaking, a heartbeat passing, then a breath, before the woman turned away in a swirl of red and walked back to the waiting horses.

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