Page 74 of Dirty Little Saint

He smells like vetiver—earthy and smoky. It’s intoxicating as fuck.

I clear my throat before reciting the poem.

Thy soul shall find itself alone,

‘Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone—

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry.

Into thine hour of secrecy.”

He stands upright but doesn’t budge from the back of my pew. “What do you think Poe means by hour of secrecy?”

The white-haired boy I sat next to last week reluctantly raises his hand. “The dead can’t tell secrets.”

Felix air high-fives him. “That’s right. The dead can’t speak our secrets.”

I can’t help but snicker.

“Did you have something to add, Miss Blackwell?” He leans back over me.

I have to turn to the side to look him in the eyes, our faces almost touching. “In my experience, I find that the dead don’t shut up.”

Felix smirks and snatches the book off my lap. He holds it up, using one of his fingers to bookmark the page. “Aha, yes. That brings us to the next stanza. Read it to yourselves.”

I roll my eyes. He’s so fucking dramatic. This man is literally driving me insane. He makes me want to have a cocktail at eight in the morning.

Felix and I lock eyes over everyone’s bowed heads. He stalks back over and shoves his book in my face again. “Be still,” he rasps.

The tension between us is excruciating, but I tear my eyes away from him and look down to read the second part.

Be silent in that solitude,

Which is not loneliness—for then

The spirits of the dead who stood

In life before thee are again

In death around thee—and their will

Shall overshadow thee: be still.

Does this man only speak through poetry? For fuck’s sake. I glare up at him and shove the book against his chest. “Clever,” I whisper.

He winks before stalking back up the aisle. “The dead can’t tell secrets unless the dead rise again. But then they are undead, are they not? This brings us back to the original assessment of… all together now.”

The class collectively shouts as he lifts his hands up, “The dead can’t tell secrets.”

You know who else can’t talk, asshole? Cocky professors with their tongues cut out.

My Erebus sigil stings. I rub my neck and try not to freak out that it’s ice cold to the touch.

Felix’s lips are moving, but I can’t hear what he says. My ears are ringing. Swelling. As a sharp pain shoots up my spine, I grab the pew in front of me. Fuck. My head feels like it’s going to explode.

I don’t know how long I’ve been like this, but it feels eternal. Endless. The other students are too focused on how hot he is to notice me having a meltdown. My limbs feel heavy. Weak. I suck in a deep breath and try to will my other sigils awake.

Something’s happening.

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