Page 32 of Wanted

Yet there’s something about the way Sister Agatha is behaving, something in her rush to get me in front of the Prophet that makes me think I’m in more danger than I’m aware of.

Now that I might fully manifest and come to bear the cursed mark, everything has changed. I’m no longer simply tainted…

I’m a liability.

Little of the mark is known to me, only the bits and pieces Sister Agatha has leaked to me over the years. I know it’s supposed to appear after my first period as a red figure eight somewhere on my body.

And once it appears I’ll somehow be connected to a vampire.

What being connected to a vampire actually entails, besides somehow birthing evil into the world, has never been explained.

Though, I’m quite sure it is all very unpleasant, and if given a choice I’d rather avoid it.

I don’t want to be connected to anything or anyone. I’d rather be free.

Father McCall lets out a weary sigh. “Yes, Dominic, I understand that, but perhaps this—"

A door opens somewhere, its hinges squealing in high protest, and Father McCall falls silent.

“Sister Agatha,” Jeffrey says in a rush, sounding breathless, “the Prophet will see you now.”

Father Dominic laughs incredulously, and I peek up again to see him glaring daggers at Jeffrey. “Unbelievable.”

Sister Agatha lifts her chin and the corners of her lips twitch, repressing a grin. “Thank you, Jeffrey.”

Jeffrey nods sharply, his blonde hair not falling into his eyes for once because it sticks to his sweaty forehead. I wonder if he ran all the way here after telling Sister Agatha what happened?

Sister Agatha tugs on my arm, signaling I should follow beside her.

As we pass through the door, I hear Father Dominic grumble behind us, “Well, I must see what is so important that we’re to be left waiting like a couple of wet-behind-the-ears seminarians.”

Sister Agatha shoots a dirty look over her shoulder, but otherwise pinches her lips together and remains silent. She leads me into a dim room lit only by a few scattered candelabras.

The air is mustier than the hallway we just passed through, and I can see a thousand specks of dust floating like golden glitter in the air ahead of us.

It would be pretty, maybe even reassuring, if the room itself wasn’t so derelict and depressing.

Tall bookshelves line the walls, full of old books, and the windows are covered in thick, red velvet curtains caked in dust.

Out of curiosity, I glance down and examine the floor. The old wood is dull and the finish has worn down in several places. There’s so much dirt and dust, I doubt anyone has scrubbed or polished it in years.

Why would the Prophet meet anyone here when it’s obvious the room has been left to fall into disrepair?

Up against the back wall, placed between two dusty red curtains, is the strange throne from the day of my Judging.

And sitting in the throne, clad head to toe in a plain black hooded robe, is the Prophet himself.

The sight of him causes me to swallow back a gasp of surprise. It’s been so long since I’ve been in his presence, I thought all the memories I had of him were the product of my young, traumatized imagination.

But he’s even more scary than I remember.

Stopping us in the center of the room, Sister Agatha takes a deep breath and says with utmost reverence, “Your Holiness.”

Then she shoves her palm against my neck and forces me to bow my head.

My chin digging into my neck, I stare at the dirty floor and my mind struggles to make sense of all of this.

How can the entire Order revere and defer to a man who looks like he’s molded himself into a clone of Death?

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