Page 9 of Wanted

Plus, there are gargoyles.

Mean looking gargoyles that stare down at everyone like they wish they could eat them.

I’m always afraid one will suddenly come to life and eat me.

Tipping my head back, I stare at the stone monsters, watching them for any sign of movement as my father leads me into church.

And feel them staring back even when we pass through the huge wooden double doors.

Their wide, hungry eyes burning into my back.

My father squeezes my hand and murmurs quietly, “All will be well.”

Looking up at him, I see a tenseness in his shoulders that isn’t normally there. My father is usually happy, unless he’s arguing with my mother. Quick to smile. Quick to laugh.

It’s part of what makes him so handsome. His eyes sparkle like my dolls. There’s a light inside them that warms me and makes my mother’s iciness more bearable.

There’s no sparkle in his eyes right now, though, as he stops inside the little room between the doors and the main cathedral.

Here, a silver fountain of holy water has been placed beneath a silver cross hanging on the wall. A perfect circle encloses the cross and each of the cross’s four ends bears a nail.

I once asked Daddy what the cross means, and he told me it’s the symbol of our religion, the Order of Saint Benedict. We’re a very special religion and not everyone can join.

Unlike the Catholics, only the most devoted to God are welcome in our flock.

Dipping his fingers into the fountain, my father closes his eyes and makes the sign of the cross over himself while he murmurs something quietly.

The only word I can make out is, “Please.”

And the desperation chills the blood in my veins.

Is my father worried about me?

Has he been pretending not to be worried this entire time?

Opening his eyes, he lets out a deep sigh, then begins to tug me with him.

Only to suddenly stop.

When he turns to face me, I feel every little hair on my body standing on end.

Eyes locked on my face and full of a strange emotion I don’t understand, my father dips his fingers in the holy water again. Then he steps up to me and dabs it against my forehead, making the sign of the cross over me.

Blessing me.

He’s never taken the time to bless me before. Usually, my parents dab the water on themselves, then rush us to their favorite pew tucked in the center.

Do I deserve it now?

Or is it another sign that he’s worried?

“May God be with you, Alena,” my father says, his voice thick with a heavy emotion.

“And with you, Daddy,” I respond, the words just popping out of me.

His face lights up and he smiles, little crinkles appearing around his eyes.

For a moment, one glorious moment, he’s my sunshine again.

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