Page 49 of Of Heathens & Havoc

“Stop being ridiculous,” Saint snaps, rising from the seat.

“It’s ridiculous to think you’re killers who were never convicted?” she asks. “Just because the prosecutor couldn’t find enough evidence, that doesn’t mean the crime didn’t happen.”

“You better walk out of here while you still can,” I say, my voice low but barely controlled.

“Fine,” she says. “But just so you know, I’m not going anywhere, no matter how many cryptic notes you leave in my room while I’m sleeping or on my door when I’m in class. If you can walk free after what you did, so can I. I don’t need your protection scam.”

She turns and clops toward the door in her stupid shoes.

Angel slips in front of her before she can walk out.

“You need our very real protection,” he says, a frown darkening his brow. “We didn’t go in your room, and you better fucking pray it wasn’t the Sinners. If it was, you have no idea what you’re getting into, and you damn sure can’t do it alone.”

“What choice do I have?” she asks, jerking away when he reaches for her elbow.

“You can bring payment to us in the chapel tonight,” I say behind her. “Come alone, and bring you rosary.”

She glances over her shoulder, her brows drawn together, forming a cute little line between them. “The chapel?”

“Consider it an extra prayer session,” I say. “After all, you’ll be spending it on your knees.”

eighteen

The Merciful

I stare into my closet, my heart hammering. I shouldn’t go. I should run to Father Salvatore and tell him what’s going on, beg him to save me. He would. He’s a priest. His job is to protect his flock, and I am his little lamb.

A funny flutter happens in my lower belly at the thought of being his, being the sweet, innocent child of God that he envisions when he thinks of me.

Or maybe he doesn’t suffer under any such delusions. He’s the first to hear my confessions, after all. If I don’t go tonight, what will the Hellhounds do to ruin me? Will they tell Father Salvatore the other things I’ve done, that I’m not as pure as I pretend, even when I’m confessing to God? Will they tell him the hands that have touched me, the pleasure I’ve succumbed to in this place? Will they tell him I’m not an innocent at all, but a heathen like them?

I pull a soft, flowing skirt from the closet, a cream colored one with golden flowers, that covers me to the ankles. I’m turning myself in tonight, so I don’t need to worry about proper running shoes. I slide on my clogs as usual. Then I select a soft white camisole to wear under a rust-colored cardigan I crocheted last winter while watching re-runs ofPretty Little Liarsand pretending I didn’t notice Aunt Lucy making a baby blanket for a baby that didn’t exist.

I let my strawberry waves tumble around my shoulders, then avoid my own eyes in the mirror while I wind them back up, making sure every strand is in place. Once my bun is secure,I slick back any flyaways with a bit of water to make sure it’s as stark and severe as a nun’s.

I pull the cardigan closed, pushing the oversized button through the chunky buttonhole with trembling fingers. I could run, leave campus. I could leave my dorm room and hide somewhere until morning, so even if they came for me, I’d be gone. But then what?

If I run, I’ll have to keep running. I can’t come back. And I’m done hiding. It’s time to pay for what I did four years ago.

They could have done worse. Saint protected me on HAVOC night, and some part of me takes courage in that, in the fact that some part ofhimstill sees me as the little sister he wants to protect. They gave me a choice, let me decide how to pay for my crimes against them. They didn’t have to do that. They could have decided for me. But they let me choose whether to work off my debt by becoming theirs—or not.

I’ll pay either way, but it won’t be at their hands if I choose to walk away. It won’t be at the hands of boys who used to be my best friends, who let me ride on the handlebars of their bikes before I learned to ride my own; who picked me up and dusted me off and kissed it better when I wobbled and fell when I was learning to ride without training wheels; who waited for me when we were running away from some real or imagined threat, even though I was smaller and slower.

They waited, not just because they never left anyone behind, but because they didn’t want me to get caught by someone else. They protected me, even then, even if none of us knew that’s what they were doing. We were the Quint, Cinco de Mercy, bound together by friendship bracelets and blood oaths and promises sworn, “cross my heart and hope to die.”

Maybe a sliver of that remains in all of them, not just Saint. Some part of me trusts them, even though they want tohurt me. I have to believe, to have faith, that they won’t kill me. That there’s a limit, a line they won’t cross.

I don’t know that about anyone else, but I know about them. I do. I know it in my bones, in my soul. And if I know that, then I must have known, in some hidden place deep inside me, that they didn’t kill Eternity.

And so, I won’t refuse their offer. I won’t take my chances with the giant Sinner named Bain, or his brother with the neck tattoo and hairline like a knife, or the one with the quicksilver eyes and dirty mouth, who will surely be out to avenge his wounded pride after our encounter outside the dorm. I will turn myself over and pay for the sins I’ve committed. Maybe then, at last, I’ll be absolved. Maybe I can finally be forgiven and move on, free from this burden that has burned inside me like hellfire since I was twelve years old. This isn’t my sacrifice. It’s my penance.

I wrap my fingers around the cross that hangs from my neck and close my eyes, saying a quick prayer that they won’t ruin me completely, that they’ll stop before condemning me to hell. That I will return to my room with enough innocence left that I’ll still be worthy of God’s love. I run a trembling thumb over the engraved letters on the back.

Then, I step out of my room and pull the door closed behind me. A hooded figure is hurrying down the hall, away from me. My eyes fly back to my door, expecting another message, but there’s nothing. I turn after them, my mouth already open to call out, but the hallway is empty. I stand there, breath held, but the only sound is the slightest echo of a whisper from the stairway ahead.

The hairs on my neck bristle, and I lock my door and race on tiptoes to the top of the stairs. By the time I arrive, the stairwell is empty. Heart hammering, I descend, glancing overmy shoulder every few steps. When I step into the hall at the bottom, there’s no sign of them in either direction.

Curfew is quickly approaching, and the nun at the front scolds me harshly for forgetting to check out a book from the library that I need for a paper that’s due tomorrow, but she’s too old-fashioned to tell me to just find it online. With a final threat, she lets me leave with only the promise of a quick return and humble acceptance of punishment if I’m even one minute late.

---