Page 13 of The Sinner and the Scholar
“Shoo.” I wave my hand.
Its beak taps incessantly at the glass.
“I said,shoo.”
Tap. Tap. Caw.
Another crow lands on the sill. It pecks until a hairline crack in the glass webs out. My pulse quickens. Another lands. And another. Soon a sea of black feathers block out the sun. The temperature turns icy—hairs on the back of my neck lift. I search for my crucifix pendant. It’s buried somewhere beneath my dirty dress. I don’t know if it will help against an army of crows, but I left the dagger in my room. Maybe I can smother them with the shower curtain. Or lock them inside the bathroom and leave.
Tap. Tap. Caw.
A knock comes at the door. “You all right in there?”
It is one of the men… Wesley, going by the accent.
“I’m fine,” I shout, finding the crucifix and holding it at the window. “It’s just a few crazy birds trying to get in.”
The window shatters. Darkness pours in at the same time as the door opens. Wesley’s arm bands around my front and yanks me against his body. He throws something bright, like a ball of light. Gunpowder or firecrackers explode. A silent sonic boom whooshes past my face. Time stands still. I hold my breath. My heart thuds. Then the birds squawk and shriek. Wings flap, and the darkness dissipates.
The crows are gone, but a smoldering white card remains, floating to the tiled floor.
Wesley still holds me, his warm breath tickling my ear. With every breath, his cotton shirt grazes my sensitive, flogged skin. An odd tingling sensation causes me to glance down. A large male hand grasps my right breast, with only a threadbare towel separating his palm from my nipple.
I stare at his hand, feel the warmth of his touch, and become all too aware that he’s a man and I’m a woman. And it’s been a very long time since someone touched me there. My body reacts before my brain catches up. Then I recall his look of disgust when we spoke on the steps. The crows that tried to eat me. His bursting in like I couldn’t protect myself.
I grit my teeth.
Don’t kill him.That would be overreacting.Just think of the penance you’ll have to endure.I pry his hand away before rounding on him with a calm, indignantly arched brow.
“Sorry.” He raises his palms defensively.
“You’re not sorry.”
“I believed you were in danger.”
“Fuck off. I can take care of myself.”
“I see that.” He takes in my disheveled state with a mocking tone.
Don’t kill him.
I survey the destruction, the broken glass, the feathers, and the blood spatter. An errant breeze lifts the edge of the smoldering white card on the tiled floor.
That bright light he’d thrown.
His breath hitches. I spin to find him staring at my back. Darkness settles over his expression as he grinds out, “Who hurt you?”
I consider my response. That symbol could be important. Do I want him to know, to ask for his help, or should I change the subject? At my silence, lightning flashes in his gaze, his jaw clenches, and his hands flex like he’s trying to hold in his anger. At me, or my wounds? The movement draws my attention to his rolled shirt sleeves and surprisingly muscular forearms covered in occult tattoos.
Scars slashing his skin remind me of knife wounds, but I don’t think they’re self-inflicted—thinner scars thread over his hands. Come to think of it, when he showed me his palms earlier, I glimpsed scars there too.
An odd feeling churns in my chest. It confuses me. I don’t like knowing he’s suffered. It makes it harder to hate him. He’s probably thinking the same thing about me. But it still doesn’t give him the right to get up in my private business.
“I don’t know what the symbol on my shoulder is.” I dismiss him to study that smoldering card warily.
“There’s no symbol,” he retorts as if I’m being deliberately obtuse. “I’m talking about the welts.”
Unexpected heat hits my cheeks at the realization he’s talking about my sins. But if I let him know I care, I’m… I just can’t. I hug my towel and pick up the card.
