Page 18 of Saint, Sorrow, Sinner
“If a ghost gets loose, I’ll catch it,” Tehlor said, shrugging. “Bishop and Colin, you’ll focus on protection for Sophia and Juniper. Lincoln’ll run defense.” She pointed around the kitchen, jabbing at each person. “I keep what I catch, though, just so we’re clear.”
“Do you ever think about anything other than yourself?” Bishop snapped.
Tehlor clucked her tongue and picked idly at her nailbed. “I took care of your plants, didn’t I?”
“Dios mío.” Their chest emptied on an exhausted breath. “How could I forget?”
Juniper made a matronlysound.Ah!Sharp and raspy, aimed at Bishop, then chirped at Tehlor.Ah!She clucked her tongue. “No givin’ ojo. You both agreed.”
Tehlor smothered a laugh. Bishop rolled their eyes and gave Juniper a solemn nod.
Sophia swallowed a mouthful of grassy tea. “Okay, but whatisa séance?”
“A séance is a courtyard. Anyone, friend or foe, can wander in or out.” Juniper shrugged. “It’s a place where we commune with the dead.”
“And how will wecommunewith that dead when I’m a . . . a gateway, crossroads, vessel—whatever.”
“Intention, prayer, energy.” She sighed through her nose and gave Sophia a slow once-over. “You’re a conductor. I’m a conduit. If all goes well, I’ll pinpoint the place inside you that’s in need of repair. Tehlor will collect any wayward entities, Bishop will keep me bound to this plane, and Colin will make sure you’re safe throughout the communion.” She flicked her gaze to Tehlor’s spectral guard. He held his labradorite pendant between his teeth, leather cord dangling loose around his chin. Gunnhild perched on his shoulder, cleaning her snout. “Lincoln, you’ll keep anything sinister at bay—that’s your job.”
“She’s my job.” Lincoln gestured to Tehlor with his coffee mug. The gemstone smacked his chest, flashing violet in the muted morning light. “If she’s safe, you’re all safe.”
“Comforting,” Colin muttered.
“What if something inside me is a threat to her?” Sophia asked.
Lincoln took a slow drink. “Don’t let it out.”
“Lincoln,” Bishop warned. “Be reasonable.”
“I’m being perfectly reasonable. Sophia’s safety is your boyfriend’s responsibility. No one wants her to fuckin’ die, okay? But none of us know how this’ll go and Tehlor’s my—”
“Don’t kill her, don’t hurt her, don’t let me die,” Tehlor said to Lincoln. She lifted her arms in mock surrender and flashed a Cheshire grin. “There. Problem solved. Can we move on?”
Sophia turned her attention to Tehlor, searching the witch’s face. Matte black lipstick, sharp eyeliner, dark mascara, but nothing bold enough to conceal the worry line between her brows. They looked at each other for a long time. Bound together by the moment they’d mutually seized—dodging death and embracing cruelty. Sophia wouldn’t admit it, but she wanted to become her. Wanted to wield power with dignity. Laugh fully, love shamelessly, worship fearlessly. Being in Tehlor Nilsen’s presence made conquest attainable.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Tehlor said, too quickly, like a secret spoken in plain sight, before her throat flexed, and she flashed another fake smile. “All right, we’re havin’ a séance. What’s on the shopping list? I need jars.”
Juniper flapped her lips. “I’ll check my supplies; Sophia can text you. Colin, take Bishop to the carniceria. Short ribs,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Chicken too. Bone-in.”
Everyone traded confused glances.
“The living shouldlivebefore connecting with the dead,” Juniper said. She refilled her mug and replaced the tea bag with something new. “So we’ll cook together.” She shrugged, as if she’d said the simplest thing in the world. “Sustenance is a prerequisite to ritualism, isn’t it?”
Evening fell over Los Angeles, but the Belle House stood alight in the darkness. Jarred candles flickered on windowsills, vintage lamps illuminated the parlor, and spices, oil, and herbs scented the crowded kitchen.
Flour dusted Sophia’s palms. Her thumb left a soft white print on the stem of her wineglass. Cheap merlot soaked her bottom lip. If there was anywhere Sophia felt at home, if there was anything she felt overwhelmingly comfortable with, it was baking. The way tacky dough ballooned between her fingers, how individual ingredients came together for the greater purpose of creating something whole and new and entirely individual was a reliable ritual. She set the glass on the counter and ground the heel of her palms into a mound of fluffy dough, kneading until the uncooked bread was equally buoyant and sturdy. After, she gripped the rosewood handle on a well-loved dough cutter and separated the ball into individual lumps, rounding them with her palms. She sprinkled them with rosemary cut from Juniper’s garden and drizzled Palestinian olive oil over each uncooked loaf.
“Look at you,” Colin said, appearing at her side. “Quite the cook, huh?”
“It’s my thing, I guess. I always thought I’d own a bakery.” She placed the loaves onto a baking sheet and slid them into the oven.
The priest nodded reassuringly. “You will.”
She offered a frail smile. Despite Juniper’s psychic interference that morning, Sophia recognized the needle-sharp prick of unfamiliarity.Felt the stirring of something alien and volatile growing in the back of her mind, like a roar of a distant storm barreling across blue skies. Next to the sink, Tehlor whined about ordering takeout—pizza, beer, and buffalo wings would’ve been quicker—while Lincoln diced onion and cilantro on a cutting board. At the stove, Juniper transferred rehydrated ancho chiles out of a bubbling pot and into a blender. Beside her, Bishop smashed avocados in a stone bowl. Lincoln carefully tipped the board over their mortar, spilling chopped veggies into chunky green paste. Bishop, curt and cold, saidthank you.
Tehlor hoisted onto the counter and swung her legs. “All right, I know we haven’t, like, eaten yet, but what’s for dessert?”
“Chocolate soufflé,” Sophia said.
