Page 28 of Saint, Sorrow, Sinner
She paused near the top of the staircase and turned, scanning Juniper. Her wild braid, almost entirely unwoven by the wind, hung over her shoulder, and the top of her crisp, pale shirt was unbuttoned, framing the bold lettering on a Calvin Klein bralette. Like that, dark eyeliner smudged around her lashes, thumbs tucked into her belt loops, expression earnest and true, Juniper Castle became a terrifying, thrilling thing.Conquest.The word rang in Sophia’s mind, uttered from a ghost.
“See you in the morning,” Sophia said.
Juniper nodded. “Dream peacefully.”
“You too.”
She wanted to say a thousand things. Wanted to ask a thousand questions.What’s so tempting about me? Thank you for bringing meback. Are you lonely? You have beautiful everything. Do the dead tell you about me? I’ll be your banshee if it’s what you want. Did my hands on your waist make you blush? I’m still warm from it, from you.But Sophia climbed the stairs instead.
She left her clothes piled on the bathroom floor and braced against the shower wall, watching suds circle the drain between her feet. Her spine lengthened. Chatter whispered in her left temple, flickering like a dying bulb.Reaper, free the displaced.She closed her eyes. The water was almost too hot to bear. The steam almost too thick.Let us out.
After she’d scrubbed her hair and pressed a washcloth to her tender neck, she twisted the knob and stepped onto the fuzzy rug, staring at her distorted reflection. Steam pulled her this way and that. She was an oddity on the glass, faceless and unrecognizable.
“You can’t have me,” she whispered. To Judas, to Amy, to Kimberly, to every ghost pushing at the seams of her soul. She spoke to the rift, too, to the place inside her making false promises to the dead. Water dripped from the faucet. She pulled a towel around herself and reached for the switch, killing the light with a quick flick.
A feminine purr rolled through the air, sending a shiver down Sophia’s spine. It did not come from within, but instead, manifested from the darkness. Gently, like a feather, two words landed on the shell of her ear.
“You’re mine.”
Sophia dreamed of candlelight. How gold settled on the bridge of Juniper’s nose and deepened the grooves around her upturned eyes. She chased the free fall after waking, snatching at leather and body heat. Her skin felt too tight, drawn close to her organs, squeezing relentlessly, and her heart revved as she blinked at the ceiling, stumbling out of a fading dreamscape.
Juniper, overlooking the city. Juniper, staring up at her from the foyer. Juniper, sayingamen.
She swallowed to wet her throat and turned toward the balcony. Outside, the blue hour crept over Los Angeles, hardly illuminating the gauzy curtains. Birds chirped and early-morning traffic shushed through the neighborhood. Rain streaked the glass. A storm had come and gone sometime after she’d fallen asleep—after an unfamiliar voice, ghost,presencematerialized from a thatch of shadows.You’re mine.Feminine, terrifying.You’re mine.Possessive, inhuman. Sophia had gone to sleep transfixed on the possibility of that voice.
It hadn’t bloomed in her skull. Hadn’t haunted her like the rest of them.
She remembered Colin’s comment last night.Someone made you new.Remembered wailing at the warehouse. Remembered praying for a sign.
The floor wheezed beneath her bare feet. She dressed in corduroy pants and a hand-me-down turtleneck still scented like Tehlor’s perfume and centered the crucifix between her collarbones. She crossed the hall and brushed her teeth in the bathroom. Kept her eyes on the sink. Blood splattered porcelain. Foam, saliva, gore.
Morning settled tenderly in the Belle House, rousing it from slumber like a doting mother. Sleepy whispers snuck through the gaps underneath closed doors. Cool, bluish tones poured through the stained window and striped the floor in the foyer. Song filled the kitchenaccompanied by squeaky pantry hinges and a kettle on the cusp of whistling.
Sophia found Juniper there, teacup in hand, dressed in pastel nightclothes, humming a hymnal.
“Buenos días, conejita,” Juniper said.
Sophia smirked. “Buenos días,” she parroted, glancing over an array of ingredients neatly arranged on the kitchen island. “What’re we cooking?”
“Apple turnovers.” She tipped her cup toward the island. “If you’re okay with that.”
She rolled up her sleeves. “I’ll need a knife.”
Dawn was a baker’s blessing. The sun barely broke over the horizon while Sophia peeled and sliced, sweetened and seasoned. Flour chalked the bandage around her palm and lemon juice perfumed the air. She vowed not to shrink as she spread egg wash over the pastry dough, hyperaware of Juniper’s unwavering attention.
“You’re like a hawk,” Sophia mumbled.
Juniper tsked.“Not an owl?”
“Haven’t heard you hoot,” she teased.
She laughed and Sophia wanted to steal the sound. Wanted Juniper to pass that noise to her like smoke from a shared joint, exhaled, inhaled.
“I intended to makeyoubreakfast. Can I help, at least?”
“Baking is my ...” She shrugged, searching for the right word. “Solace, I guess. We need to cook down the apples before we bake ’em,” Sophia said.
“I’m sure I can handle that.” Juniper tightened her ponytail and took the sliced apples to the stove, upending the bowl into a pan. She added a dollop of butter, some vanilla syrup, and stirred in halved anise.
