Page 33 of Saint, Sorrow, Sinner
Juniper turned in a circle, surveying the room. “We’ll all be in here, Colin. Space might be a good thing considering the circumstances.”
Lincoln raked his hand through his cropped, dusty-blonde hair. “We sealed the baseboards with runic spellwork, smoked out the ceiling with rosemary and lavender, and oil washed the floor. Should be good and ready for a ritual.”
“We put the boxes that were up here in the foyer,” Tehlor said.
“Good ...” The psychic held out her hand, palm upright. “We’ll need a lure, I think. Something to sacrifice.” Gunnhild scampered behind Lincoln’s feet and placed her palms on his calf, peeking around his ankle. “Not you,” she assured, laughing under her breath. “I know someone on the east side who can probably get us what we need. Bishop, could you go?”
They shrugged. “Sure. What am I getting?”
“A rabbit.”
Every muscle in Sophia’s body flexed. “We’re not killing a rabbit,” she blurted.
“It’ll come back with you,” Juniper assured. She flicked her wrist toward Tehlor. “She has a rat; you’ll have a rabbit.”
The witch tipped her head. Her ponytail, anchored with a small braid, flopped to the side. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but yeah, sure, we’ll bring the bunny back too.”
“I don’t sacrifice things,” Sophia said, casting wide eyes around the room. She looked to the priest for help. “We don’tdosacrifices, right? That’s old-world shit. We don’t—”
“Haven sacrificed you, didn’t they?” Lincoln interjected.
Sophia pulled her slack jaw shut.
“Your spirit will have its teeth in Tehlor, but a secondary life force will entice your god,” Juniper said.
Colin shifted in place, standing in front of the farthest window. He plucked awkwardly at the bottom of his tweed vest. “I understand your hesitation, but animal sacrifices were customary before the New Testament. It seems barbaric, I know ...” His mouth hovered open. Finally, he said. “Itisbiblical, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not doing it,” she said. “I’m not—I can’t.”
“You can,” Juniper said. She crossed the room and stepped past Sophia, eyeing her down the bridge of her nose. “And you will.”
Hours ago, Sophia had held on to Juniper’s waist while they cruised through Little Tokyo. They’d stopped at a tiny, traditional ramen restaurant and sat side by side, drinking Japanese beer, slurping broth, bumping their shoes together beneath the table. Juniper had taught her how to spin noodles into a nest, and Sophia rattled off about her favorite book. They didn’t talk about possession, or ritualism, or religion, but they laughed, and listened, and enjoyed a plate of chewy mochi for dessert.
The whiplash—comfort to confrontation—left Sophia unmoored.
“I’ll ready the tub for your cleansing bath,” Juniper said, speaking over her shoulder before she descended the staircase.
Bishop, Colin, Tehlor, and Lincoln studied her, wearing varying shades of the same pitiful expression. It was Colin who walked toward her, though. It was him who grasped her hand, lifted her palm, and patted her knuckles.
“C’mon, let’s go for a walk,” he said. “I don’t have many people to pray with.”
Sophia didn’t protest. She followed him down the staircase and through the hall. She tried to resist looking into the bathroom, but she couldn’t help herself. Juniper glanced up. She crouched over the oversize claw-foot tub, scrubbing with oil and soap that smelled like an orange grove. Her dark eyes were apologetic, but her mouth was set and stern. Colin kept on, so Sophia did, too, trailing him all the way to the backyard.
Two hawks perched on the telephone wire behind the fence, sleek predators staring at every nook and cranny of the neighborhood. Hunting for mice and moles, displacing pigeons and warblers. Sophia stared at them until she stepped into the greenhouse, greeted by warm, damp air and the smell of soil.
“I wasn’t expecting to come back to Gideon and find you,” Colin said. His palm skimmed a tall tomato vine roped through a wooden plant stand. “Wasn’t expecting a militant resurrectionist cult, an ongoing murder investigation ... Yeah, I didn’t really sign up for any of this, so to speak.”
“Sorry,” Sophia said.
“Don’t be.”
“I wasn’t expecting a witch to murder my ...” Her what? Friends, no. Family, technically. “Definitely wasn’t expecting to become a ... a ...”
“Banshee?”
“Banshee,” she tested, sounding out the word.
“Do you want to live, Sophia?” Colin asked, halting before an oversize zebra plant. He lifted his chin and waited, watching her.
