Page 5 of Saint, Sorrow, Sinner
Lincoln propped his shoulder against the edge of the hallway. He gave Colin an unimpressed once-over. “You’re thespecialist.How do we get it out of her?”
Sophia surveyed the countertop. Before she could ask, Colin set a tiny, squirrel-shaped pitcher half-filled with milk on the table. She poured some into her cup and brought the hot drink to her lips. Steam dampened the tip of her nose. Lincoln’s question loomed.How do we get it out of her?She turned toward the glass slider, tracking slow-drifting snow.
Four years ago, Sophia had given herself a deadline: December 26th. On that day, after she’d celebrated, and sang, and hugged her family, she would head north and start a life far away. But for four years, her deadline got pushed.Next Christmas, I’ll go. In a few months, Amy will be in a better place. By winter, I’ll be ready.Because for four years, when she thought of what she wanted, she always thought of her sister—occupied, caged, mistaken—and when she thought of her future, she always thought of her mother—bitter, alone, miserable—and when she thought of her faith, she always thought of salvation—promise, eternity, revelation.
So for four years, Sophia De’voreaux adapted a mantra ofsoon, soon, soon.
But Haven grew and split, and the congregation left Austin behind.
Change felt like a blessing until Gideon became a curse.
I am no parasite,something said, sliding through her mind. Its voice oozed, thick and acrid. She sipped her scalding tea, attempting to drown it.
I should’ve left you.She thought of her sister. Remembered Daniel’s calloused hands, pawing at her belt.I should’ve run.
Colin cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, this case is beyond me.”
Snow kept falling. Sophia tipped the mug against her mouth. Tea scorched her throat.
“But I can make a call,” he said, so softly she hardly heard him.
Sophia had never experienced the way winter settled over Gideon. Snow snapped at the window, frost scaled naked branches, and the bitter cold thinned every breath, making lungs work harder and blood run faster.
When she was small, she’d imagined playing in the powder, building snowpeople, making snow angels, letting snowflakes fall into her mouth. But being surrounded by ice-capped mountains was as brutal as it was beautiful, and she didn’t know how much longer she could deal with the fucking cold. The house wheezed and creaked as midnight inched toward the witching hours. She tugged her sweatshirt over her hands, bundling the cuffs in her palms.
Seated on the edge of the bed, she stuffed the shears she’d found in the primary bathroom between torn denim and an old sweater inside a backpack Tehlor had loaned her.
If she left while everyone slept, she could walk to a gas station, or find a local shelter, or sneak onto a Greyhound and let it take her somewhere else. Preserve what remained of her life and find a nunnery willing to take a chance on her. Maybe join an intentional community looking for a baker. And if she didn’t make it that far, maybe she’d die in a ditch on a stretch of desert road, become a halfway house for insects or a meal for a lone coyote. She remembered how Kimberly, the woman she’d reanimated at the revival, lurched back to life.
Would the Breath of Judas rile her body into movement too? Could she evendieproperly?
She glared at the backpack between a pair of too-big boots Lincoln had thrifted for her.
If she stayed, would one of the people in that peculiar house kill her to rid themselves of an inconvenience? Would the police arrive, asking questions about the corpses Tehlor and her hound abandoned in the forest? And if she ran, would she even make it out of Colorado? She raked her fingers through her hair.
“This is no different,” she whispered, reminiscing on her four-year plan. “Grab the bag, stand up, go downstairs, leave. That’s it.”
Sophia glanced around the guest bedroom, zipped the backpack, and stood, creeping into the hallway. She hardly lifted her feet.Where?A voice erupted in her skull, hoarse and dusty. She did not answer—couldn’t, really—because she didn’t knowwhere, didn’t knowhow, didn’t know a damn thing except for the unsettling urge toget out.She toed down the last two steps and sighed, stretching her arm toward the latch on the front door.
Before she could twist the lock, the porch lamp dimmed and flickered, fading until darkness spanned the front of the house. The hair on her nape stood. She held her breath. A bundle of light slid beneath the door, tumbled down the hall, and floated into an open palm.
Bishop, dressed in joggers and an oversize nightshirt, held a steaming mug in their free hand. Their mouth lifted into a smirk and the muted yellow lamplight stretched and twirled between their fingers, dancing.
They spoke softly. “Sneaking out?”
She set her teeth and gave a curt nod.
“Take something warm for the road,” they said, and buckled their fist around the light, smothering it. They turned and padded into the kitchen.
Magician,someone whispered. The spirit spoke again, crying out behind her eyes.Touched by the world-soul. Magician, magician, magician—
Sophia pushed her thumbnail into her palm. If she left, she’d never know how a person like them could do a thing like that, so she set her backpack next to the door and followed Bishop into the kitchen. Moonlight beamed through the slider. With a flick of Bishop’s wrist, an unlit wick on a candle labeledFrench Patisseriesparked to life on the table. They set a travel tumbler next to the candle.
“Sit down,” they said. “You like cream, huh?”
“Sure, yeah,” she said.
She tracked their lazy movements—opening the fridge, pawing around the shelves, knuckling at their cheek—and tried not to flinch when they set the carton down.
