Page 12 of Saint, Sorrow, Sinner
“The place before Heaven,” Sophia said. Where you go to get clean.
Juniper listed her head. An onyx curl tumbled over her shoulder. “It’s the state of suffering. Expedited purification, so to speak.”
Sophia narrowed her eyes.
Tehlor snatched a fry and chomped it.
“Imagine a thread binding two separate places, simultaneously holding them together and keeping them apart. One place—here—feeds the other—there—and if that thread ever frays or breaks, they begin to blend. The Breath of Judas is a tool, yes, but I don’t think Haven realized what kind.” Juniper traded her cup from one hand to the other. “See, most relics are ofuseto us, but this one ...” She exhaled sharply. “This one grants the dead access to a crossing.Youare the tool, Sophia.”
“She’s a ley line,” Colin said quietly, as if he’d solved a riddle.
“Correct. I won’t lie to you; this is unlike any possession I’ve ever seen. I’m sure Colin would agree.” She waited for him to nod, then continued. “Ley line, yes—almost. But you’re more like a house, I’m afraid.” Her lips hovered apart, searching. “Haunted,” she decided.
“Haunted,” Sophia repeated. The word gusted out, small and fragile.
“There’s a fissure inside you. Breakage like that ...” Juniper paused, considering, and touched her sternum. “It isn’t meant for us to carry. We’re weak. Fragile. Unreliable. Imagine this magic is a ... a ...” She snapped her fingers. “Fungus. Like cordyceps, almost. I can feel it spreading. I can feel it ...” The psychic heaved a sigh. “Sprouting inside you, looking for new hosts. The Breath of Judas pushes out the living to make room for the dead. Anything it touches, it eats. And you’re its primary host,” she clarified. Her eyes softened. “So it’s devouring you.”
“We’re dealing with zombie magic. Fine, cool, whatever. How do we get rid of it?” Tehlor asked.
“Scrubbing out spiritual rot isn’t the same as evicting a wayward ghost. This is complicated,” Juniper said.
“She’s haunted, right? We have a cleaner.” The witch jabbed her finger at Colin. “And a brujo, and a Völva, and a medium, and ...” She paused, gesturing with a limp wrist to Lincoln. “Sorcerer, demonologist—whatever he is. What’s the holdup? Let’s, I don’t know, make Megazord.”
Lincoln smothered laughter with his palm.
Sophia glanced over her shoulder.“What?”
“Power Rangers,” Tehlor said matter-of-factly. She glanced around the kitchen. “It’s Morphin’ Time? C’mon, you can’t be serious.”
Juniper’s plump mouth cracked into a smile. “Cute idea, but I doubt your particular gods would play nice. Mine won’t, Colin’s certainly won’t, and ...” Her woodsy eyes darted to Sophia. “Do you pray?”
Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed.Sophia nodded curtly.
“Who do you pray to?” Juniper asked.
God. The Holy Ghost. Whoever will listen.Prayer, as comfortable and sturdy as it was, had fallen on deaf ears for long enough to become a learned, empty, compulsive ritual. She’d gone to her knees and begged, called out for salvation in church, closed her eyes and asked God for strength. But Christ didn’t choose her.
Haven did.
Who do you pray to?Rose had asked the same question not too long ago. Sophia still dreamed about it—crawling into an open mouth, down a throat lit with candles, and finding God inside the stomach of a starving beast.The lion of the tribe of Judah.She still dreamed about Daniel too. Bones erupting from his chest. Hands like iron around her wrists. The crushing weight of him; how he spoke through gritted teeth.Is this what you wanted?She picked her cuticle until Tehlor batted at her.
“Is that a garden?” Sophia asked, steering her attention toward a square of decorative glass above the back door. Beyond it, greenery brightened the horizon.
“It is,” Juniper said, unfazed by the subject change.
Sophia didn’t ask for permission, which she scolded herself for after abruptly standing and leaving the house, but she couldn’t breathe very well. Couldn’t cough up the sticky anger gumming her throat or shake the frantic chatter behind her left lobe.Pray to who, pray to you, pray to him, pray to them, pray to her, pray to us, pray to us, pray to—She rubbed her ear with the heel of her palm.
While the rest of the country decayed, winter closed around California like an expensive coffin, sheltering the landscape from decomposition. Palm trees speared the sky, birds sang, and honeybees floated around Juniper’s garden, overgrown with vegetables, wildflowers, and herbs. Sophia sat in the grass with her back against a small, rectangulargreenhouse. A flock of pigeons perched on a slouching power line, fluffing their wings, cleaning their feathers,
“You’re a graveyard,” Amy said, so clearly Sophia could’ve sworn her sister had manifested beside her. The spectral voice turned to steel, slick with venom. “Those who sleep in the dust will awaken. Let me out, let me out,let me—”
Something big and broad plopped in the grass. Sophia flinched, startling.
“Relax, kid. It’s just me,” Lincoln said, shaking out his wolfish head. His ears perked, and he licked his maw. Two-toned eyes scanned her face.
She rested the back of her head against the greenhouse and turned toward the birds. Lincoln did the same, following her gaze to the black wire. They didn’t speak.Thank God.Truthfully, she was sick to death of talking. Sick of explaining, sick of reliving. A ladybug crawled over Lincoln’s finger.
“I’m dying, huh?” Sophia asked.
