Page 3 of Saint, Sorrow, Sinner
She flicked her eyes away from Tehlor and looked at her reflection again. “Who’s downstairs?”
“Oh, we called a priest, actually. For the wholeportal to hellthing you’ve got goin’ on.”
Sophia whipped toward her, teeth set, fighting the urge to make a fist or grab the shears.
Tehlor sputtered through a laugh. “Calm down, I’m kidding.” She grimaced. “Sort of.”
Chapter two
Salvation was idealistic. Silly,immature,and learned. But it was a concept Sophia understood, something she could tuck into tired places where defeat tried to burrow. She stood at the top of the stairs and prayed to a silent savior, repeating familiar thoughts like a comfortable tic.Almighty, have mercy.She pulled at the webbing between each finger and pushed her feet against the floor.
“Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed,” she whispered, swallowing the stone in her throat.
Sometimes she tested her own limitations for belief. Asked herself questions, nitpicked familiar verses, lashed out at Christ for his role in her abandonment. But no matter how often she invited doubt to take root, she knew one thing for certain: no creation could exist without its creator, and she’d already met the devil.
Okay.She pushed her freshly dried hair out of her face and slid her hand along the banister, descending the staircase one step at a time. A cinnamon-scented candle flickered on the table in the sitting room. An unfamiliar person stood next to the fireplace with their thumbs pushed through their belt loops and a holstered pistol strapped to their hip. At the mouth of the hallway, another newcomer made a soft,reverent sound,ah-hahbut gentler. She gave him a once-over, glancing from his speckled brown socks to his fox face, narrow and studious, a handsome example of proper symmetry. Behind him, Lincoln stood at attention and Tehlor leaned against the back of the couch, cradling her rat.
Sophia switched her attention back and forth, watching the man in the hallway step forward while the person across from her adjusted their glasses.
“You’re Sophia, right? I’m Colin.” He rolled his sleeves to his elbows, exposing odd, angular tattoos scrawled across his fair skin. He smiled and shot a nervous glance at his companion. “Colin Hart. I specialize in hauntings—”
“He’s an exorcist—”
“Bishop,”Colin hissed, pursing his lips.
Sophia steeled her expression. She set her mouth and locked her knees, hyperaware of the gold crucifix seated on her sternum.
“I’m a brujo. She’s a witch. He’s ...” They flexed their jaw. “Not supposed to be alive.” Bishop lifted their brows and quirked their head, meeting her icy gaze. “What’re you?”
The question stunted her.What am I?She shied away from the magic humming in her stomach, spreading like lichen.
“I’m nothing.” She stared hard at Bishop. Gold bolted across their eyes, fast as lightning. “What’s a brujo?”
“A spicy witch,” Tehlor said, sighing. “Okay, look, they know everything, okay? They know about Haven, they know about the Breath of Judas, they know you’re—”
“Being held against my will?”
“An accomplice,” Lincoln rasped.
“A participant,” Tehlor corrected. She saddled Sophia with a knowing look. “She controlled a corpse, remember? Tore big sis to pieces.”
Lincoln hummed thoughtfully.
“Stop,”Colin seethed, casting a hateful glance over his shoulder. When he turned back toward Sophia, he tried to smile. “Forgive me, those two have no manners.” His eyes snapped to Bishop before he inched closer. “Neither does that one, apparently. Tehlor and Lincoln told us their version of events, but ...” Another step. Close enough to make Sophia flinch. He stopped in his tracks. “Do you like coffee? Or tea, maybe?”
Sophia swallowed hard. “Tea, yeah.”
“Good. Let’s make some tea.” Colin reached for her. It was a timid, reassuring touch, but the moment his fingertips met her bicep, something wild and destructive rose up and out of her.
No,she thought,no, no, not again.But the magic—if it was magic at all—lashed out, howling through her body, latching on to vertebrae and phalange, surging through her teeth, and temporarily stealing her sight. Her mouth yawned open against her will, and a sound manifested—one voice, many voices—until her own was silenced. She knew restraint. Had felt flesh and blood shackle her wrists the same way a ghostly presence kept her still right then. Had felt breath on her cheek, had known what it was like to become powerless.
“Rejoice, man of God. Blessed are those who honor the dead.” The voice bursting from her throat was an axe splitting wood, and the terrible wail of betrayal, and a brutal, ugly sob. She tried to swallow it down, but it pushed upward, rolling across her windpipe. “Did the serpent spout legs and walk to Golgotha? Did he wield the spear? Tell me, Keeper of Seraphim, do you taste glory—”
Ringing,ringing, ringing. The high-pitched whistle after a firecracker popped, or a shotgun blasted, or cars collided.
Something clapped. Pain cracked through her face.
She came back to herself slowly, soul syrupy and liquid, slipping back into place. She blinked until her vision returned.Don’t puke.Her bowels were loose and her stomach lurched. She sniffled, swallowing pennies and sulfur.Don’t pass out.
