Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
I’m nervous about going to Redemption Baptist this morning.
When I was still in single digits, Mom went through a phase where she believed all proper families dressed in their Sunday best and went to church every week.
But the church we went to was about as innocuous and generic as a church could be.
I’ve never been to a Southern Baptist service.
In the South. Where the pastor’s wife is a witch.
And I’ve sure as hell have never gone to church with a faerie.
I’m dressed warmly and modestly in a sweater, boots, and the plum suede skirt Mom bought me for Rush.
Yesterday, I told Liv I’d be going to one of Aaron’s ‘music things’ this morning, just in case she catches me all dressed up.
But she has yet to come home from O-Chi.
I hope her upcoming date with Liam on Friday was enough to keep her out of Braden’s bed last night.
At exactly twenty-to-ten, I hurry out the door to meet Leo, hoping I can cut him off before he gets out of the car to fetch me. Knowing my luck, that would be the exact moment Liv came home.
Sure enough, old habits die hard. Leo’s already striding toward Newberry, and holy shit, the sight of him turns my legs to liquid.
He’s dressed appropriately for church, that’s for sure.
In a sport coat and tie, gray wool pants, and wingtips.
Unlike most twenty-something guys, he doesn’t look like a boy trying to dress like a man, a hanger wearing a too-big coat.
His jacket fits his shoulders and chest, his tie isn’t strangling him, and in the gusty wind, his supple pants conform to his muscular legs.
It’s like some sort of cruel joke, him looking this beautiful, especially since he’s in his supposedly ‘inferior,’ unglamoured form. But, oh god, how can I blame Liv for being weak in the face of an untrustworthy man when the one in front of me could very well be my undoing?
“Hi,” he says. Just hi.
“Hey.” I think a sound came out of my mouth, but it felt more like an exhale.
He gives me his patented crooked smile. “You ready to go to church?”
I fall into step beside him, a nervous, weirdly high-pitched laugh coming out of me. “It’s been a while.”
“For me, too.”
“You’ve been to church? A Subworld church?”
“Only in the UK. And only for research purposes.”
“I don’t think this is going to be anything like that.” I may not know much about British church services, but from the BBC shows I’ve seen, they seem fairly subdued. I hope Leo’s comfortable with some fire and brimstone preaching.
He chuckles. “Aaron sent me some videos to watch. To prepare me.”
“And do you feel prepared?”
“Not at all.”
He opens the car door for me and steps back to let me in. As I slide into the passenger seat, he leans closer, elbow propped on the top of the door, eyes cutting to the amethyst at my throat. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
My heart is saying, oh no you don’t, buddy, but my stupid mouth says, “Thanks. So do you.” And now my face is blazing, with sweat breaking out along my hairline and no subtle way to get rid of it.
Once we’ve passed through town, I start to cool off. But then, Leo breaks the silence, “I’m going to take advantage of the fact that I have you captive right now to say something.”
I suck in a breath, spine going rigid.
He takes his eyes off the road long enough to pin me with a stare. “Just listen to me, please. Let me say my piece.”
When I open my mouth to protest, he silences me, “Betts, please.”
I bite my lip and turn away. He can say whatever he wants, but he’s going to have to say it to the back of my head. Because if I look at him right now, I’ll cry.
“You remember the other night? When I crashed the tree in front of your door?”
Do I remember? Seriously? How could I not? I was terrified, and furious, and so utterly confused. Funny thing is, if you look at the poor pine tree now, you’d never know Leo used it as a blockade. It’s completely back to normal.
I, however, am still bent in half and shedding needles.
At my slight nod, Leo continues, voice deep and firm, “I meant everything I said to you that night. Yes, I pretended to be someone I wasn’t, but I never pretended to have feelings I don’t have.”
Once again, I’m trapped on the stone steps to my dorm, a bowing pine tree behind me, and Leo in front, his dark eyes full of angst.
Betts, please.
Please, what? What do you want, Leo?
You.
How my heart leapt in hope when he said that. You. I almost let myself give in.
Since that night, it’s been easier to convince myself he doesn’t care. So much safer. But I don’t think I have that defense anymore. Not when I know what a chuisle mo chroí means. Not when he watches me every second we’re in the same room.
Not when I can feel his torment.
I force ragged breaths into my lungs and dig my nails into my folded arms. Out of my peripheral vision, I see his hand reaching for me, but it never makes contact.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says. “But please tell me you believe me.”
I bite hard on the inside of my mouth, frightening away the sting in my eyes.
“Betts—”
The plea in his voice melts my will. I turn to him just long enough to nod.
“You do believe me?”
“Yes.” I believe him. I can give him that much. But I still can’t trust him.
He licks his lips and nods back, shifting his gaze to the road and saying nothing more.
We leave downtown and follow the winding highway into the forested outskirts of Alderford. Bare trees and mud dominate the landscape, but it’s beautiful in a wistful, longing sort of way.
Leo pulls off the two-lane road onto a narrow, paved driveway that twists even deeper into the woods.
It seems we’re heading nowhere when, out of the blue, the trees part to reveal a pretty white church, complete with a steeple.
It could use a fresh coat of paint, but it’s otherwise in good shape for a building that’s likely over a century old.
In the small parking lot, I watch an older couple and a family with two kids walk from their cars to the entrance. The congregation doesn’t look large enough for Leo and me to hide in, but that’s the point. Hopefully the Wests will notice us and strike up a conversation after the service.
As we approach the porch, Leo’s fingers brush mine.
I think it’s an accident until I feel it again.
He’s looking down at me, eyebrows raised expectantly.
Because, yeah, for the next ninety minutes, we’re supposed to play the happy couple.
Good thing we’re both experts at pretending.
He folds my offered hand into the warmth of his and keeps it there until we find a pew near the back of the church.
Everyone nearby greets us with handshakes and welcoming smiles, but with the organ already playing, no one attempts to make conversation.
The weak late-winter sun shines through the stained-glass windows alongside the pews, and on each sill sits one battery-operated candle with a flickering lightbulb.
Not a single one is burnt out. Or dusty.
I breathe in the scents of musty hymnals and Bibles, wood polish, and a spicy aftershave that reminds me of my dad.
Unlike the church I went to as a kid, the folks here sing loud and proud.
I listen and follow along in the hymnal, but I don’t open my mouth.
I can’t sing—as in, I’m completely tone-deaf.
Leo, on the other hand, is not. I don’t know why I’m surprised he has a pleasant singing voice, considering the deep, smooth way he speaks, but I’m impressed by how effortlessly he hits every note.
Today’s reading is from 1 Kings 19. Eager to be distracted by a good story, I reach for a Bible, but only hymnals sit in the rack in front of me.
I glance Leo’s way and see an open Bible already resting on his knee.
Confidently, he thumbs through the pages.
He’s probably read it from start to finish, and the Apocrypha.
I’m sure, for a faerie anthropologist studying humankind, it’s required reading.
He finds 1 Kings 19 and holds out the book between us, but I have to scoot closer to him in order to see the print.
In the reading, the prophet Elijah wants to give up.
No one listens to him; they all want to kill him.
He’s ready to lie down and die. So, big surprise, God commands Elijah to do what all good Biblical prophets do: hang out alone on a mountain for forty days and nights.
And there God comes to him—not in the wind that shook the mountains, nor in the earthquake, nor in the fire, but in the “still small voice.”
I’ve heard that phrase, “still small voice,” twisted and abused more times than I can count.
I never knew it came from such beautiful verses as these.
Well practiced at analyzing the written word, I interpret the story: we can find God in the smallest, most commonplace and unassuming corners.
There’s divinity in these places. Magic.
A magic that, until I met the man next to me, I didn’t know existed.
All my life, I’ve been sensing it and running away from it, not understanding what it was.
I guess, at the very least, I can be grateful to Leo for that—for opening my eyes to magic, and to the truth that I’m one of the rare people who can use it.
I blink out of my reverie to find Leo looking at me, eyes soft and lips parted.
Because—oh my god—I’m smiling at him. Why am I doing that?
Heart stuttering, I hastily look down. Our thighs are nearly touching, his hand resting in the crevice between them and the open Bible lying on his palm.
Ever so slightly, the corners of the soft leather cover tremble.
Somebody’s nervous. We’re both nervous? I don’t know; I can’t separate his emotions from mine.
I’m too flustered and preoccupied to pay much attention to the sermon, although I pick up on Pastor West’s rising emotion and the urgency of his admonitions.
In the purposeful silence that follows, Leo scrubs a hand down his face and straightens his tie, thrown off balance, I suspect, by all the oratorical passion.
Someone coughs, and the organ starts up again.
Elderly gentlemen in suits and ties process down the center aisle, pausing every other row to pass a wicker basket for the offering.
Leo fumbles for his wallet, but I grab his arm. “Is that real money?” I whisper. “Or is it glamoured?”
When he frowns, I open my purse, and as the basket reaches us, drop in a five. It’s not enough, but it’s the only cash I have, and we’re not giving these people a dinner napkin. Even if no one will ever know what it really is, I feel like God, whom I’m not even sure I believe in, would.
“Thanks,” Leo murmurs.
I nod and study his profile as he leans forward to grab the hymnal.
High forehead and thick brows, straight nose, full mouth, and square chin.
And round ears, of course. How much of what I’m seeing is a glamour?
A heaviness settles on my chest. There’s no way to know what’s real with Leo. A fact I’d be wise not to forget.
A short while later, as the organ’s pipes sound the final chord of the closing hymn, Leo and I shoot one another the same look.
It’s showtime.
The elderly couple next to me introduce themselves and ask if we’re Brownhill students.
In front of us, the baby asleep on his dad’s shoulder wakes with a hiccup and studies me with sweet, moist eyes.
Meanwhile, the middle-aged man beside Leo praises his singing and urges him to consider joining the choir.
Leo and I nod and smile and say all the right things, but inside I feel rotten. I’m here under false pretenses, being warmly welcomed into a community to which I’ll never return.
I’m a deceiver wearing no less of a glamour than the faerie beside me.