Chapter 3
“ S he has been Blessed to sleep,” the High Ecclesian says, beckoning me closer. “You may examine her safely.”
I nod, setting my basket of yarrow down by the door. My mind churns, spitting out chaotic half-thoughts that do little in the way of helping. Only a bell or so past dawn, and already this day has been far too much. I pull in a deep breath—damp earth, beeswax candles, the metallic tang of blood—and force my legs to carry me to the examination table upon which the Lupa Nox lies.
Her eyes are indeed closed, her ankles and wrists secured by Blessed restraints. She wears a simple, dark gray linen blouse with loose sleeves tucked into slim-legged black trousers. Both have been repaired in multiple places more than once. The symmetrical dark pools of sweat on the blouse tell me she was wearing armor. Her sleeves are rolled to the elbow, exposing intricate tattooing across her skin. There are no obvious puncture wounds in dangerous places, no twisted limbs that speak of bad breaks in the bone.
My throat tightens as I look into the Lupa Nox’s face. Her features are sharp and angular, fawn-colored skin flawless save for the congealed blood gathered at her hairline. Likely a head wound, I note. Then I continue my visual exam, running a careful gaze down her neck—no apparent injuries—and the rest of her body. Even beneath the loose linen top, her shoulders speak to her well-known prowess with a blade—broad and powerful, thick with coiled muscle. My eyes skim her collarbones, all deadly, symmetrical angles, and then the flat, elegant expanse of her chest. For some reason, I flush, as if I haven’t examined bodies a thousand times before.
I dare not look up at the High Ecclesian; instead, I duck my chin and force myself to focus. The knight’s bottom lip is split and bleeding. One of her long, slim fingers appears broken, a plain silver band cutting into the swelling flesh. No blood seeps through her trousers, so I decide to have a better look at the Lupa Nox’s head wound first. Hating myself for how much I tremble, I lean over the table, wishing the room were brighter.
Her pitch-dark hair is gathered in a thick braid, the lower portions of her skull shaved down to a stubble. I rest my cane against the table, and then my hands rise from my sides, seemingly of their own accord. I should be thinking about the proper preparations first—gloves to provide a barrier between my skin and her blood—but even unconscious, there is something about the Sepulchyre knight that sends my head spinning. No, probably not the knight—more likely the weight of the High Ecclesian’s ancient, sacred attention.
With a gentle touch, I brush the knight’s black locks away from her forehead, searching for the source of the blood. I steel myself for a gaping wound or a caved-in skull, but what I find is so much worse. A sharp spike of fear burns through my body and I gasp, the sound painfully loud in the quiet chamber.
Beneath the dark sweep of her hair, the Lupa Nox’s ears are slightly elongated, tapering into a distinctive point that could only mean one thing.
I look up, my gaze snapping to the High Ecclesian, who is, of course, already looking at me. “This . . . this is the Lupa Nox?” I ask, the words as thick in my mouth as honey but without any sweetness.
Their vestment-draped body is preternaturally still. “Yes.”
“B-but she’s...” I begin, remembering to lower my gaze in Their presence. “She’s?—”
“Fatum,” They finish for me, Their tone flat and hard. “Yes. One of the Fallen. The last of them, as it were.”
My head swims. I wish desperately to sit down, even right here on the hard-packed dirt floor. Our Lord destroyed the Fallen so long ago. After they’d thought Him defeated, after they’d nailed Him by His divine wings to a cross in the middle of the lands they Sundered with goetia, still He rose and beat back their tide of wickedness.
“Aren’t . . . I thought all the Fallen Fatum were dead,” I manage, though those are words I evidently should’ve kept inside my head, for the High Ecclesian shoots halfway across the room. Their armored fingers curl into a fist, the gold-washed plate armor glimmering in the candlelight. For a long moment, my body reacts as though I’m facing down a Hexen in the desolation of the Sundered Lands, not standing before the mouthpiece of my Lord. Fear spikes through me, and all I want is to limp away as fast as I can, back to the sunlight.
“For many anni, We thought as much Ourselves,” They say, the tilt of Their head predatory, frightening. “We thought only the righteous Fatum of the High Ecclesia remained.”
My desire to run intensifies, and I grip the edge of the table with one hand, as if to keep myself in place. They are so much more enlightened than me—exalted to the Most High by our God. Of course such divinity is fearsome to a small, immeasurably flawed and mortal thing like me.
“Our people cannot know. Though We yearn to be frank about the dangers of this world with Our flock, such knowledge would only cause panic,” the High Ecclesian hisses, coming around the table to stand over me, Their body pitched forward like a stone tower. “And that, too, is why you have been chosen for this divine task, child. You will join an Apostle House soon. There are terrible things, foundling, that those who sit at His table must bear. This is one of them. Wear this mantle with grace and obedience. Or face the consequences.”
And then, without another word, the High Ecclesian sweeps out of the room, leaving the Mysterium-charged gate slightly ajar. I stand there alone, save for the Lupa Nox, my hands trembling so badly that I lean my hip against the table and shove them into the deep pockets of my apron.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The High Ecclesian’s underlying meaning is not particularly subtle. Brides without the power of the Mysteries simply do not marry into Apostle Houses. I am an anomaly, an exception, barely permitted by the powers that be. The Twelve revoking their approval of my and Renault’s wedding is a looming concern, and if that happened with the High Ecclesia’s influence...then...then I would be . . .
I pull my hands from my pockets and rub my temples, trying to take deep breaths, but my vision goes dark and blurry anyway. Panic climbs up my throat, filling my chest with stones, stopping my lungs from inflating. I sway, reaching forward with one hand to grab my cane. With a deep breath, I set my jaw. No . I can’t let myself spiral at the mere thought of possibilities. Instead, I force my eyes open and reorient myself to the task at hand.
At that exact moment, two members of the Holy Guard come through the gate, acknowledging me tersely, giving the table where the Lupa Nox lies a wide berth. I appreciate the distraction more than they’ll ever know.
“I need gloves, fresh water, bandages, and a healer’s kit, please,” I say, straightening as I address the soldiers, trying not to think about how Sergio can so easily watch my every move through the eyes of the Holy Guard. “Magdalena at the infirmary will get you what you need.”
The guards exchange a look, unwilling to take orders from a foundling, and then glance back through the gate.
“Do as she requests,” comes the High Ecclesian’s voice from outside. “She is on an errand by command of the High Ecclesia.”
Only then do the guards acquiesce. The taller one turns and slips through the gate, hopefully on their way to fulfill my request. A flash of gold catches my eye, and I look closer to find the High Ecclesian shutting the prison gate, locking it from the other side. Unease slides through my veins, cold as seawater.
I swallow hard, facing the Lupa Nox again. One of the Fallen.
I can barely believe such a thing, even though the words came from the mouth of the High Ecclesia itself. The information absolutely terrifies me, unsettles me beyond comprehension—but it also makes a terrible sort of sense.
How else had this Lupa Nox bested so many of our Holy Guard and Host Knights, sent so many people I know home in pieces? Of course she is Fatum. No mortal is capable of such things. How many times did I heal the wounds this very knight had created, set the bones she’d broken, complete the funeral preparations for the corpses she’d left in her wake?
I shove the memories aside, grateful to find the soldier returning with the items I requested. I thank them, arranging everything in the space as well as I can. I’ll have to stoop and pick up items from the floor more than I really should with my leg, but I don’t dare ask for a stool or side table. I brush the bronze Saintess Lucia medallion strung on a chain around my neck with my fingertips, speaking a silent prayer for her protection before I begin.
At some point, I fall into the familiar work, forgetting it is the Lupa Nox’s body I’m tending to. I find that she’s in worse shape than she first appeared. Bruising across her abdomen makes me worry about internal bleeding, and when I pull back her eyelids, she is clearly concussed. As I spend more time in the room at her side, I begin to sense the sedation Blessing, the protective one on the restraints, and then the echo of powerful healing Mysterium, all woven together like a textile beneath my fingertips.
A concussion this severe, the broken finger, all the bruising on the abdomen—the knight must have been near death when she was captured. It makes sense to task someone like me with her ongoing care. I will have to spend a good deal of time with her, and if I were working the Mysteries the entire time, the risk would be too great that the Lupa Nox could corrupt and pervert the Saint-given magic. Especially considering she’s Fatum. No— Fallen , I remind myself.
Strange that such a beautiful thing can be filled with so much violence, so much hate. As I bandage her head, my fingers diving into her hair to wind the gauze around her temples, I find my gaze drifting. Even unconscious, the Lupa Nox is magnetic. No matter which part of her body I’m working on, my eyes seem to slip to her face—those severe angles, a full, shapely mouth that, even in sleep, speaks of wickedness.
I flush, unsettled that such a thought crossed my mind. My fingers tremble nervously as I glance over at the Holy Guard stationed inside the cell with me, but they both appear too disconcerted by the Lupa Nox to be paying much attention to me.
My left hip smarts from compensating for the dead weight of my right leg. At least the dirt floor is a bit more forgiving than the usual marble throughout the Cloisters, but not being able to sit or use my cane much is certainly taking its toll. I sigh and then hobble along the side of the table, pulling up the compress I applied to the knight’s ribs. It doesn’t look much better; she needs to take a draught to prevent internal bleeding. It would be helpful to know what Mysterium healing has already been performed.
Nearly done , I tell myself, limping back to the head of the table, wanting to ensure her cut hasn’t already bled through the bandage. Head wounds always bleed so much. Unsurprisingly, blood has already seeped through a few of the gauze pads I packed under the main bandage. I peel them away carefully, preparing more.
As I lean over the most dangerous creature I’ve ever been in a room with, the Lupa Nox’s eyelids flutter open. Her thunderstorm gaze locks onto mine. I freeze. And then, like a predator sighting a rabbit in the grass, she lunges for me.