Holy Wrath

Chapter 21

I wake in front of my hearth without any memory of falling asleep. For a moment, everything is fuzzy, tinged with haze. But then it all comes back, swift as a fox’s bite. The look of disgust on Carina’s face hovers in front of me like a specter. I hate myself so deeply that my stomach boils. For a few moments, I wait to see if sleep will claim me again, if for a few sacred bells I can escape myself.

But though the fire is mere embers and the air in my room has gone chilly, sweat presses damp hands to every inch of my skin. Moving carefully, I unwind myself from the woolen blankets and sit up straight.

The sight of Carina’s abandoned teacup and spiced orange tea on the hearth pierces my heart like a dagger. I wince and look away, gritting my jaw against another flood of tears. Have I not cried enough? Surely no other Apostle wife-to-be walks the Spine’s halls with such horrifically swollen eyes, such mussed hair.

I sit, staring at the hearth. I have no idea what bell it is, though outside my door the hallway sounds quiet. The sweat on my skin begins to cool, turning chill, so I pull an old, thick blanket across my legs. My mind wanders, and I wish with all my heart it went to Carina and how I’ve betrayed her. To Renault and how I’m already failing him as a bride. To Sergio, even, and the oppressive threat he continues to pose.

But I suppose I am too far gone, because instead, my mind races to her , like a dove called back to the cathedral. Moth to flame. Ocean to shore.

I choke on a sob, digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands. Anni ago, I took a knife to my own chest and cut out that dangerous, sinful piece of myself—pulled something soft and beating and true from beneath my ribs and cast it into the flame. How is the Lupa Nox resurrecting that which should be dead and gone?

I force myself to my feet. I think—at least at first—I plan to wash up and crawl into bed. But somewhere between the wounds on my back sending agony shooting through my body and all the shame I feel from Carina’s reaction, I find myself tidying my braid to leave my chambers. In the smoky, mottled mirror, I examine my swollen eyes, the redness across my cheeks, the feverish gleam in my gaze, wondering if the Lupa Nox has cast some Cursed enchantment over me.

And that, I think, is when I decide to beg her for release. I tell myself there is little point in appealing to her better nature, that she lacks one entirely. And yet I still wash and change into a soft wool gown. I don’t swap out my shift, even though it’s marred with blood and sweat. The thin linen is plastered to my flail marks, and I cannot stand the pain of peeling it away. Instead, I change my underthings and reach for thick woolen socks to ward off the night’s chill.

And then, addled by crescendoing pain and increasing madness and the pit of shame, I leave my room. Perhaps she will take pity on me. Perhaps if I ask correctly, or if I weep on my knees before her, the Lupa Nox will choose another victim. Perhaps the High Ecclesia will see I’ve failed. Perhaps instead of drowning in the sea of my forbidden desires, this city will just bind me to the stake and end it.

In truth, I no longer care.

I move through the quiet dimness of the Spine, skirting the molten bronze glow of the candelabras that line the middle of the corridor. I do my best to avoid the steady gaze of the Holy Guard, moving through the shadow-limned space along the wall. Then, out from the Militaire Annex strides a High Ecclesian. I gasp and duck into the Libris Sanctum Arch, pressing against the locked doors.

Their vestments are a strange color—a deep, ruddy brown, the hue uneven and patchy on the archaic-looking garments. Heavy gold chainmail drips from Their body, a broadsword at Their waist. Articulated gauntlets wink in the low light. My heart leaps into my throat and I press myself back into the shadows, slipping all the way into the Sanctum’s Arch.

I suppress a whimper as my back meets the heavy iron latches on the Sanctum’s doors, but the High Ecclesian—all the way across the Spine—does not react. Steadying my breath, I try to figure out Their trajectory, my gaze trailing down the corridor. And that’s when I realize light is seeping from the Devorarium. It’s a strange, sickly light, tinged green, something about it bloated, incorrect.

The High Ecclesian reaches the Devorarium doors, Their masked face rotating owl-like on that towering body. I can only imagine Their gaze sweeps the hall before They pull open the massive door with an armored hand and then slip inside.

My breath releases in a long, skittering rush. I press my hand to my heart, fighting to coax it into a slower rhythm. My mind spins as I stare at the light slinking from the Devorarium.

The Lupa Nox said They wanted her to undergo the Communion—a ritual I’ve never heard of, never seen in any of the hundreds of manuscripts I’ve handled. I waver in the thick shadow of the Sanctum’s arch. Unless —oh, unless that scroll I handled the other day was?—

I squeeze my eyes shut. I tell myself to go back to my chambers, to forget about this inane plan. I tell myself that all I really want is more salve for my back, a cup of water, and to crawl into bed. To give Renault as many beautiful little children as he wants and to pleasure him with my body along the way. To find a way for Carina to forgive me. To bow my head and pray for my Lord’s blessings.

But I cannot excise that manuscript from my head—the glassy-eyed siblings, the process for overtaking another’s body.

My feet carry me to the Devorarium, even though every step jars the wounds on my back, agitates my inflamed knees and hips. I stand in front of the Arch, wavering. Every instinct tells me to flee the sickly light sticking its corpse-like fingers beneath those massive doors.

I do not. Instead, I move farther down the Spine, toward the auxiliary hall of the Devorarium. I still know the floorplan from my kitchen days—the rooms where the pontifices prepare for mass, the entrances to the confessionals, the small kitchen for keeping our holy men fed during long rituals and Feast Days.

The narrow, unassuming door is unguarded and unlocked as always. I slip through, turning to ensure it’s closed. Darkness engulfs me as the beeswax light of the Spine disappears. I hesitate, waiting for my eyes to adjust. After a few tense moments filled with little more than the furious beating of my heart, I can make out vague shapes—just enough to navigate.

One hand on my cane, the other on the wall, I make my way down the corridor. When the smooth wall is interrupted by a series of tall, slim doors, I know I’ve found the pontifices’ entrance to the confessionals. Fumbling for the handle, I pull open a door and slip inside.

For a moment, the light pouring through the grate from the Devorarium feels near-blinding, but as I take the final few steps, my eyes adjust. I settle into the pontifex’s chair—a sacrilege, no doubt—and press my face against the bronze grate. Just a few bells ago, I was on the other side, begging for forgiveness from my knees.

That pontifex tried his best, I suppose.

The heavy brocade curtains are pulled to the side with tasseled silk loops, as they usually are when not in use. The confessional provides me with a limited view of the pews and altar—which is dressed in curling wisps of corpse-gray gauze and pale, slender, impossibly tall candles crowding every inch of available space. It is wholly unlike anything I’ve ever seen within this Church, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s even real at all.

I dig my fingernails into the top of my cane and tell myself I’m going to get up, request salve at the infirmary, and climb into bed. I tell myself that everything I’m experiencing is some strange, self-induced madness, or maybe a girlish nervousness about my upcoming wedding.

Is it still sin if I’ve lost my mind?

But then an unearthly sound slinks through the air—some kind of low-pitched war cry, the battle roar of a hero from the old illuminated manuscripts I love so much. I freeze, my face pressed against the grate, searching for the source of the noise.

One High Ecclesian comes down the aisle, an ornate brazier swinging from a studded chain in Their hands. Another Ecclesian processes in close behind, and then another, and another. They’re all clothed in those unusual, ruddy vestments, muttering something in a language I’ve never heard. Their voices move as one, almost song-like. Though I cannot understand the words, something about the pitch stirs dread in my stomach.

I watch as eight High Ecclesians process down the aisle. Each one bows before the altar and then approaches, arranging Themselves on the marble steps. Their eerie song continues, unrelenting, as the final two Ecclesians come into my line of vision through the grate. At first, I think the heavy brass chains wound around Their gauntleted hands are just more incense braziers. When I realize the truth, my stomach drops to the floor, the breath stolen from my chest.

It is the Lupa Nox at the end of those chains, dragged forward by her wrist bindings. She resists, baring her teeth around a strip of cloth They’ve used to gag her. I press my face against the grate until the metal bites into my skin. Behind the knight is a group of people, not Ecclesians—mortals, I assume, dressed in hooded robes. The one at the front raises a gloved hand and shoves the knight forward with a harsh blow between her shoulder blades. I wince, my chest tightening.

This is no Baptisma.

The Lupa Nox is brought to the wide expanse of gleaming marble just in front of the altar. Hooded figures take the chains from the Ecclesians, who join Their brethren on the steps. All ten of Them go utterly still, facing the pews as if to give a homilia. Their wretched song stops, all at once, leaving a bone-deep silence.

One of the hooded people delivers a kick to the back of the knight’s knees that sends her to the hard stone floor. The other cloaked figures spread out in two half-moons between the Lupa Nox and the pews.

Nausea stirs in my stomach, my skin hot and clammy as I watch. But this must be holy, mustn’t it? This must be right—for the entirety of the High Ecclesia stands before me, a rare, sacred thing. They are the closest thing to God. They speak for Him because He is too grand and glorious to descend among His people. They are His right hand and most trusted counsel.

I try desperately to understand, my mind racing, but everything comes to a halt when one cloaked figure throws back their hood.

Renault.

Here, in the Devorarium at an ungodly bell, in the company of the High Ecclesia, is my betrothed. A gasp leaves my throat, and I clamp one hand over my mouth, though no one reacts. Their attention seems to be entirely on the Lupa Nox, who is on her knees, head lolling onto her chest. In the low, sputtering candlelight, I can see her dark locks—which I just washed the other day—are caked with blood, the sleeve of her blouse torn at the elbow.

That corpse-light pulses, raising all the hair on the back of my neck. I strain, peering through the grate, searching for its source. There, in the middle of the altar, the massive statue of the First Son in His sweeping robes, fabric kicked up by the Godwinds, His hands outspread, the chiseled features of His face open and earnest, is bathed in that sickly light. I raise my gaze slowly, my breath caught somewhere in my chest.

A single eye has opened on the statue’s chest. It is bloodshot and horrible, flashing in the dim light like an animal’s in the dead of night. Looking away requires every ounce of my will, every muscle in my body, a clammy sweat breaking out on my skin. But I cannot allow it to see me. I know that, deeply, intrinsically; I cannot be seen by anything in this room, but particularly not the eye opened like a wound in the chest of my savior.

Chants in that strange tongue rise in the air like gulls on the headwinds. Wrongness grips me again, an ancient dread unfolding in the pit of my stomach. Louder and louder they grow as each High Ecclesian joins in, and then the cloaked figures. Renault stands at the Lupa Nox’s back, his lips moving in unison with the others. She is utterly still—so still that I strain against the grate, trying to determine whether she is breathing, my healer’s instinct unfailing, but I’m too far away.

I have always been sensitive to Mysterium since I was a little thing. Not everyone feels it—the thrum and the pulse, the sensation of power woven through the air like threads in an embroidery. Here, in this Devorarium, during this godforsaken rite, I feel it more than I ever have before. It fills the massive space to the brim, and I wonder if the entire chamber may burst, Lumendei’s first miracle ripping open like rotten fruit in the summer sun.

The Mysterium rattles my bones, but I cling to the grate, watching as two High Ecclesians approach the Lupa Nox. She doesn’t raise her head, her chained hands limp, her body gone slack. In unison, They reach down to pull her to her feet.

In Their gauntleted hands, she is nothing, just a crumpled heap on the marble floor. And then, all at once, she is everything—moving faster than I can track, asserting her place as the most unearthly and utterly terrifying thing in this chamber.

Without a shred of hesitation, the Lupa Nox dives to the side of one Ecclesian, tucking into a tight turn to avoid the swipe of Their hand. Like a shadow, she slips past another’s clutches and climbs the altar’s steps, dragging her chains like a war banner behind her. There, she steadies herself, and I notice one of the Ecclesians’ massive bronze broadswords now resides in her lithe, long-fingered hands. Despite her bound wrists and heavy shackles, her grip on the pommel is unyielding. Defiantly, she reaches with one hand to tear away the strip of cloth gagging her.

For a moment, all is still. Even that terrible, weighted power lifts, like a fog burned away from the sun.

And then the High Ecclesia descends upon the knight like a swarm of locusts.