38
Rayne
Sanctuary
T he book was wrapped in crumbling leather and smelled strangely smoky, as if it had been through a fire. I loathed holding it. It was heavy, damp, and musty. I tucked it under my arm as I unlocked the iron bar gate guarding the chapel doors, with Salem watching me in surprise.
“Dad’s old keys,” I said. “I kept them just in case. The chapel is one of the most secure places in Marihope. We can stay here for the night. It’s already too dark to drive back, I don’t want to risk it.”
The gate’s old hinges creaked as I pulled it open, then unlocked the sturdy wooden door within. The nave was cold and dark, the only light spilling in from the tall narrow windows lining the walls. I locked the gate and the door behind us, sealing us inside.
As Salem headed to the back storeroom to find wood for the furnace, I laid the book on the pulpit, then dug around in my bag until I found my old bottle of painkillers. I downed one with a swig of water, and took a moment to collect myself.
The pain was deep, breathtaking. I tried to stay on my feet and breathe through it, wait for shock or adrenaline to kick in and spare me.
“You’ve got this,” I whispered. “Just breathe. It’ll pass. It’s only pain.”
I squeezed my eyes shut tight. Only after a few minutes did I gather myself enough to open them and straighten up.
A shudder ran through me as I opened the book and the spine cracked.
The pages were stiff and thick, yellowed with age.
The text was difficult to read, a calligraphic script I first thought was Latin—but then guessed was Old French.
Written in the margins, my father’s familiar handwriting joined that of much older writers.
Expanding upon centuries of notes with his own translations.
One must call using the proper offerings. ONLY offerings guarantee success—what does it require?
Binding must be immediate.
Use EVERY bone—no excuses.
Painstakingly, I uncurled my fingers from the edges of the pulpit and shook them out, rubbing my clammy palms on my trousers. My father had never given any indication he was interested in the occult. He was a holy man, a man who put God above all else.
But these notes showed an intent not merely to learn, but to practice.
In one of his notes, he referenced a “creature of the heavens, harbinger of holy judgment.” My blood turned to ice, but I couldn’t bear to stand still. I paced behind the pulpit, needing to read on but sickened at the thought.
My father had been a man of God. A cold, uncaring man, yes—but a holy one.
He devoted his life to the church, he loved the Lord more than he ever could have loved me or my mother.
When she died, at least, I saw his affection for her.
How her murder broke him, turned his coldness to fiery hatred in the depths of his grief.
Part of me had even believed that, perhaps, in his desperate prayers for vengeance he had somehow called the beast here to Blackridge.
But my father’s interest in this creature had begun even before Mom’s death. The translations in this book alone represented what was surely years of work and study.
Where was her body? What the hell had he done with it, if not lain her to rest?
I feared these notes told me, in graphic detail, exactly what he’d done with it.
The bones. The symbols. The reference to an “offering.”
“Did he kill you, Mom?” Even whispered, the words were as heavy as boulders.
Dropping my head into my hands, I rubbed my eyes. I was too tired to think. My body ached all the way through my bones, and my head was light. I stumbled into a pew right as Salem returned with an armful of firewood.
Every breath I took reminded me of the wound on my side, and how goddamn fragile I was.
“Rayne? Are you okay?”
I lifted my head, and she was staring at me with those wide brown eyes. Eyes that made me think of warm summer days, when we were safe and monsters didn’t stalk the woods.
Maybe I could walk beneath the trees with her in spring, and hold her hand. Maybe I would forget about practicality and take off my shoes, and she could wear some cute little summer dress. I could laugh with her, and close my eyes, lie in the grass. I would know she was safe.
“I’m fine,” I said softly. “Just thinking.”
She frowned. She knelt in front of the furnace and opened the old metal door, loading the wood inside but never taking her eyes off me.
“Did you read it?” she said, casting a dubious glance toward the open book on the pulpit.
“As much as I could stomach. It’s instructions...” She needed to know, even if I didn’t entirely understand what it meant yet. “For how to summon something.”
“ Something ?” The old building creaked, and Salem’s entire body flinched. When she spoke again, her voice was low. “What kind of something? Like the thing? Out there?”
“I don’t know. There’s a lot of text, and not all of it is translated.” I rubbed my hands together, but the cold was merciless. “But I think so. I think it’s the same creature: the one the book talks about, and the one on the island.”
Salem was silent as she finished lighting the furnace. The logs caught flame, the old metal creaking and groaning as heat spread through it. “Do you think your father summoned it?”
I was afraid she’d ask that question. I was even more afraid of my answer.
“Yeah. I think he did.” It was a lot. Too much. The implications went so deep, I feared I’d never find my way out. I raked my fingers through my hair, then abruptly tried to stand, shoving myself up from the pew—
“Shit, ow.” I sank back down, holding my shoulder as throbbing pain shot through it. Almost instantly, Salem was at my side.
“Here, let me,” she said, easing my jacket off. She sucked in her breath when she saw the growing red stain on my bandage.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly. I wasn’t. I’d popped at least one of my stitches, but the pill I’d taken was finally easing the pain. “I’ve had worse.”
The way her eyelashes fluttered as she looked at me was nothing short of miraculous. “Have you? Really?”
I shrugged, irritated to have my lie called out. “Pain is pain, Salem. It’s all the same.”
She tsk ed, reaching for the small bag she’d brought with her. I hadn’t stopped to think earlier about what she might have brought, so I was surprised when she pulled out fresh bandages, ointment, and a flask.
“It’s Blanton’s,” she said, handing over the flask. “Just don’t overdo it.”
God, the way she looked at me made me want to die for her. But, more frightening than that—when she leaned closer to unwrap my dirty bandage—I wanted to live for her too.
“You really thought of everything, didn’t you?
” I said as she tossed the bloody bandages into the furnace.
She laughed softly, and the sound made a sudden, unfamiliar feeling burst in my chest. It felt like adrenaline—like the beginning of a panic attack, but no—this was gentler.
It exploded into sparks, made my chest tight and warm.
“My dad used to tell me I was a little squirrel-brained, like my mom,” she said. “I’d forget big important things but remember silly little details. I didn’t think of everything...” She squirted a bit of ointment on her finger and gently dabbed it around my wound. “I just thought of you.”
The nave began to warm as she worked. She wrapped me with fresh bandages, frowning in concentration.
“Tell me about your mom,” I said suddenly. “What’s she like?”
Her emotion was evident as she smiled fondly.
“She’s a kindergarten teacher in Colorado.
She says she never wants to retire; she loves working with kids.
She and my dad met in college, and she proposed to him .
When I was little, I wanted a romance like theirs.
They’re still together. He’s retired and spends a lot of time fishing.
She taught herself how to do taxidermy so she could mount some of the fish he caught.
She sews little outfits for them sometimes. ”
I burst out laughing, even though it hurt. “You’re kidding. She taught herself taxidermy? She sounds amazing.”
“She is! I... I really miss her.” She cleared her throat, her words shaking a little.
“I’m usually getting ready to fly out to see her at this time of year.
She’s not a very good cook, she gets distracted and ends up burning things, so Dad usually cooks dinners for us.
” She fastened my bandage, stroking her hand across my shoulder. “They’d like you.”
“You think so?” My belly flopped nervously, and I took a little sip from the flask. “I’m excited to meet them, someday.”
I couldn’t read the way she looked at me, and I worried I’d assumed too much. She laid her hand against my face. Her breath was warm and soft as she leaned close, her lips brushing mine in a touch that wasn’t quite a kiss—it was so much more.
“I’m excited too,” she said. “I know you’d like Colorado. And you’d like San Francisco too. There’s so many places I want to show you.” Her eyes welled, and she shuddered as she exhaled. “I hope... I hope we...”
“We will.” I kissed her soft mouth, my heart racing when she sighed and leaned into me. She was my escape from all this. The salvation I never believed I’d find. “We’ll make it out of this. You and me. And you can show me everything.”