40 #2
He nodded slowly. “Well, it seems I may be doing damage control instead of preaching. It’s not like you to be caught out in the night, Rayne. Why the church?”
Wordlessly, I got up and went to the bag I’d discarded by the door when we rushed in. I’d had time to grab only one thing before we fled the church. I pulled it out of my bag and held it out so my uncle could see it.
His face stiffened as he beheld the book in my hands.
“Where did you find that?” he whispered.
“In the coffin you buried in my mother’s grave.”
“Good God.” His voice cracked. “You dug her up?”
“She wasn’t there.” To judge by the obvious horror on his face, this was new information for him. Walking back to him, book outstretched, I paused when I saw him tensing, drawing back. “What is this thing? My father’s handwriting is in it, I recognize it. Is it magic? Witchcraft?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “It is, I believe, a very ancient magic.”
To hear him admit it stunned me. Part of me had hoped for a logical explanation, a harmless one.
My uncle rose from his seat and paced to the wall where there hung a wooden crucifix. He took it down and held it in his hand when I passed the book to him. He sucked in his breath as it settled in his palms.
“Ah, it’s heavier than I expected. I’ve never studied its pages.
It was acquired by your great-grandfather during World War I.
” He brushed one hand over the cover but, without opening it, hurriedly handed it back to me.
“When your father and I were children, he would tell us the story of how his battalion came upon a burned house in the French countryside. He discovered the book under the floorboards. He believed it was a gift to the God-fearing, meant to be protected so it wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands.
When he returned home and followed his faith to lead a congregation, the book was at the heart of his devotion. It was his miracle.”
“Why?” The thing felt grimey and repulsive in my hands. I couldn’t fathom being inspired by it.
“Who knows?” My uncle paced, tugging at his collar. “The untreated effects of PTSD took their toll on him. He was not well when he returned home. The book was never seen in our house; he kept it put away. Hidden. But it would seem your father found it.”
“And did he use it?” I said.
My uncle’s frown deepened.
“Don’t hide what you know from me,” I said furiously. I leaned forward, jabbing my finger toward the barred window. “I need to know how the hell that thing ended up here. I need to know what he did .”
“Rayne, I assure you, I’ll tell you all I know,” he said. “But I don’t know much. It won’t satisfy you.”
“Nothing ever does. Just spill it.”
Carefully, my uncle hung the crucifix back on the wall.
“Four months after you were born, your father came to visit me. He wanted to talk about a... crisis of faith, as he called it. He was struggling with family life. The pregnancy was unplanned, as was the wedding, but your father believed he would feel more satisfaction with his new family. Instead, he was exhausted and bitter.”
He shook his head, as if even now he was left aghast. “I had no children of my own yet. I could only sympathize. But it struck me as strange; Picard kept insisting that God meant for him to do more, something greater, something bigger. He said he was being called to act.”
“What did that mean?” My knee was bouncing, my fingers tapping. Like a kettle boiling over.
“I wish I knew. He seemed nervous when I spoke to him, almost frantic when he would speak of the church or his congregation. But calm, always calm, when he spoke about your mother. He said he feared your mother was going to abandon you.”
“Abandon me?” I laughed. “She would never. Never. Why would he say that?”
He didn’t answer right away. He was staring at the washed-out old photo of himself and my father standing side by side on the chapel steps.
“Picard made many wild claims about your mother,” he said slowly. “Yes, I’ll call them wild. I didn’t believe half the things he said. He claimed she would wander in the woods late at night, that she’d fly off into rages, smash things, threaten to harm herself or you.”
I was almost too choked with rage to speak. Almost .
“Fuck no. Never. Mom was gentle. She was kind. She was the only person who ever gave a shit about me! She loved me. She would never hurt me. Never.”
“I believe that,” he said. “I truly do. I suggested they seek counseling together. He could leave the congregation to me and take time off, go to the mainland, and tend to his family.”
“What a horrifying idea for him,” I said sarcastically. “Time alone with his family.”
“That was the last time he sought my advice. When your mother died years later, your father’s grief was so great, I truly believed they must have repaired whatever rift was between them.”
“And now?” I said. “What do you believe?”
My uncle stared down at the vile book in my hands. “I don’t know what to believe, Rayne. If your mother’s body wasn’t in her grave, then—”
“He had photos of her corpse. In an envelope in his office. Old Polaroids of her, naked, dead.”
My uncle looked as if he was going to be sick.
“Why would he have that?” I said desperately. “Why would he have photos of bones with marks carved into them? Why did he bury the book instead of her?”
“I wish I had your answers. I know...” He sighed heavily. “I know the church failed you—”
“I didn’t need the church! I needed my family . I needed my mother alive, I needed a father who gave a shit—”
I was about to rage, but a sudden, tiny sound caught my attention. Hurriedly, I went straight back to the spare bedroom where Salem was sleeping and cracked open the door. She was twitching on the bed, eyes closed, making soft sounds of distress in her sleep.
Immediately, I was at her side. I ran my fingers through her hair, caressing her until she was still again.
When I looked up, my uncle was standing in the doorway.
“You’ve never been one for close friendships,” he said, keeping his voice low. “She must be special.”
Looking down at her, her fingers clinging to mine even in sleep, I felt that peculiar dip in my stomach again. Like teetering on the edge of a cliff and being terrified to fall, but knowing I needed to make the leap.
But I’d already fallen.
“She’s changed everything,” I said. “She’s the reason I need answers. I’m going to kill it. I’ll find a way. I haven’t believed in God for two decades, Uncle. But this...” I lifted Salem’s hand, kissing her knuckles. “I believe in this.”