Chapter 17 Kaye
KAYE
“This is what you wanted to show me?” I study the sturdy, stone architecture. Smooth arches flaunt gravity, framing leaded stained-glass scenes of religious lore and towering over shadowy walkways. “It’s a church.”
“A cathedral.”
As if that makes it better.
The dark windows lit only by the glow of candles give the structure a warm, albeit intimidating glow. The Neo-Gothic stone spires point to the sky with ominous precision. It’s the kind of building that inspires awe and trepidation in equal measure.
It’s large, despite being tucked in a corner of town far away from the main population of the city.
Eyeing the smattering of crumbling houses, empty lots, and abandoned buildings surrounding the sizable parking lot, my nerves grew.
The parishioners must be dedicated. On the far side of the concrete lot, a community garden stretches as wide as the parameters of its wooden fence allows.
An angelic statue towers not far from the path, its wings spread wide to engulf the sky on either side.
Its downcast eyes examine a sword resting across its marble palms. The sculpture managed to capture a sad, but righteous expression.
A plaque at the angel’s feet names the place of worship as “Our Lady of Sacred Redemption Cathedral and School.”
“Come on.” Zane tugs on my sleeve. His mask gleams alabaster under the streetlights, its blank expression still disconcerting even if it has been softened by my newfound ally’s ease.
My own unfamiliar mask itches against the contours of my cheeks. George bandaged the scratches before we left, but the extra fabric made it worse. It’s plain and white, far too similar to Charade’s for my liking. Definitely not something Checkmate would wear.
I may never be Checkmate again.
The realization presses the air tight in my lungs, tight enough that I begin to feel dizzy and need to focus on breathing.
I press my lips closed, my knuckles whitening as I grip the door.
I already got an earful from George about taking it easy.
The only reason she let me go is because Zane would be there too.
We left the manor in a nondescript gray Honda Civic sporting a license plate that Zane pulled out of a random cupboard in the garage.
The GTR needed “a little love” since my joyride, and a little anonymity wouldn’t hurt while we were both on the mend.
We stashed the car in a covered lot a few blocks away and the distance make my anxiety spike.
“I’ve got your back.” Zane bites the corner of his bottom lip, brow furrowing.
Strangely, I think I believe him—and that’s the most dangerous thought of all.
Wooden doors decorated in delicate carvings of shepherds and cherubic children guard the cathedral’s entrance, each lined in black forged iron. The cool metal turns easily in my palm and the door swings inward on well-greased hinges.
The scent of incense tickles my nose as we step inside.
Movement catches in the corner of my eye before a solid force pushes me to the side, my shoulders thundering into the uneven surface of the wall.
I find myself face-to-face with a tall, imposing woman around my age.
She has dark skin and darker eyes that are only emphasized by the bronze mask wrapping around her face, her perfectly braided hair wrapped into an up-do at the crown of her head.
“State your business.” Her voice is pleasant but dry, and it’s only through trying to answer her that I realize her forearm is digging into the hollow of my throat. Zane’s light fingers grip onto her wrist. I had all but forgotten he was there.
“She’s with me, Fulton,” he says, a warning laced into the words.
The pressure recedes, and when I finally gulp in a breath, it is around the lump of pressure lodged there.
“She’s a liability,” Fulton replies, just as serious. “She stands out.”
“That’s the point.” He releases her wrist and she crosses her arms. “You said you’d hear me out. If you’re not comfortable by the time it’s all said and done, I won’t blame you. Your team has already done enough.”
All this cryptic talk is well and good, but I’m tired of being left out of the conversation. I clear my throat, grinding my teeth against the soreness it causes.
“This is Fable Fulton,” Charade introduces. “She and her friends have been helping me with some things recently, and hopefully they’ll help us again. You already know who Kaye is, don’t you, Fulton?”
She looks me up and down, and it’s not anger I see there but appraisal. Recognition of an equal opponent. A threat.
I hold out my hand, feeling for all the world like I’m offering it to a tiger ready to bite. “Hello.”
She wraps my palm in solid warmth, her skin smooth and palm dry.
The contact lasts a fraction of a second before she turns on her heel and begins walking away.
It’s clear we’re meant to follow, but the dismissal throws me enough that I don’t process it until she crosses the threshold between pews and alter.
“It’s Fulton—no one called me ‘Fable.’ The others have been very interested to meet you.
Milo will be disappointed he missed it.”
“Milo’s not here?” Zane asks. “I was hoping he could take a look at Kaye. I don’t like not knowing what effects a toxin like that could have long term.”
“Milo, Vita, and Agus are busy.” She opens an arched doorway and holds it for Zane and me. Our eyes meet as I pass her. Am I missing something? “I’m afraid you’ll have to take what you can get for now. But if you think you need help, Kaye, call us. We can help.”
The offer throws me a bit. “Thank you, I think.”
Fulton leads us up a steep stone staircase, and the realization of just how deep into the belly of the cathedral we are hits. Gone are the pews, the tables meant for gathering and the candles left burning in prayer. Bare walls surround us now, clean but humble and pious, devoid of decoration.
The end of the hallway opens into a modest study, decorated in rich burgundy and leather.
A shuttered antique writing desk waits quietly in one corner.
The back of an armchair, stuffing leaking at its seams, idles before it.
An old leather couch and matching chairs surround a coffee table piled with what I assume to be religious texts.
A fire burns in the grate, casting shadows even under places lit by petite sconces lining every few feet of the walls.
The overall effect is cozy, even as cracks and scuffs start to reveal themselves with our proximity.
“I thought I was going to fall asleep before you got here.” A pair of perfectly-maintained tan ankle boots jingle where they dangle crossed over the arm of the couch. A light, earnest laugh follows, somehow melodious even in its criticism.
Fulton stalks over to her prey and I almost feel bad that he can’t see the danger coming.
She aims a half-hearted kick that sends his feet sprawling to the ground and a head of dark hair shooting upward.
“Stop draping yourself over every flat surface you can find like some kind of soap opera starlet.”
The man’s profile is made up of distinct lines and angles.
Warm, brown skin, a strong nose and jaw, and nice cheekbones made stronger by the tightly trimmed facial hair across his chin and upper lip.
Thick, straight hair falls in a wave over the left side of his face.
But all of that pales in comparison to his eyes.
They are true silver and lined in lashes so long and thick they give the effect of being lined with kohl. Maybe they are.
He glowers at Fulton.
“Let it go, Jas. Don’t pick fights you can’t finish.”
As my eyes adjust to the dimmer light, two other heads become visible over the back of the couch: a brunette doing his best to lean as far away from the one with the silver eyes as possible and a man with elf-curled red hair seated between them.
They crane their necks to get a look at us, but the redhead lingers.
“You don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of a legend, do you?” he says.
“I’m honored, St. Clair.” Zane presses a hand over his heart, inclining his head. “I knew I was infamous, but a legend—”
“Not you.” He cuts Zane off. “I don’t even like you.”
“Why do you let Jaspar lay all over you? You should have pushed him to the floor,” Fulton remarks. Neither she nor the man with the silver eyes have backed down yet.
“We didn’t want to deal with the pouting,” the last man answers. His voice is warm and dry, neither deep nor high pitched. It has that soothing middle-tone quality that is always pleasing to the ear.
“You dream of my pout,” Jaspar counters. “And you can knock it off Adeon. I already know Fulton would kick my ass. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
He’s on his feet and taking my hand in his before I fully register that he even moved.
For someone who supposedly spends his time draped over furniture, the alacrity he displays is unexpected.
His pupils shimmer an echo to the fire behind him as he presses a kiss to the base of my knuckles.
His eyes hold mine, then they grow wider for a second, two, before returning to normal.
“Interesting,” he mutters.
Zane makes a choking-cough of a noise. The eyes of the room press in on me.
“Nice to meet you too.” I pull my hand away from him and wipe it on the side of my leg. Fulton’s lips spread into a wide grin.
“Forgive me, Checkmate. You are far more beautiful than your WANTED posters,” Jaspar says.
I’m not sure if I should be amused or offended.
“Strike two,” the redhaired man says. “And I wouldn’t even have to know anything else about her to know that Checkmate could kick your ass too. I’m Adeon, by the way. That jackass is Jaspar, and the quiet one at the end of the couch is Eko.”
“Kaye,” I return in greeting.