Chapter 9 Xade
XADE
Ishouldn't care.
Hell, I don't care.
At least, that's what I tell myself as I sit at my desk, fixated on the empty chair where my troublemaker sat only moments ago.
Her books remain in her stead, her pen discarded haphazardly on her notebook.
It's like she didn't bother to clean up because she knew she'd be back soon to finish her work.
I doubt it, and that festering thought irritates the ever-living-fuck out of me.
My student won't return until Reverend Mother decides to release her back into my custody. Not even a day into the girl's studies, and she's already been wrested out of my classroom.
Not your problem, Xade.
Irritated, I set my tablet aside and blindly grab a book from my briefcase. I flip to the first page, but the words smear into incomprehensible blurs. Reading is impossible. The memory of the girl's face drags me from the words.
She looked fucking terrified as she left the room, walking stiffly as one of Georgina's nuns waited for her by the door.
She tried to hide it, but even the most obtuse of persons could have sensed the tension in her.
It radiated from her in each measured step.
It was in the way her fingers twisted together until her knuckles bleached white and how she never quite looked at me, not directly, at least.
Sure, the girl made fleeting glances here and there, but never long enough to draw the sister's notice.
Disturbingly, it was still enough to leave an impression I can't seem to shake.
I yet again remind myself how I shouldn't fucking care.
Word—distraction.
Part of speech—noun.
Origin—late fourteenth century.
Derived from the Latin dis-, meaning apart, and trahere, to pull.
My attempt at ridding her from my mind fails spectacularly.
The little troublemaker is just a student.
Hell, she's practically less than a student because she didn't earn her way into one of my courses.
She's just another problem in a long line of problems I never asked for and certainly didn't want.
Regardless, the longer I sit at my desk, blinking dumbly at her empty seat, the tighter something winds in the space below my clavicle until it feels like it will snap me in two.
It's probably what's left of my goddamned sanity.
Finally, I give up, slam the book in front of me shut, and stand, muttering a string of curses that would make a pirate's crew blush.
I shouldn't follow them.
It really isn't any of my business, but my obstinate feet move anyway.
Fuck. My. Life.
As is customary in Georgina's creepy-as-hell convent, the air grows colder as I leave the classroom, or at least, that's what I'm going to tell a psychiatrist later when I'm locked in a mental ward.
It's damned madness to follow them, but I can't stop this lunacy.
The corridors stretch before me like a maze designed to screw with the poor souls condemned to this place.
I'm grateful for the silence, though, as I listen for the sound of footfalls.
Up ahead, I hear the tip tap of pious flats against the floor, and I trail them to the stairs and into the basement.
Down in the dark, guttering candles line either side of the walkway. They do nothing for the feeling I can't shake that I don't belong here, like I'm turning skeleton keys and avoiding trap doors.
Like an idiot, I'm now really wondering what Georgina is up to.
Isn't this part of the convent off-limits to laypersons?
Surely, that girl isn't about to take her vows today.
The absurdity of the thought almost makes me laugh as I push past the shadows pressing in from either side and continue forward.
An inexplicable needling sensation writhes along my spine when I hear chanting up ahead.
I can't explain it, or at least the rational part of me can't, but this feels very wrong.
I should remember my place and leave the girl to whatever punishment Georgina has deemed fit, but I can't get my body to cooperate. My legs keep moving, taking me deeper beneath the beating heart of Saint Margaret's.
By some miracle, voices lead me through intersecting tunnels and into an arched doorway marked by black iron crosses on either side.
I peer beyond the threshold and into a chamber so large that it stretches into darkness.
Past ablution basins that line the room, dark waters reflect fractured patterns of light, and I spot four nuns, one ancient Reverend Mother, and …
What the fuck.
My brain short-circuits.
There's my troublemaker being stripped down to her underwear.
Looking at her in just her bra and panties feels like I'm crossing a hard line that can't be undone, but it's far too late now. I'm horrified and transfixed as I watch the girl struggle against the sisters. The fight is far from fair, and predictably, she's overpowered.
Nausea twists my gut.
What are they doing?
The girl trembles, her skin as pale as moonlight against the black robes of the nuns flanking her.
Her breasts heave with her breath as Georgina's voice cuts through the chamber.
The old crone recites scripture with such dispassion that my stomach roils, and the realization smacks me all of a sudden.
I know why they're all down here.
The girl called her grandfather, and he, then pissed, tattled to Georgina about her making outside contact in direct violation of his orders.
This isn't a fair punishment for the girl's so-called sin, though. Whatever the sisters are doing down here, it's something different—something from a bygone era, primitive and dark. My skin prickles with that unsettling sensation again, like invisible fingers crawling up my flesh.
I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't watch this. But I can't turn away.
My fists clench, punching my nails into my palms as I watch the nuns shove the poor girl into the basin. A breath later, Georgina plants a hand on the girl's head and forces her under.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Water swallows the girl whole, and her thrashing limbs send ripples across the dark surface as the nuns begin their incantations. The girl's muffled screams carry to where I stand, and that desperate sound picks away at something inside of me that I buried long ago.
It takes everything in me to not intervene, but yet again, I tell myself it's not my place.
This isn't my convent.
The girl isn't my ward.
WHY DO I CARE?!
I stay to the shadows, my jaw locked so tightly it aches, and watch as the girl breaks the surface with a nasty, gasping cough. Her chest heaves as she chokes, but Georgina doesn't hesitate. She shoves the girl under, again and again, droning on with a clinical detachment I wish I possessed.
To my horror, I realize that the girl's struggles grow weaker with each proceeding submersion, her movements slackening until her arms dangle limp at her sides.
When they lift her again, her head lolls forward. This time, she doesn't gasp.
Breathe, troublemaker.
She doesn't thrash.
Breathe, Avalynne.
She doesn't move.
FUCKING brEATHE!
My chest tightens with something sharp and unbearable. She's dead. They've killed her.
Before I realize it, I'm moving, sprinting past the basins in this desecrated place.
I feel nothing except scalding fury.
"Let her go!" The frenzied words tear from my throat, hit the walls, and echo back like a crack of thunder.
Georgina's head snaps toward me, her expression unyielding, but the nuns hesitate, their grip on Avalynne faltering.
"Mr. Thatcher," Georgina says, irritated. "This is none of your concern."
I don't let her finish. I shove past the nuns, their hands falling away as I haul Avalynne the remaining way out of the water, drenching myself in the process. Her body is slick and cold as she slumps against my chest.
"Breathe," I command, shaking her.
I lay her on the flat tile, my hands positioned to begin compressions before water spills from her mouth. She coughs, rolling onto her side as she convulses. My relief is short-lived. Her breath turns shallow and uneven, and she murmurs unintelligible words before falling unconscious again.
I check her pulse.
Breathing.
Thank G—thank me, I guess.
Quickly, I shuck off my suit coat and wrap it around her shoulders, the fabric engulfing her small frame. Her body is cold—too cold—and her lips are tinged blue. My pulse pounds in my ears, but I force myself to move, to focus.
"The rite of baptism is sacred …" Reverend Mother Graves begins, having the decency to look mildly concerned.
"Say another word, Georgina, and I'll make sure it's your goddamned last," I snarl.
I move to grab the girl's clothes from the damp floor and cradle her against me as I scoop her up.
I leave her veil and shoes behind, but I have to get her out of here.
Her head lolls limply against my shoulder, but her body trembles in my arms as water from her hair soaks my dress shirt and drips across my loafers.
She looks so breakable, so unlike the spitfire who stole my phone this morning.
Focus, Xade.
She needs warmth—immediate warmth and every prayer Ezra can summon. Out here on the island, an ambulance isn't an option. If you need one, you might as well call the coroner instead because they'd never make it in time from the mainland.
I hurry up the steps to the first floor and across the convent, shucking her clothes over her trembling form as I try to bring back her warmth. Every few steps, I make sure she's still breathing, but I never stop moving.
I rush through the convent, going to the only person I trust. When I finally reach Ezra's office at the back of the rectory, I don't bother to knock. I stumble through the door, and he looks up from his desk, his expression shifting from surprise to dismay.
He doesn't hesitate. He stands and rushes over to us as I lay the girl in front of the fire.
"What happened?" he demands.
"Georgina," I hiss in explanation as he checks Avalynne's pulse himself.
"She's freezing," he remarks, and we work quickly.
He stokes the fire, adding kindling to the fireplace until it's sweltering in his office. I grab blankets from the taboret and wrap them around her.
"Where are you going?" he asks me when I move to leave.
I don't answer him.
I can't.
I have to get away from here before I kill Georgina and, in doing so, condemn thousands more to an even worse fate.
All for one little troublemaker I shouldn't give a single fuck about.