Chapter 21 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
An anvil lies on my chest.
I can barely move.
I don't know how I even manage to walk as I follow Sister Cecilia down the aisle.
My priest looked at me like he wanted to kiss me, and dear God, I wish he had.
I'm going to Hell.
As we beeline for the cathedral doors, the heat of Father Ezra's gaze follows me, sticking like sweat to the back of my neck. The light of the altar candles gutters with each passing step, and my chest aches with the need to turn around, to run to him, and to finish what we almost started.
It's a sinful thought, but this place seems to bring out the darkest desires in everyone.
Then again, maybe it's just me because Father Ezra didn't kiss me, just like Professor Thatcher hasn't kissed me.
Humiliation stings, and I try to imagine what my sister would tell me, but I can't conjure a single word.
Would she call me a hopeless romantic? Would she laugh and say no one falls harder than me?
Static answers.
What is wrong with me? Why am I doing this to myself?
The realization hits me all at once.
My sister would laugh. Isabella would roll her eyes like she always does when I get too caught up in my own drama.
"Granddaddy issues," she'd say before lighting a joint and sifting smoke through her teeth.
I press my lips together, swallowing the lump glued to the back of my throat.
Get it together, Avalynne. Just survive this year and get home.
The thought has barely formed before Sister Cecilia and I step out of the cathedral and into the storm.
Rain-drenched wind tears at our clothing and whips dead leaves across the crisscrossing cobblestone paths as streetlamps cast a muted glow across the courtyard.
The storm nips at my cheeks as Sister Cecilia moves us quickly beneath the covered walkway to the door to the convent, finding it locked.
She tries again, putting her full force behind her pull, but the door doesn't budge. She turns to me, weariness tugging at her weathered features.
"We'll go around!" she calls to me over the storm.
I nod, crossing my arms around my middle before we start toward the rear of the convent. Thick fog coils around our feet as rain pelts us from above. I raise my hand, shielding my face from the worst of the storm, and focus on the mud-speckled cobblestone path.
We pass the stone fountain in the center of the courtyard. Rainfall pummels its basin, splashing out and onto the slick stone walkway before, in the breadth of a heartbeat, all the lights go out.
We plunge into stormy darkness, and I peer up from the ground as lightning sunders the sky, igniting the convent in a ghastly white.
In the distance, something catches my gaze, and I look beyond Sister Cecilia to the place where the trees succumb to shadows and find a tall, dark figure standing there.
What is that?
Then the lightning fades, the darkness returns, and the figure vanishes, if it ever existed at all.
Fear splinters my middle, and I rush to walk alongside Sister Cecilia. The streetlamps around us hum back to life, then sizzle and die with a series of pops, snuffing us in darkness once more.
My pulse hammers in my ears, and the dread inside me cleaves even deeper.
It's just your mind playing tricks on you, Avalynne.
Sister Cecilia and I trudge forward side-by-side now. The downpour falls even harder, lashing at our exposed skin. Next to me, Sister Cecilia fumbles for something in her cloak as thunder booms overhead.
What is she doing?
Cold sweat beads my brow, and my fingers tingle with encroaching numbness. I clutch the wet fabric of my habit shirt tighter, trying to shake the feeling that someone—something—is watching us in the dark.
My body knows it. My brain refuses to accept it.
You really are losing it, aren't you?
Alongside me, Sister Cecilia mutters something—a prayer, maybe. I think it's in Latin, but I'm not sure. Her voice is gone to the howling wind, and I glance over to find her clutching her wooden rosary beads between her spindly fingers.
Fear weaves icy spiderwebs up my spine.
"Did you see it too?" I ask her over the roar of the storm, but she doesn't answer. She just continues to pray, still clutching her rosary as another crack of lightning carves the heavens.
I look ahead again, finding the figure looming ahead of us, blocking our path.
It's tall, dark, dangerous.
Instinct screams at me to run.
My lungs seize and I stumble, tripping in the dark as Sister Cecilia furiously clutches her rosary. Her fingers fumble with the beads as she prays.
"Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle from the Father of Lies," she cries beneath the storm's howl.
With each flash of lightning, the figure draws closer, his features sharpening with every step.
White light cracks overhead, and I see his clothes, the color of night itself.
Another arrow of lightning bolts the sky, and he continues, stepping closer.
It's like a shutter effect, fragments of him appearing and disappearing with each lightning strike.
Sister Cecilia's prayers grow frantic.
One lightning strike, and he's a dozen feet away, his dark silhouette cutting through the rolling fog. His movements are fluid and graceful, his body gliding through the darkness as though he owns it.
A second strike, and he slips through the storm like silk against skin.
A third, and he pulls the hood of his sweatshirt back, letting the wind assault his features.
At the reveal of his face, Sister Cecilia screams, but I stare. I can't stop myself. Her voice is distant as she collapses at my side, folding to the ground. I don't turn to her, though.
I can't.
The man in front of me is pure lachrymal beauty, sadness and seduction brought to earth.
Dark brown hair curls above eyes that seem to change color with the light. His skin is as pale as moonlight in the darkness, and his lips curl into a smirk as he watches me watch him.
The air brims with rainwater, pine trees, and something feral and uniquely him. My head spins with it, and I am thrown off-kilter.
Fear and fascination bubble inside me as the man evaporates the remaining space between us until the heat of his breath warms the very air I breathe.
He cocks his head to the side, keeping his hazel eyes fixed on me, and reaches out.
His fingers float across my face, barely touching me as he traces the sign of the cross across my skin.
Only it's not a typical cross. It's much larger.
The pad of his thumb presses to my forehead before he follows the line of my nose down.
His thumb catches on my lip, tugging at it before he continues the mark across my chin.
Then he starts at the corner of my left ear and moves in a straight line to my right.
His touch is barely more than a whisper, but it leaves a trail of fire on my flesh just the same.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," he murmurs, his deep voice rumbling over me.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
I blink at the stranger, frozen, as rain batters us both. It stings my eyes and soaks my already-drenched habit, but I can't look away from him.
He is spellbinding, and this is madness, but I don't care.
From beneath hooded eyes, he stares back at me, and time comes to a quiet stop.
There's no rain, no storm, no unconscious Sister Cecilia on the ground beside me.
There's just me and him, held captive as rain draws liquid threads across his cheekbones and falls from his umber curls to his broad shoulders.
His bottom lip falls open the moment before he drops to his knees in front of me, sending water splashing up the front of my habit. He roughly fists the fabric of my skirt before he presses his face low against my belly and inhales slowly and deeply.
Like he's stealing my soul with every lungful.
He tugs me even closer. Even through the barrier of clothing, his breath heats my skin, and fear and longing shoot through me as he whispers more Latin words I don't understand.
With a thunderstrike, the ground beneath me wobbles, and I teeter on a precipice as he digs his forehead against my stomach.
"Sanctifica, Domine," he whispers, his words tossed with gravel and char. "Et benedic utero isto, et quod intus erit."
My mind tumbles, trying to catch up.
Sanctify, my Lord … Sanctify what? Utero … womb …
My lungs forget their purpose.
He presses his lips firmly below my navel and says more words I don't understand before he deftly rises to his feet. He towers above me, and I'm forced to tip my head back to meet his gaze. As his eyes bore into mine, he murmurs something beautiful.
"Ego sum veritas et vita. Simul in aeternum vivemus."
Truth and life and more tangled words. It's a riddle I can't decipher.
"Who are you?" I ask, my voice cracking like the lightning above us.
He smirks, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness before he looks down at Sister Cecilia and then back to me. He runs his tongue across the corner of his mouth.
"Didn't you hear, angel?" he rumbles, his voice soaked with sarcasm. "I'm the devil."
A heartbeat later, lightning splits the sky, and he's gone, dissolving into the darkness.