Chapter 49 Xade
XADE
There's a rift furrowing beneath my feet, and I can't do anything to stop it. I can't fix it, though God knows, I've tried.
I've given Ezra space. I've let time try to heal. Little good it has done, though, because no matter how many bridges I build between us, that thing dividing us just fissures deeper.
He's my oldest friend. My brother in arms. My only fucking family.
And I fucked it all up.
I love him, but I hurt him. I should've told him about Avalynne and me. He shouldn't have found out about us on the other side of a confessional booth.
We used to have no secrets between us, but we haven't spoken anything other than platitudes and pleasantries since the day he stormed into my office and demanded to know if I'd slept with her.
That silence between us and all the shit not said looms thick and heavy.
There aren't many people on this planet I give two fucks about, but I'd give my life for Ezra.
He kept me above ground after Jonathan died.
And I didn't blame him, even when my brother was the one he couldn't save, and Ares took his place.
Years later, I stood by him as he spouted wild nonsense about wanting to become a priest.
Ezra is the better of us. He's calm and kind. He sees the good when all I can see is moldering garbage. He's always had faith, faith that people can overcome the worst, that they can be redeemed, and that something exists above this plane of corporeal existence.
No secrets existed between us, not until I screwed it up.
Yet, like a moron, you kept her secret.
I sit at my desk in my office, blinking at my laptop and wallowing in my sorrows. I wish a distraction would crawl out of the screen like the girl from The Ring and coldcock me in the face.
No such luck. I could never be that lucky.
The pinch in my gut squeezes tighter like the rift is a real thing, and I'm standing at its edge, about to fall. The pinch is sour and constant, and no amount of booze or fucking Avalynne eases the ache anymore.
I blink at my computer screen again. Still, no ghost girl comes to save me from my thoughts.
Avalynne isn't coming either. At this hour, she's at the dining hall with the nuns.
I'd rather she be here with me, but I understand.
Some boundaries must continue to exist. We walk on a razor's edge.
If her grandfather finds out about us, I'll be shipped to some obscure island in the East Indies, set on fire, and fed to the seagulls like human barbecue.
She would fare even worse. So, we stick to the script and keep up appearances.
Avalynne plays the part of the good girl, and I pretend like I'm not hopelessly obsessed with her.
I glance at my closed door. It remains annoyingly shut. No one else is coming to save me either.
Resigned, I get up from my chair, leave my office, and step into the empty hall. A prickly cold tickles my hands and my bare flesh exposed above the collar of my quarter-zip sweater. The quiet of the convent is punctuated only by the distant hush of rolling waves.
Still no Avalynne.
I'm not going to be able to put this off any longer.
Fuck.
I start down the corridor, take the stairs two at a time to the ground floor, and head toward the cathedral.
I pass the double wooden doors to the dining hall that muffle the soft clink of metal against plates. Georgina would be proud of how dead it feels inside Saint Margaret's tonight.
Just. Like. Her. Soul.
I nearly laugh at the thought. Granted, laughter is slightly better than snapping and killing her for hurting Avalynne.
Ezra needs her alive. Plus, the logical part of my brain knows we all have our reasons, goddamned Georgina included. Still, I wouldn't object to her Almighty Creator zapping her with a lightning bolt.
I push forward, out into the cold evening air. Dusk settles on the horizon as snow flurries drift lazily from the sky, dressing the courtyard in white. It doesn't make the convent feel any less morose though. If anything, it looks like death played dress-up and put on a wedding veil.
I cross the courtyard and slip in through the rectory's side door, confident Ezra's not folding holy towels or leading Bible study at this hour. I knock on his office door, expecting a response. When it doesn't come, I knock again. Still, no reply.
I try the knob, finding it unlocked, and open the door.
Empty chair. No light. No Ezra.
Shit.
Where did Padre Pious run off to now?
As if God itself answers my question, a faint thud sounds far above me. I look up, stupidly, like I can see through the ceiling.
The roof.
Ezra's on the damned roof.
I make three—no, four—wrong turns before I remember the way to Ezra's hideout. I ascend the staircase rapidly, the metal treads groaning with my footsteps, and round the enormous belfry bell that hangs in the bell tower. I top the spiral staircase and dead-end at an ancient metal ladder.
Shit. It looks even worse than I remember.
I weigh my odds of breaking an ankle when a rung gives. Cursing, I climb the thing and heave open the rooftop hatch. It hits the roof with a heavy thunk. Cold, wintry air chills my skin as I find Ezra sitting on the roof's slate tiles.
The dying sun gilds his features. He glances over at me, an unlit joint dangling lazily from his lips. Surprise flickers briefly in his eyes before he looks down at the rolled paper, sending strands of hair falling across his forehead, and raises his stainless-steel lighter.
"You need to replace that ladder," I grumble at him, climbing out onto the roof.
He says nothing as he rolls the wheel. He cups his other hand around the flame, shielding it. The fire casts sharp shadows beneath his jawline as he lights the paper.
Still, without a word, he inhales deeply, his hair falling from his forehead as he tips his chin to the skies. Then, with his eyes still closed, he offers the cherry to me. I cross the short distance, sit beside him, and pluck it from his fingers. The musky scent hits my senses as I inhale.
"You look like death," I remark, releasing wisps of smoke with my words.
I pass the joint back. Ezra laughs wordlessly and takes another hit.
"I feel like it," he says.
"You've been avoiding me." I side-eye him as he gives it to me again.
He doesn't deny it as I bring the paper to my mouth for another hit, stopping when the scent of something sweet and intoxicating hits me.
What is that …
I lean over toward Ezra, my nose nearly brushing his shoulder, and inhale. He stills.
"You smell different," I tell him, finally leaning away before I take the hit and pass it back to him.
What the hell is in this pot? Truth serum?
"Lilies. The nuns like them at services this time of year," he whispers, holding in his drag, before he looks up at the sky and blows out the white smoke.
I kill a joke about him buying flowers for married women. He looks so miserable I can't bring myself to utter the words.
In silence, we pass the joint back and forth until a heavy equanimity presses against my shoulders and the world blazes in a glorious haze.
Word—peace.
Part of speech—noun.
Origin—twelfth century.
Derived from the Latin pacem, meaning agreement.
"What's wrong?" I mumble as Ezra stares out at the cloister, eyelids heavy and gaze unfocused.
He shrugs.
"How's your little …" he begins before swallowing. "How's Avalynne?"
"Avalynne's fine," I reply. "How's the wicked witch?"
Ezra smirks, but there's no mirth in the expression. "Georgina's been called away. I think the diocese suspects something."
He flicks his hands toward me and offers the burning cherry with two fingers. I accept, rolling it between my fingertips, fascinated by the slight give of the paper.
I take another hit, but beneath the haze, my stomach pinches with unease. We've pushed our luck too far.
Ezra shifts beside me, propping his forearm on his bent knee and staring out at the cloister again and the withered carcasses of rosebushes and ivy.
"They're summoning us more frequently than before," he remarks. "The visit of His Holiness been moved up nearly three months. It'll be announced at the next Holy Mass. We're nowhere near ready. What we have … it isn't enough."
His words slice my skin, icing my veins. He looks over at me, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he doesn't look away. Gold and green thread through the caramel of his irises. A weight settles on my sternum and squeezes the breath from me.
"Something's changed, Xade," he says, drawing my attention to his mouth. "Can't you feel it?"
I nod, though I don't want to. It's a dangerous admission to make.
"Maybe we were wrong," he remarks with a slow blink. "Trying to find all the players."
"Cut off one head, and three more grow in its place," I mumble, my thoughts drifting to Greek mythos and the Lernaean Hydra.
Ezra finally looks away, and the weight lifts from my chest. Exhaustion tugs at his features as he peers down at the cloister.
"There won't be justice, not for all of them."
"You can't know that," I say, plucking the joint from his fingers and taking a long, desperate drag.
"And you can't know for certain," he remarks, peering back at me with a slow, devastating blink.
Sadness tugs at the corners of his lips, and I realize I miss the boy I once knew, the one who still had hope that all wrongs could be righted.
"Avalynne will hate us all for it." His voice drops, and he grimaces before he takes the rolled paper back from me, straight from my lips.
I don't want to hear his words, so I don't. Instead, we sit in silence, smoking. The acrid sweetness of burnt flower clings to my throat.
Why does the rift between us feel even deeper than ever now, and why can't we build a bridge to cross it?
Each second expands until time feels infinite. A cool breeze lifts Ezra's hair, and the ache in my chest returns. I trace the enervated lines of his face with my gaze.
I clear my throat softly, and my voice comes out low, almost pleading. "Ezra."
"Hmm?" He turns, meeting my eyes.
"I'm sorry," I say, the words raw. "I should have told you everything. About Avalynne. About all of it."
A breath pushes past his lips before he nods slowly, his lips pressing into a wan line. "Yeah, you should have."
The words sting, but they're honest, at least.
"Are we good?" My question is soft, cautious.
His brow furrows before he steels his features, the joint smoldering forgotten between his fingers.
"Always," he says with a swallow.
It's a start. Here, under the open sky, we've found solid ground again.
Right now, that's all I'll ask for.
I don't deserve anything else.