Chapter 57 Ezra
EZRA
Anortheastern bluster howls above us, battering the convent in a violent onslaught.
Down here in the frigid earth of the crypt, the wind burrows through the soil and stone.
It makes the space colder than the bones laid to rest along the walls.
Even beneath layers of wool, it's impossible to stay warm.
Fire cracks and pops in the fireplace, little good it does. Ares vented the thing through the old chimneys used by the masons when they originally built the convent. I don't know why he bothered. It's still as cold as death.
History tells the world that dozens died on this very ground to build Saint Margaret's. The summers were harsh. The winters were worse. The church and its financiers accepted no reason for delay.
Flames crackle as my gaze falls back to Avalynne, lying motionless on one of the small cots lined in straight rows across the room. Tonight, the rest are empty.
I don't know if it's for better or worse.
Her chest rises and falls in shallow breaths that punctuate the air in wisps of fog.
She's restrained, bound to the makeshift bed, but the rope that binds her makes my guts twist. Still, it's for her own protection.
Death came for her tonight, and it's a miracle she's still with us.
I have no doubt she'll try to run again the moment she wakes up, but down here, right now, she's safe.
Too much warmth too fast, and she'll go into cardiac arrest.
She looks so fragile, her skin pale as bone in the dim light.
I drag a hand over my face, my fingers lingering on the rough stubble that has formed there.
My other hand itches to reach for the flask Ares keeps tucked behind the armrest of this old chair.
I suppose I'd drink, too, if I were caged down here all day, surrounded by the dead.
I steady my hand against my knee and reach, as I often do, for scripture.
The Word of the Lord anchors me and reminds me of who I am.
For dust you are, and to dust you shall return.—Genesis 3:19.
The scripture would normally bring me a measure of comfort, but not now. Tonight, the words are as cold as the ground around me.
Avalynne shouldn't be here. It wasn't supposed to be this way, though a nagging thought wonders exactly what I expected to happen.
Her arrival came at the most inconvenient of times, but then Xade made it even worse, dragging her into the deep end with him.
He didn't keep his distance. He blurred every line.
A flare of anger and something sinister shoots through my chest. I clamp it down quickly.
Priests can be human, but only if we repress all the emotions that make us sin.
My little dove whimpers in her sleep, and I wonder what's taking Xade and Ares so long. They've gone to get more blankets and hot water.
Behind my eyes, the image of Xade and her replays in brutal clarity.
In the memory, he staggers, feet heavy with sleet and snow, skin as frigid as ice, as he carries an unconscious Avalynne through the chapel doors.
The blood darkening his dress shirt is unmistakable, and fear reminds me I am mortal.
For a moment, I'd thought my little dove was gone, and I wanted the earth to burn and the heavens to fall from the skies.
I wanted it all dead.
I haven't felt such violence toward another in a long time. Georgina, Ares, and Xade, I hated them all at that moment. Then I felt the beat of her shallow pulse, and relief came.
Xade looked like he'd been ripped apart from the inside, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate, the color stolen from his dusky cheeks. Ares appeared beside him, jaw clenched, eyes unfocused, and dissociation creeping into his mind.
I clench my jaw and force myself to focus on the here and now.
Avalynne's in front of me. She's breathing. She's alive.
With God all things are possible.—Matthew 19:26.
Distress mars my little dove's face in her sleep.
Her lashes flutter, her mouth twitching as though she's caught in a nightmare.
I've changed the bandage at the back of her head and carefully warmed her skin, slow and steady.
Still, she dreams. It's been hours, much too long, and it's making me restless.
What if she doesn't wake up?
What if the cold took something from her that we can't ever get back?
Have faith, Ezra.
On a sharp intake of breath, her eyes open, glossy and unfocused. She blinks as her gaze rolls to the restraints that bind her wrists to the cot beneath her. Panic flares wide in her eyes, and a pang of guilt pierces me.
"Are you alright?" I ask, my voice almost a whisper.
She flinches in surprise and looks straight at me, but she doesn't answer. I reach out instinctively, wanting to help, to comfort her, but she recoils, pressing herself back against the cot. Part of my soul withers and dies.
"Don't touch me." Her voice is raw. She eyes me like I'm the enemy, and I hate it.
"Please, Avalynne. Whatever you are thinking, I guarantee it's not correct."
Hurt flashes across her features.
"You're with them," she seethes. "You're going to ruin his life, our family's life, after everything we've done for you."
Realization hits me abruptly.
His life. Our family.
Her grandfather.
I struggle to find the words. "I need you to trust me."
Her lips press into a thin line, and she clenches her jaw.
"Trust you?" A mirthless laugh escapes her lips, followed by a brutal cough. "You've all lied to me. You've been plotting behind my back this entire time, and I'm supposed to believe you?"
I see now why Xade wanted to tell her. We have concealed the truth for too long. Now, unraveling the knotted lies and half-truths seems impossible.
You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.—John 8:32.
But the truth has come too late. It hasn't freed her. If anything, it's cut her open, and she wants her grandfather to sew her back together.
"Your grandfather …" My throat is tight as my mind races to find the right words. "He's not the man you think he is."
I watch as her disbelief hardens into fury. Her hands clench, and her knuckles go pale beneath the restraints. Dread cements in my veins.
"I don't believe you." Her words slice through me.
In my peripheral, I see Xade and Ares lingering in the shadows at the edge of the room. When did they arrive? How long have they been listening?
I reach over to brush the hair from her eyes as she glares at me. She flinches as the pad of my thumb skims her cheek, and the ache splitting my chest expands into a cavern.
"It's okay, little dove," I tell her, forcing myself to pull away. "I'll keep you safe until you're ready to believe."
She doesn't respond. Doesn't even blink.
As I sit back in my chair, I frown at her and wonder what circle of Hell I'll have to show her to make her accept the truth. And what will remain of us when it's all said and done?