21
“Their symbol—a crescent moon bisected by a single black line—represented their perceived role as conquerors of darkness. If the moon represents the possibilities of evil, then the line through its center is the Apostles holding them at bay.”
I stand immobile in the bathroom, my fury spiking as my mouth goes dry.
A fucking Apostles’ preaching sash. Here, in a diabolist’s home. There’s no reasonable explanation for it. Nobody would own such a thing unless they were directly affiliated with the Apostles. I don’t even know where they could have gotten it.
My arms feel numb as I yank the sash from the closet to examine it more closely.
Fragments of memory crash over me like tons of stone.
The stitched symbol is all too familiar.
I almost expect to see Vicar Johannes leering at me from the doorway, demanding that I get my dirty sinner’s hands off it.
Had Gabriel been right, then, about a new sect of Apostles emerging?
If so, how the hell are Ceri and Emeric connected to them?
The fabric twists in my fingers. Slade has doubtless lied to me about many things, but I can’t imagine he knows about this. I need to warn him before he tells Emeric about our plot—if he hasn’t already.
First, though, I need to know more. I’m more of an executioner than an interrogator, but I need answers now.
I put a hand to my gun, then my knife, then check to ensure the second blade I stuck in my boot is still there. Satisfied, I steel myself and head back to the sitting room. My steps are light and measured, but on the inside I’m on fire. My wrath burns hot and bright as my heart thunders in my ears.
Ceri is sitting precisely where I’d left her. She looks relaxed as she shoots me a polite smile. “Find everything okay?”
“Yep.” My voice sounds strange. Rather than returning to the chair, I settle onto the sofa beside her. I hold out a hand. “I should’ve introduced myself. I’m Talin Keller.”
She’s visibly taken aback by my change in demeanor, although she doesn’t question it. In fact, she looks rather pleased as she sets her hand in mine.
Whip-quick, I wrap my fingers around hers. A divot appears between her perfect brows as her gaze flicks up, concern overtaking her features in response to whatever she sees in my face. “What—”
I don’t waste another moment. I use my grip on her hand to yank her forward, simultaneously procuring my knife.
Then I slip my fingers from hers and slam my blade into the back of her hand, passing through the bones and tendons to the coarse fabric of the sofa.
There’s an odd popping sound when I puncture the thick overlay, effectively pinning her hand between the firm cushion and the hilt of my knife.
An airy scream rips from Ceri’s lungs as her eyes fly wide.
“What the fuck?” She tries to pull back, giving another shriek of pain when the movement jostles the blade.
I keep pressure on the hilt to hold it in place.
Holding her in place. Diabolists are strong, but Slade has taught me that they feel pain like anyone else—especially if they’re barred from healing.
“Stop screaming,” I tell Ceri coldly. “I have some questions, and you’re going to answer them. Understood?”
Her lovely face contorts in bewilderment, then anger. She lurches forward, attempting to swipe at me with her other arm. Sighing, I reach into my coat and withdraw my gun. It feels strange in my nondominant hand, but I can pull the trigger just as well.
“Don’t—move.” I twist the knife, making her snarl. Her face turns translucent as the onyx blood drains from it. “I know how powerful diabolists are, but I also know you can still be hurt. So if you don’t cooperate, I’ll either fuck up your hand even more, or I’ll put a bullet in you.”
Ceri doesn’t reply. Those emerald eyes blaze with disdain. The expression changes her entire face, and I’m strangely relieved to discover she’s not as sweet and harmless as she first appears. This—violence—I can make sense of.
“Tell me about the Solemn Apostles,” I demand.
Her frown deepens. “What about them?”
“Think about the room you sent me to. What I might have found in the closet there.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she snaps.
I’m not deterred, rotating the knife again. I’ve played this role before. I know how to hollow myself out. How to erect a wall between me and another person’s suffering. It no longer bothers me. Still, an errant question gnaws: Does wounding a diabolist count as a sin?
I shake my head to dislodge the thought, furious at it for daring to be there in the first place. “Tell me about the Solemn Apostles,” I repeat through clenched teeth. “Now.”
She doesn’t get the chance. The front door flies open with a bang, and Emeric appears in the foyer. Relinquishing the knife, I leap to my feet, turning my gun on him instead.
Emeric’s eyes fly wide as he takes in the scene. He raises his hands, not quite defensively, but as if approaching a frightened animal. “What the hell is going on?”
Ceri lets out an agonized groan. I hear her move, but I’m too slow. I turn right as she flings my knife across the room, having wrenched it from her own hand, and I don’t react fast enough to stop it from embedding in the flesh of my upper arm.
Pain lances through me. The blade doesn’t lodge deeply, though, and the next moment it falls to the floor with a clatter. Time seems to stall.
“TALIN.”
It’s Slade, the fury in his voice sobering. I whirl to see him force his way past Emeric. He scans the room with a contemptuous gaze, seeming to cast a blanket of cold over the space. I ignore his hissed demand for me to drop the gun; I’m already moving, closing the gap between us.
“Did you know?” I hurl the question. “Did you know what they—”
Slade appears in my path between one heartbeat and the next, his lithe body acting like a stone barrier.
I slam into him, and at once his arms encircle me like a vise.
My gun is pinned between his chest and my own as I fight against him.
Each breath comes in rapid bursts. My words are disjointed.
“They’re—the sash in the closet—the Apostles—you’re—let me go! ”
Predictably, he doesn’t listen. “What is wrong with you?” he growls. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I give an involuntary wince as he skims my injured arm. That brief pain, combined with the firm press of his body against mine, does something unholy to me. I struggle even harder, desperate for him not to notice the heat rising to my cheeks.
“Sorry,” he mutters, and it’s the shock of that quiet apology that finally makes me still. “Ceri,” he adds in a much harsher, louder tone, “please sit down.”
“Why the hell did you bring her here, Slade? Is she out of her mind?” Ceri’s voice is pitched high with disbelief. “She put a knife through my hand!”
“And you hurled it at her in return, so I think you’re even. A fucking stupid thing to do, by the way. She doesn’t heal like we do.”
“I wasn’t thinking, okay? She—”
“SIT,” Slade roars. I know even without looking that Ceri compiles. I can’t imagine anyone wouldn’t, when he speaks with that kind of authority. Through my haze of rage and confusion, part of me is reeling at the fact that he’s angry I was hurt.
“You’re not listening to me.” I tell him, making a concerted effort to sound less unhinged. “Your friends are connected to the Solemn Apostles.”
He huffs a laugh. “No, they’re not.”
I stare at him in disbelief, which proves difficult given that his face is inches from mine. “They have an Apostles’ preaching sash! Go look for yourself!” Distantly I’m aware of Emeric and Ceri’s protests, but I’m determined not to let my focus waver. “Why would I lie?”
“I didn’t say you were lying,” Slade says with infuriating patience. “You’re just wrong.”
“But there’s—”
“Emeric is employed by the Regiment as a chaplain,” he continues, “though it’s mostly a facade. He’s spent years secretly trying to establish a connection between the Regiment and the Solemn Apostles.”
“He…what?”
“We’ve long suspected the cult didn’t emerge organically, despite the Regiment’s claims.”
My head spins as I struggle to recalibrate. “Why do you think that?”
Emeric is the one who answers. “There isn’t much information about where the Apostles came from. No names associated with its inception. Odd, don’t you think?”
“Are you saying you believe the Regiment started the Apostles?”
“Not necessarily,” he corrects me. “But I’ve long been suspicious about the way they deal with the cult. Not only are they absurdly lenient in their approach, but many of the higher-up chaplains refuse to discuss the Apostles at all. It’s almost as if they’ve been instructed not to.”
I remember Gabriel’s strange demeanor the night I killed Malte Pietersen, and how he sent me into the Trench to find out more.
He claimed to be afraid of dissenters posing as a new sect of Apostles, but what if that wasn’t his true concern?
What if he was only perturbed because the Regiment should already have known about them?
“And if they are supporting the Apostles?” My question is terse as I try to glimpse Emeric over Slade’s shoulder. The ever-present scent of the Warden is distracting. I must be truly starved for touch if I’m this responsive to his mere proximity. “What difference does it make?”