Chapter 34 Jude
Jude
Jude jolted upright. The sleety rain hitting his window drowned out the rapid pattern of his breathing.
He’d been dreaming something dark and confusing.
His wrists had been tied tightly, with his palms sealed together and skin sticky with sweat and blood.
Panting, he drew his hands into the air and searched his palms. Mercifully, they were normal in the cold light of a winter’s morning.
His vision hazed, darkening at the edges. Dryness coated his throat.
Distantly, he heard a voice, growing louder until soft hands touched his shoulders, his chest. A palm pressed against his pounding heart.
Instinctively, Jude flinched back at the touch before he looked up. Maeve was inches from him, eyes wide, lips parted. ‘Breathe,’ she whispered. ‘Slowly. Push my hand out. Just like that.’
Black spots danced at the edge of his vision. ‘What – what happened?’
‘I think you had a nightmare. I tried to wake you, several times, in fact… but, but, Jude. It’s evening already. You’ve been asleep almost a day.’
He tried to focus past the pounding in his skull, the pressure cinched around his heart. ‘What?’
She nodded. He was coherent enough to recognize the fear in her eyes. ‘I don’t know how—’
‘The icon,’ Jude cut in. He tipped his head back to stare up at the ceiling, focusing on her hands on him and not the residual panic from the nightmare.
They’d returned home from Oakmoor at around three in the morning, agreeing to reconvene just after dawn for Jude to pray to his icon.
Somehow, he’d slept for over twelve hours without waking.
‘It’s the icon. It’s affecting me. Headaches, nausea.
A strange… pulling, under my skin. The sleeping, too. The nightmares.’
Maeve eased back, guilt clear on her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Hopefully, once you pray, it’ll get better. You’ll be yourself again.’
Himself – he hardly knew who that man was anymore.
Her fingers touched his wrist, skating up bare skin. Jude flinched. His long sleeves were pushed back to his elbows, every tattoo visible. Each clumsy stroke he’d marred his flesh with; lines and symbols, crude scratches that he’d never allowed to fully heal.
Maeve stared. Wide-eyed. Saying nothing.
‘Don’t,’ he whispered.
‘Jude.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ He kept his eyes on her face, not wanting to join her in looking at his marked skin. He knew what he looked like.
Her fingers shook slightly as she slid her hand beneath the collar of his shirt. She laid her palm over the symbol for SAINT, transferring her warmth into his frigid skin. A hard press, as though to fuse them. A wish to take the memory of his pain away.
‘You can talk about it,’ she whispered, surprising him. ‘To me. If you ever want to.’
Jude’s throat felt thick. He nodded. It wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. Yet again, Maeve set him completely off-balance. A voice in the back of his mind, sounding suspiciously like Bethan, whispered – She cares for you.
He was starting to believe it.
She continued to touch him. A skim of her fingertips across the other tattoos under his collarbones, the lines on his forearm.
His skin was sensitive from how often he’d gone over the ink.
His heightened awareness of her proximity made it worse.
Almost too much to bear. As she brushed her fingertips over the crook of his elbow, he hissed an unsteady breath.
Maeve pulled back. Her throat clicked. ‘I’m sorry.’
He caught her hand before she could withdraw entirely. Pressed it back to his skin. When he looked up, he found her staring back with eyes so dark he couldn’t make out the pupil. Her lips were parted, and she was breathing shallowly. There was a fogginess to her face he wasn’t used to seeing.
Unable to bear the weight of her attention, Jude looked away. He dropped her hand in a pathetic attempt to steady himself. Useless. Like he could be anything but unmoored around her.
His gaze caught on a rectangular shape by the door. Fuck. He’d nearly forgotten. ‘I should probably get to it. No point putting off the inevitable.’
Maeve followed his gaze. ‘Are you sure? I would suggest waiting, but…’
‘We don’t really have the time,’ Jude finished.
‘Not if we want you awake, that is.’
‘And somewhat coherent,’ he muttered as he reluctantly pushed himself out of bed.
He brushed her shoulder as he moved past her towards the icon.
Thin layers of paint feathered the edges of the canvas, the colours deepening as they closed in around his face.
For a moment, the vivid gold haloing his head reflected in his painted eyes.
Jude blinked, and it was gone.
Before he could decide how to begin, Maeve dropped to her knees in front of the canvas, pulling him down with her. He bit back a shiver at the casual touch, wondering if he would ever get used to the feeling of his skin on hers. Somehow, he doubted it.
His icon stared back, just as defiant as the first time he beheld it. Just as exposing. It took his breath away. Maeve’s talent, her passion and care for her work, shone through every brushstroke. He didn’t think he’d ever seen something so beautifully wrought.
‘When I pray,’ Maeve said, ‘I focus on specifically what I want. Peace, absolution, forgiveness, or something more tangible. An event or item, for instance.’
‘I remember,’ Jude grumbled. He liked the feeling of the wood under his knees less when it was his icon he knelt in front of and not Maeve.
She turned to him and folded his hands between her palms. The back of his neck felt hot. He could almost feel his mentor’s hand there, forcing his head lower. But it was Maeve touching him, he reminded himself. Maeve asking him to pray. Maeve’s words in his ears. He trusted her. He was safe.
Ever obedient, Jude closed his eyes.
Though he was no longer looking at his icon, he felt it watching. Waiting to hear what he might ask for. Looking down at him and finding him wanting and weak.
He gasped behind his teeth. Maeve tightened her grip.
‘You’re okay,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve got you.’
He didn’t believe in sainthood. He knew it wasn’t real. He couldn’t grant requests, couldn’t listen to petitions. Yet, there was power in believing. The icons held secrets in their gilded frames. Secrets he was slowly beginning to realize might be very far from their misguided guesses.
Jude asked for guidance, for memory. For the power to go to the Abbey and reclaim what was rightfully his. For strength to do the impossible. Though his tongue formed words indecipherable to any ears but his own, he kept speaking. Maeve kept her hands firmly clasped over his.
He prayed.
He waited.
And nothing happened.