Chapter 38 Jude #2
He pulled back as far as he could, reaching for the handle.
He’d forgotten there was a door, in all honesty.
He tried to turn it. It didn’t move. ‘I think it’s stuck,’ he grunted, trying to push against it with his shoulder without jostling Maeve too much.
It only pressed them tighter together. She didn’t say anything as he continued feeling around the handle.
Stuck, Jude thought, or trapped? He tried the handle again. If the door was jammed, the handle would still turn… wouldn’t it? But if it had been locked—
Maeve’s stifled, panicked breaths broke through the haze of his thoughts. Jude stilled. Looked down at her. Even in the dim light coming through the window overlooking the sanctuary below, he could see the pinkness of her cheeks. Her wide, pupil-blown eyes. ‘Are you all right?’
She nodded, jerky. ‘Yes. Just… tight spaces aren’t my favourite.’
‘Let me just—’ he banged the side of his foot against the door. The sound of protesting wood echoed through the small space. He tried again, harder this time, but it wouldn’t budge.
Singing trickled through the organ stall, coming from the sanctuary below. He looked out over Maeve’s head towards where the pews were now filled with congregants. Service was beginning.
Panic cinched tighter around his chest. He couldn’t tell Maeve he suspected they’d been locked in here, not while she still trembled against him. He had to figure this out himself.
‘Mr Peters is down there,’ he said, trying to keep his tone conversational. Why would he lock them in here only to head down and start his church service? Was he waiting for something?
Jude swallowed. Something… or someone?
Maeve pressed her face tighter to his chest. A small whimper left her lips, muffled against his jumper. Jude laid his head on her crown and tried to think. The scent of his apple soap tickled his nose. More her smell than his by now.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so interested in the organ,’ he said lightly.
She huffed a quiet laugh. The movement jostled her body against his. He hissed a breath in through his teeth. ‘As long as my eyes are closed, it’s not so bad,’ she said.
Jude wrapped his arms around her, sliding his palms flat against her spine. He stroked up and down with his fingertips. ‘Elden will find us soon. I promise.’
Wouldn’t he? Jude scanned the pews below. Elden was nowhere in sight. Surely, Mr Peters would’ve given him the fire materials before starting the service. Although, he had said they would be ready after, hadn’t he?
Maeve didn’t reply. Her hips shifted against his.
He bit his lip, wishing the pain was enough to distract him, but then her hands came up and slid around his ribcage.
Her nose nudged the side of his neck, a soft inhale filling the space.
Every thought and half-dreamt idea about her coloured their proximity deep red.
She was so warm, so close. He could feel every inch of her touching him in ways no one had before.
He would lose his mind if he allowed himself to dwell on it.
She rocked forward, closer, somehow. And, oh no—
‘Please stay still,’ he managed. He pulled his hips back as far as he could, counting to ten, then twenty.
‘Sorry,’ Maeve whispered. She didn’t sound very apologetic.
He studied the congregants below in an attempt to distract himself.
From his vantage point, he could see the tops of their heads, their hands gripping the pews.
The bouncing of children’s legs and the furtive whispers of back-row patrons.
Mr Peters stood at the front, speaking to the crowd in a measured, authoritative voice.
His words slid over Jude like a ship over water, its presence inconsequential to the turbulence beneath.
Sometime between leaving them in the organ stall and starting the service, Mr Peters had slid on an ornate white robe, fitted with a shining silver medallion.
Jude’s mind fuzzed, a wash of dreamlike stupor eating at his consciousness until he was consumed entirely by the slow sway of the pendant. Gold lapped at the edge of his vision.
Familiar, it was so familiar.
He blinked slowly, tipping his head left, right.
‘Jude?’
A hand on his chest. His heart, rabbiting against her palm.
‘Jude.’
He wrenched his eyes from the medallion to find Maeve staring at him. Dark brows furrowed over darker eyes. Her mouth, so close to his.
‘What is it?’ he breathed. Had they been speaking?
‘You were in some sort of daze.’ She searched his face, brows furrowing. ‘What were you staring at?’
He squeezed the bridge of his nose. The headache was back with a vengeance. ‘The medallion Mr Peters is wearing. It looks familiar.’
Maeve rotated until her back was against his chest, an awkward shift in the small space.
She rose on her toes and tried to peer out the window.
The motion jostled her against the front of his body.
Too quickly, Jude remembered his earlier distraction.
Warmth rekindled faster than he thought possible.
‘Maeve—’ he warned. He stilled her with both hands on her hips.
She pressed tighter. ‘Sorry.’
‘I’m quite sure you’re not,’ he managed.
He tightened his grip on her hips. Her answering inhale made him kick back his head against the wall behind him, closing his eyes.
‘Stop it,’ he whispered, almost pleading.
Her head fell back against his shoulder for a brief heartbeat before she straightened.
‘Maeve—’ Jude rasped. To say what, he didn’t know.
Suddenly, she stilled. ‘Is Mr Peters wearing a relic?’
Relic.
The word leapt into existence.
He hadn’t thought about relics in a very, very long time, but he’d used to think of them more often, hadn’t he? Try as he might, his memory came up empty. A void of carefully placed darkness, fitting itself into a space he’d very much like to see clearly.
‘Remind me what a relic is, again?’ he asked.
‘They’re a mark of devotion. Elders wear them as a sign of commitment to the Abbey.’
Deep in his stomach, something sharp and urgent dug in teeth. ‘Is there a purpose? Do they do anything?’
She was quiet for a long moment. ‘I’ve heard rumours that they help the elders connect to saints individually.
A direct tie to whatever saint the relic represents.
I’ve always thought that it was more… metaphorical.
A sign of devotion. An outward request for a saint’s blessing and protection, but maybe—’ her throat clicked. ‘Maybe it’s more.’
Jude wasn’t sure whether his memory of relics had been forgotten, in the way humans naturally filed away information they deemed unimportant, or whether the Abbey had taken it from him. But he couldn’t dismiss the feeling there was something to be explored.
He glanced back down at the congregants.
Wait. His heart slammed into his throat. If Mr Peters was wearing a relic—
‘Fuck, Maeve. We need to leave. Now.’
‘Now? Why?’ she asked, bobbing on her toes to scan the crowd below. She gasped, spinning to face him. ‘Wait. The relic… I wasn’t sure before, but this is an Abbey church, isn’t it?’ She reached around him and rattled the doorknob. It held fast. ‘Did Mr Peters lock it after it shut?’
Jude slammed his shoulder into the door as hard as he could.
It groaned, but didn’t budge. He tried again.
Sweat beaded at his temples. Maeve jammed the toe of her boot against the hinges.
Finally, the door gave with a shattering crack, spilling them both out into the narrow landing.
Maeve reached up, steering him by the shoulders towards the stairs.
Black crawled in his peripherals. He forced himself to keep moving
Behind him, she whimpered. ‘I can’t see… Jude. My eyes. I can’t see—’
He spun, putting her in front of him, and guided them both down the stairs as quickly as he could.
Wrongness permeated his body. The undeniable ache of violation sent pain throttling across his jaw, the back of his skull.
They hadn’t just been locked in the organ stall; the Abbey was here, in their minds, eating away at their memories, their sanity.
They careened down the remaining few steps. Beside them, the formerly colourful stained glass was nothing more than an indistinct wash of grey, disappearing entirely when he turned his head to look.
The sound of voices trickled past the pounding in his ears.
Shouting.
‘Hurry,’ Jude urged, looping his arm around Maeve’s waist to move her along. She sagged against him, head lolling on his shoulder as they moved across the narthex. The doors were in sight.
‘Stop!’ a voice called.
Jude didn’t turn. Weakness buckled his knees, forcing him to lean heavily against the wall as he inched them towards the exit. The voice called again – his name, this time, and Maeve’s. Louder. More desperate. He turned to see Elden barrelling towards them, Mr Peters at his heels.
He kept going. He wouldn’t rest until Maeve was outside. Until she was safe.
Had Caleb known who Mr Peters was? He didn’t know how much the sheep farmer knew of his partner’s abilities, if he was aware that in places like this, Bethan would be considered a saint.
Or maybe the Abbey had more unseen eyes than Jude could imagine.
Maybe they’d been spotted leaving ánhaga and followed here.
Were there even fire supplies, or had that been Mr Peters’ excuse to get them to come this morning?
Jude wished he’d been there to witness the man’s introduction to Maeve and Elden, to see the manipulation for himself.
Fresh air assaulted every sense as he finally got them outside, the crispness so vivid he shut his eyes tightly against it as he moved them further and further from the church.
When he opened them, the world was clear once more.
To his relief, Maeve’s eyes were open, too.
She wriggled out of his arms and turned back to the open church doors.
‘Elden!’ she cried.
Elden stood in the doorway, blocking the exit with his broad shoulders, his back to them. Jude caught a glimpse of Mr Peters’ searching gaze before Elden pushed him back. ‘Go!’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Please, Jude. I’ll catch up.’
His gaze locked with Jude’s. He recognized the desperation in his friend’s eyes. The pleading.
Jude nodded.
Maeve cried out, trying to run back to the church even as he tried to pull her to safety. ‘We can’t leave him,’ she begged, tears in her voice. ‘We can’t.’
‘He’ll be okay,’ Jude soothed into her hair, trying to quell his own consuming fear. He reached back, fumbling with the cool iron of the gate, and pulling them through. ‘He’s not a saint. The Abbey has no business with him. He’ll be safe.’
The church’s doors slammed shut, blocking off their view of Elden and Mr Peters.
Maeve sagged, letting Jude hurry her up the path and away from the church. She looked up at him with eyes red and streaming. ‘Don’t lie to me,’ she whispered.
He pressed his lips tightly together. Trapping lies or truths, he wasn’t yet sure.
Ahead of them, the path faded out into the wilds of the moors.
Wind tore around them like a beast all its own.
Each inhale burned his lungs, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.
The weight in her gaze, the accusation in her voice, all of it reminded him that he didn’t have an answer.
He couldn’t protect her or Elden. He couldn’t make it go away.
At the end of the day, he was a powerless creature. Stuck under the weight of a boot, just waiting to be crushed.