Chapter 42
Forty-Two
Raven
Iwake with knots in my stomach and a weight of dread sitting on my chest.
Today is the day.
There’s no use denying it. I’ve tried everything I can think of, worked every angle, cast every spell, and the result is still the same.
Today, one of us goes to Hell.
With a sigh of resignation, I throw off my covers and swing my legs over the edge of the cot. Bare feet grounded on the cool wooden floorboards, I stare through the dim, pre-dawn light of our monastic cell toward Tawny’s side. A tuft of blond hair peeks out from her cocoon of blankets.
Still asleep. Thank God for small mercies.
Apart from the bed and a few empty dinner plates, everything else on that side of the room looks like a scene from an occult horror movie.
Bones, candles, chalk lines, hair, feathers, hex bags, herbs, blood stains—you name it, I used it.
I tried every type of magic I could get my hands on to protect Tawny from what’s coming.
There’s nothing else I can do.
Ignoring the ball of knots growing tighter, I head to the bathroom and wonder for the millionth time this week about the futility of my actions. Will any of this matter in Hell?
Will taking a piss, showering, or brushing my teeth matter? Will braiding my hair matter? Will dying the tips in color so I don’t feel dead matter? Will tailored leather pants, boots, or cigarettes matter?
God, I hope so.
After dressing in silence, I return to our room and collect a stack of letters from beneath my mattress.
I rifle through them, reading the labels until I find the one I need.
I tuck it under my arm and wedge the rest in the back of my waistband, so my leather jacket keeps them hidden.
The knots in my stomach are growing painfully uncomfortable, urging me into action.
Fuck it.
One more cigarette won’t kill me.
I grab my almost empty packet from my nightstand, pull one out, and tap the filter on my leg to compact the tobacco.
The familiar ritual brings order to my chaotic life.
I feel more relaxed before I even pop the filter on my lip.
I light it up, take a drag, and then take a last look at my sleeping roommate.
An ache blooms in my chest. I must have dirt in my eyes because they start to water. Blinking rapidly to clear my vision, cigarette perched on my lower lip, I check the handwritten label on the letter I’d tucked under my arm.
Tawny.
Sniffing, I toss it on the floorboards and walk out, closing the door softly behind me.
The sounds and smells of the abbey awakening break through my cigarette smoke. Freshly baked bread, ground coffee, and a rooster crowing outside.
If Mercy were here, she’d probably be up and showered already, dragging our lazy asses out of bed. Fucking bitch. With a smile and another sniff—I’m not crying—I find the letter with her name on it and slot it under her empty door.
I deliver the rest in the same efficient, mechanical manner. All except one. Last door on the left.
The ball of knots is so tight again that it’s traveled up to my throat. I almost lose my nerve and turn around, but force myself to take a moment. I rest my back against the closed wooden surface and stay there, staring at the empty corridor I’ve spent half my life walking.
I keep staring until there’s nothing left of my cigarette to smoke, and ash is all over the floor.
I drop the stub, lift my boot to grind out the embers, but don’t. Instead, I stare at the smoldering butt. It reminds me of the day I met Dominic.
The day Team Saint turned up on our doorstep and everything changed.
I’d been out on the bike, trying to clear the ball of knots that had been growing in my stomach all week.
But it got worse with every mile covered until I headed home, to the abbey.
Lo and behold, I wasn’t the only vehicle approaching the wrought iron gates.
The anxious feeling remained when their car followed me through the gates.
Assuming they were the danger, I stood beside my sisters and prepared for war.
But then the strangest thing happened.
That ball of knots disappeared when Team Saint exited their limo.
Not even a glimmer of psychic pain when I flicked my cigarette butt at Dom’s pectoral, hoping to get a rise out of him.
But he just looked at me through those stupid long lashes, picked up the stub, swallowed it with his giant fist, and put it in his pocket.
I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow the ache in my throat. God, it’s getting hard to breathe. I didn’t think this would be so hard, but I’ve done everything I can.
I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth.
Come on, bitch. I slap my cheeks. You can do this.
Another sharp, steadying breath, and I pull out the final letter.
My vision blurs. A teardrop lands on Dominic’s name, bleeding the ink. Fuck. I try to wipe it off but smear the lettering more. Shit. He’s going to see it and think I regret doing what I’m doing. He’ll think this is his fault. He’ll think what’s inside is a lie. Gah!
I resist the urge to rip it to shreds, shove the letter under his door, and stalk toward the staircase.
Glowering, I crack my knuckles to release the tension.
I don’t stop, don’t pass go, don’t collect a hundred cigarettes.
I just slam open the doors and head straight out.
I keep walking down the porch steps into the brisk air until I find a place on the grass where the knots in my gut start to unravel.
I stare at the mist over the lake, at the closed gates, and I wait. I’m not exactly sure what I’m waiting for. I only know that today one of us goes to Hell, and it damn well better be me.
Because if it’s not . . . an innocent man goes instead.
The ball of knots returned that first night Team Saint arrived, and I dreamed about Death coming for Dominic. No matter what I did, no matter who I turned to, the dream never changed. Not unless I went in his place.
At first, I tried to convince myself Dominic deserved Hell.
He wasn’t a Saint. He was an interloper, a liar, a wicked soul who should burn for eternity.
But nothing I did to him provoked the beast. And the more time I spent with him, the more of his beautiful soul I discovered, and the more I realized if one of us had to be in Hell—then it should be the one who will end up there anyway.
Throat tight, I take another steadying breath and crack my knuckles.
I need another cigarette, but settle for appreciating the majestic sight of the estate as the sun rises.
Everywhere the light touches is beautiful, lush, and free of rot.
All the way up the path to the walled garden, plant life is teeming again.
The moment Cisco and Mercy left for Rome, all signs of decay disappeared.
We all wondered what it meant, but also knew it had something to do with Mary’s Gospel verse about Famine.
While the others debated in the archives whether to send backup to Rome, I focused on what would happen after Famine was defeated.
Just as Thea was the only one who could have dealt with Pestilence, and Leila was the only one to deal with War, the battle with Famine is for Mercy and her alone.
A sudden thudding and scratching at the abbey’s front doors makes me go still. That better not be Dominic coming to stop me. A thousand ways to knock him out flit through my mind as I turn, but when the front doors open a smidge, Jinx dashes out.
The dachshund-sized ex-demon bolts down the steps, making high-pitched dolphin barks. I jog to meet her, raising my finger to my lips.
“Shh. You’ll wake the—ah fuck.” I realize my mistake when the frilly, scaled creature leaps into my arms and starts licking my face. “Thea’s already awake, isn’t she?”
Another lick is my answer.
Jinx mostly sleeps in Thea and Wesley’s room. She must have heard me slotting the letter under the door and woke them up to get out.
It’s fine. I’m still here first. I still have Dominic’s totem in my pocket. Whatever turns up to drag him to Hell will come to me first.
They probably haven’t even noticed the letter.
It’s fine.
Jinx starts barking again, wriggling furiously in my arms, scrambling to get out. I clench tighter around her slippery body, locking her in because a warning prickling sensation crawls up my spine.
Ten feet away on the grass, air shimmers and a large, winged, and horned figure starts to take shape.
Fuck me, it’s time.
I lift my chin, summon my courage, and face my fate head on.
But it’s not a Hell gate opening. I don’t think.
It’s not even a demon . . . is it? It’s large enough for one, but why would a demon carry a sculpture of something scorched, warped, and still hissing with smoke in its arms?
Why would it be looking at me with alarm?
And why is it stomping this way on cloven feet, draconic wings flapping, bellowing, “Get the staff!”
“Wha-what?”
“Raphael’s relic, Raven!” The enormous beast bends on one knee and gently places the melted blob on the grass. It smells like barbecued meat. A metal rod skewers the mass.
The beast’s draconic wings and scales melt away, and the demonic figure grows smaller in shape until it’s the size of a man—a familiar, sinfully attractive man in Armani.
“Asmodeus?” I gasp.
“In the tawdry flesh,” he snarls out.
Then his features soften as he reaches for the twisted, hissing, and smoking mess—specifically toward a tuft of copper that somehow survived the fire. I blink—wait, is that hair? Further along the charred mess is a patch of skin—a finger with a tattooed crucifix.
My hand flies to my mouth, the wind punches from my lungs, and a choked sound rips out of me.
Asmodeus’s hand balls into a fist. He lifts his head, dark eyes blazing, and bellows at me, “Get the fucking staff, witch!”
I drop Jinx and bolt toward the abbey steps, but before I make it up one, the others are already pushing their way out the front doors. Thea leads the way with the archangel Raphael’s divine relic already glowing in her hand. She gives me a dark look and barges past.
“Out of my way!” Leila is next with her relic already out, Helwing pistol cocked and aimed.
One after the other, Wesley, Zeke, Tawny, and Dominic run down onto the lawn—all in various states of morning attire.
The men are shirtless—Zeke and Wesley in pajama pants, Dom in tight boxer shorts.
Tawny still wears her pink donut pajamas and fluffy slippers, but she wields a blessed sword.
They all run straight to help Asmodeus, but I’m frozen, stuck with my back against the porch balustrade, hand digging into my pocket and pulling out the totem I made from Dominic’s hair and bodily essences.
I was wrong. How could I be so wrong?
Death isn’t coming for one of us.
It already came.