Chapter 4
Silas
No one had stepped foot in the Willow Grove church—besides me—in years.
I wasn’t a particularly social man (my only friends were my brothers) and we usually opted to meet at Rhett’s house or Beau’s little place behind the garage. Thus, my home was both creepy and barely used.
The church didn’t look like much from the outside—half-eaten by kudzu, paint peeled back to bare wood, windows dirt-blind.
Its most striking feature was probably the stained glass window in the steeple, a depiction of the Garden of Eden, the only front-facing part of the church I actually kept clean because Amelia had always loved it.
Now, I was feeling incredibly self-conscious.
Because a girl was coming over and it looked like someone had trashed this place a decade ago and never bothered tidying up.
I saw June pull up in the driveway from where I was sitting in the loft near the stained glass window—definitely not watching for her—and I headed downstairs to let her in. I unlocked the double doors and pushed one open, hinges screaming like they were personally offended I would have guests.
June climbed out of her green SUV a moment later, then opened the back door to grab a large canvas tote.
She was wearing jeans and a button-down linen tank tied at the waist, sunglasses perched in front of a messy blonde bun.
She looked like she’d just wandered off the pages of Southern Living, right down to the plain, unassuming silver cross at her throat.
She looked…effortless. Casual.
Not like an exorcist. Definitely not like an ordained minister.
“I see you hung extra ivy for me,” she teased, glancing at the church as she walked up. “Thanks for that.”
“I try to be a good host,” I replied.
June stepped over the threshold like she belonged here, warped floorboards and musty air not fazing her at all. Her eyes flicked up toward the vaulted ceiling, then across the rows of disorderly, half-broken pews.
“Smells like…”
I expected her to insult the place—it’s what I would have done—but she inhaled deep and exhaled with a sigh.
“…like hope.”
“Yeah…that’s the mold,” I grumbled, shutting the door behind her to at least try and keep the central AC contained.
June glanced back at me with a smile. “That too.”
I watched as she walked slowly down the center aisle, her fingers grazing the backs of the pews—welcoming them back to life, resurrected. The light from the stained glass didn’t quite reach her, but somehow she was still haloed in gold, an angel walking among us.
“This is where you live?” she asked, pausing.
“I live in the parsonage,” I clarified. “This part is where the ghosts hang out.”
June turned to look at me. “And you left it like this?”
“It’s not like I was expectin’ company.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Not even a little sweeping for the Lord?”
“Pretty sure He stopped takin’ attendance here a long time ago.”
That earned me a quiet laugh, June directing her attention back toward the front of the room. She walked a little farther, than her eyes found mine again.
“You’re wrong, you know.”
I cocked my head, crossing my arms. “About what?”
“About Him not showing up anymore…or Her or Them, whatever God chooses to be here,” she said. “God is still here—They’re just waiting for somebody to open the damn windows.”
I stared at her for a long beat—not because I didn’t believe her, but because I did, and that scared the hell out of me. The idea that some stranger’s God had been here the whole time, waiting for me just to listen…I didn’t like it.
“You always this poetic?” I asked, trying to keep my tone dry.
June grinned. “Only when the Spirit moves me.”
I chuckled. “C’mon. Parsonage is this way. You can put your stuff down there where the ghosts—or God—won’t fuck with it.”
I opened the side door and led her through the old corridor that connected the church to the small living quarters in back.
The air changed immediately—less mildew, more pine-scented candle courtesy of Willow.
The hallway still had warped yellow wallpaper and one burnt-out sconce, but I’d replaced the rug last year and put up a few old photographs of my family just to keep myself human.
June didn’t comment on the mess. Didn’t ask questions about the faded picture of my parents or the one of Amelia by the altar in a white dress. She just took it in…soft, quiet, understanding.
The parsonage at the end of the hall wasn’t much—cleaner, sure, but that was about the end of it.
A narrow sitting room welcomed us in, featuring only a threadbare armchair and a bookshelf warped by humidity and stocked full of old westerns and the odd book on the occult.
To the left was a galley kitchen that barely fit one body, let alone two, the bathroom was just ahead, and my bedroom was on the right, the door open to reveal a neatly made bed.
June stepped inside without hesitation.
And that shouldn’t have rattled me…but it did.
Everything about her presence felt loud in my space.
Her breath, her boots on the floorboards, the way she looked around like she could read every one of my secrets written on the walls.
She set her bag down on the armchair and turned toward me with that half-smile of hers, the one that looked like trouble, so out of place on a priest.
“Nice place,” she deadpanned. “A little less haunted than I expected.”
I shrugged. “Told ya they hang out in the church, not here.”
She chuckled.
I wanted to kiss her.
She had this way of laughing—just a little too full-bodied, a little too unguarded when I always had my shields up. It pierced right through my armor, right down to the heart of me, like light pouring in through a busted window.
June wandered toward the bookshelf, eyes scanning the spines, then plucked a book from the shelf.
“Westerns, huh?” she asked.
“What about it?”
She lifted one shoulder. “You just strike me more as a Dostoyevsky guy.”
I snorted. “If he didn’t have shootouts on horseback, I ain’t interested.”
She laughed. “He didn’t.”
Her eyes strayed from mine, finding the open bedroom door.
Her gaze didn’t linger, but it was enough to make heat crawl up the back of my neck…
purely because I wondered if they taught her how to read sinful thoughts in seminary.
If she somehow knew that I was thinking about what she’d look like naked, bent over that bed and taking my—
“Have you got anything to drink?” she asked suddenly. “I’m um…pretty parched. Hot out there.”
“Yeah,” I said, too fast, too loud. “Water. Maybe a pitcher of sweet tea from Willow…I’ll be right back.”
I fled to the kitchen like the narrow stretch of linoleum could shield me from whatever had just passed between us.
My pulse was too damn loud in my ears, my hands itchin’ as I pulled open the fridge and yanked out the pitcher.
It sloshed too close to the rim, but I managed to pour two glasses without spilling.
She was still in the living room when I returned, flipping through a battered copy of The Lesser Key of Solomon. Once again, it almost looked like she was surrounded by light; it took me a second to shake it off.
“You have a weird collection,” she said, closing the book and setting it aside to take the tea. “Why the stuff on magic and folklore?”
I grunted. “Try bein’ cursed and see if you don’t develop an interest in magic.”
June didn’t laugh. “But you’re not cursed anymore—at least, that’s what Rhett and Willow say.”
“Not so easy to shake that shit off.”
She held her glass and took a slow, thoughtful sip, then rested it on the arm of the chair. “So the books stay?”
I nodded. “The books stay.”
She nodded like that made perfect sense—as if it wasn’t a little spooky to hang out in an abandoned church with a man who kept grimoires and sigils all over his house, who made room for the ghosts in the old sanctuary.
“Fair enough,” June said. “I’ve got a few myself—mostly from when me and Delilah were roommates in Nola. Taught me to hang rosemary above the door, just in case.”
“Do you?”
June tilted her head. “You asking if I believe in it, or if I practice it?”
“Either. Both.”
She smiled again. “I believe in protection…whatever form that takes.”
I nodded, not knowing what else to say. There was a risk that, if we stayed here, I’d talk to her about the occult and westerns and everything in between for hours…until I ultimately gave in and took her to bed.
So I took a long sip of my sweet tea and gestured back toward the door.
“C’mon,” I said. “Let’s see how much damage we can do before the sun sets.”
June looked one more time at the open bedroom door, and my stomach twisted.
Then she followed me back to the sanctuary…where it was safe.
Where sin wouldn’t be so easy.