I didn’t answer. Heat pricked my cheeks. “We’ll leave now,” I repeated.

His eyes met mine. “That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s been . . . a few days.”

“How many days?”

Beau answered for me. “Four.”

Another rumble of my stomach rocked the silence. The priest shook his head. Looking as though he’d rather swallow the spoon whole, he asked, “And . . . when did you last sleep?”

Again, Beau couldn’t seem to stop himself. “We dozed in some fishermen’s boats two nights ago, but one of them caught us before sunrise. He tried to snare us in his net, the half-wit.”

The priest’s eyes flicked to the sanctuary doors. “Could he have followed you here?”

“I just said he was a half-wit. Reid snared him in the net instead.”

Those eyes found mine again. “You didn’t hurt him.” It wasn’t a question. I didn’t answer it. Instead I tightened my grip on Lou’s hand and prepared to run. This man—this holy man—would soon sound the alarm. We needed to put miles between us before Jean Luc arrived.

Lou didn’t seem to share my concern.

“What’s your name, cleric?” she asked curiously.

“Achille.” His scowl returned. “Achille Altier.”

Though the name sounded familiar, I couldn’t place it. Perhaps he’d once journeyed to Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine. Perhaps I’d met him while under oath as a Chasseur. I eyed him with suspicion. “Why haven’t you summoned the huntsmen, Father Achille?”

He looked deeply uncomfortable. Shoulders radiating tension, he stared down at his spoon. “You should eat,” he said gruffly. “There’s stew in the back. Should be enough for everyone.”

Beau didn’t hesitate. “What kind?” When I shot a glare over my shoulder, he shrugged. “He could’ve woken the town the moment he recognized us—”

“He still could,” I reminded him, voice hard.

“—and my stomach is about to eat itself,” he finished. “Yours too, by the sound of it. We need food.” He sniffed and asked Father Achille, “Are there potatoes in your stew? I’m not partial to them. It’s a textural thing.”

The priest’s eyes narrowed, and he jabbed the spoon toward the scullery. “Get out of my sight, boy, before I change my mind.”

Beau inclined his head in defeat before scooting past us. Lou, Coco, and I didn’t move, however. We exchanged wary looks. After a long moment, Father Achille heaved a sigh. “You can sleep here too. Just for the day,” he added irritably, “so long as you don’t bother me.”

“It’s Sunday morning.” At last, Coco lowered her hood. Her lips were cracked, her face wan. “Shouldn’t villagers be attending service soon?”

He scoffed. “I haven’t held a service in years.”

A reclusive priest. Of course. The disrepair of the chapel made sense now. Once, I would’ve scorned this man for his failure as a religious leader. For his failure as a man. I would’ve reprimanded him for turning his back on his vocation. On God.

How times had changed.

Beau reappeared with an earthen bowl and leaned casually against the doorway. Steam from the stew curled around his face. When my stomach rumbled again, he smirked. I spoke through gritted teeth. “Why would you help us, Father?”

Reluctantly, the priest’s gaze trailed over my pale face, Lou’s grisly scar, Coco’s numb expression. The deep hollows beneath our eyes and the gaunt cut of our cheeks. Then he looked away, staring hard at the empty air above my shoulder. “What does it matter? You need food. I have food. You need a place to sleep. I have empty pews.”

“Most in the Church wouldn’t welcome us.”

“Most in the Church wouldn’t welcome their own mother if she was a sinner.”

“No. But they’d burn her if she was a witch.”

He arched a sardonic brow. “Is that what you’re after, boy? The stake? You want me to mete out your divine punishment?”

“I believe,” Beau drawled from the doorway, “he’s simply pointing out that you are among the Church—unless you’re actually the sinner of this story? Are you unwelcome amongst your peers, Father Achille?” He glanced pointedly at our dilapidated surroundings. “Though I abhor jumping to conclusions, our beloved patriarchs surely would’ve sent someone to repair this hovel otherwise.”

Achille’s eyes darkened. “Watch your tone.”

I interrupted before Beau could provoke him further, spreading my arms wide. In disbelief. In frustration. In . . . everything. Pressure built in my throat at this man’s unexpected kindness. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be real. As horrible a picture as Lou painted, a cannibal spider luring us into its web seemed likelier than a priest offering us sanctuary. “You know who we are. You know what we’ve done. You know what will happen if you’re caught sheltering us.”

He studied me for a long moment, expression inscrutable. “Let’s not get caught, then.” With a mighty harrumph, he stomped toward the scullery door. At the threshold, however, he paused, eyeing Beau’s bowl. He seized it in the next second, ignoring Beau’s protests and thrusting it at me. “You’re just kids,” he muttered, not meeting my eyes. When my fingers wrapped around the bowl—my stomach contracting painfully—he let go. Straightened his robes. Rubbed his neck. Nodded to the stew. “Won’t be worth eating cold.”

Then he turned and stormed from the room.

Darkness Mine

Lou

Darkness.

It shrouds everything. It envelops me, constricts me, pressing against my chest, my throat, my tongue until it is me. Trapped within its eye, drowning in its depths, I fold in on myself until I no longer exist at all. I am the darkness. This darkness, mine.

It hurts.

I should not feel pain. I should not feel anything. I am unformed and unmade, a speck in all of Creation. Without shape. Without life or lung or limb to control. I cannot see, cannot breathe, yet the darkness—it blinds. The pressure chokes, smothers, building with each passing second until it rends me apart. But I cannot scream. I cannot think. I can only listen—no, sense—a voice unfurling within the shadows. A beautiful, terrible voice. It snakes around me, through me, and whispers sweetly, promising oblivion. Promising respite.