“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.

Surrender, it croons, and forget. Feel no pain.