More tears streamed down my face, and I threw my arms around his neck, sobbing with uncontrolled relief.

He held me at bay, searching my eyes. “Where is everyone else?”

I shook my head. “I don’t…I don’t know,” I choked out.

“The book?”

I held up the duffel bag.

“Okay,” he said, hugging me to him. “Okay, let’s get you out of here.”

He led me to his Ducati that was parked around the corner, and we sped off, fishtailing down the street. As Bex took roads that would lead us to Woonsocket, I fantasized that Jared, Claire, and Ryan would be at St. Anne’s waiting for us.

I replayed what happened over in mind, wondering if I could have done something different, or if I should have tried to help Ryan. Risking his life—and ultimately Claire’s life— to steal a book that would save me was the epitome of selfishness…until I remembered that it would spare Jared as well. Even knowing that, I wasn’t sure I’d made the right choice. Even if I was part of some kind of prophecy, our lives weren’t anymore valuable than Ryan’s or Claire’s.

Father Francis held open the door, waving for us to come inside.

“Are they here?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

The priest closed the door, and then shook his head, sad. “Not yet. You have it?”

“I do. It’s here,” I said, opening the duffel bag. I handed the leather-bound book to Father Francis, and he held it gingerly, as if he were holding a bomb.

He retreated to the front of the cathedral, sitting on the first pew. “The Naissance de Demoniac of Shax the Duke,” he whispered. He completed the sign of the cross, and then prayed over the book.

Bex closed his eyes, and then smiled. “They didn’t like that.”

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

The Mistake

It was my turn to pace.

Father Francis and Bex poured over the pages, searching for something to present to Jared upon his arrival. But it had been almost an hour, and we were still the only ones that had made it to the church.

Every parishioner that entered the large, wooden door was politely turned away by Father Francis. It was harder for me to be polite, because each time the door opened, my heart stopped.

After my hopes had been dashed for the sixth time, anger took over. An older woman pushed her way through the door, only to be startled by the sight of me charging down the aisle. “Can't you see the sign? The church is closed!”

The woman scrambled to reach the door handle to escape.

“We need a bigger sign,” I said, crossing my arms.

“Patience, child,” Father Francis said, approaching me with a look of understanding. “He will come.”

“When?” I said emphatically. “He should be here by now. I feel like I'm going crazy.”