She raised her hand, fitting her fingers into the shape of the marks.
Human.
Fear sank its teeth in. The scratches continued up the edge in deep, painful gouges, like whoever had made them was willing to sacrifice life and limb if the door would justopen. Candlelight caught an iridescent gleam. The wood around the upper left corner was chipped, the point missing. Embedded between the grain was a ragged half-moon, transparent and delicate, the edge dark with crusted red.
Maeve covered her mouth.
A fingernail.
She needed to get out.
Rising to her feet, Maeve turned back to the blackened expanse of the room. The cavernous space was an unknown, but it was better than the door.Anythingwas better than the door. She rushed forward, cupping one hand over the candle. Heat singed her palm. Her footsteps echoed through the expansive space like a heartbeat.
Something skidded to her left.
She stopped.
Her lungs burned. ‘Jude?’ she called, voice thready and weak.
The silence pulsed in reply. She raised her candle to shine towards where she’d heard the noise, half-convinced her terrified brain had imagined it. But,no—
There it was again. A light scraping, like fabric against stone.
Maeve edged forward. Inky blackness parted around her. Through the shadow, she made out the shape of something crumpled. Candlelight caught on a pale curve.
An arm. She was looking at anarm.
‘Oh—’ she gasped.
With a groan, the mass rolled over.
At first, all she could make out was the livid red of fresh blood streaming from his nose to coat the lower half of his face. Dark hair and angular features, distorted in pain. His eyes, staring blankly towards her, not a hint of recognition on his face.
The picture completed with a series of sickening snaps deep in Maeve’s skull.
Jude.
47
Jude
Hands held down his heart to stifle its frantic beating. Pressed down on the peak of his nose and the backs of his eyelids. Against his lips and under his tongue. He tasted salt and iron andher.
His eyes were open, though whiteness surrounded him like an eiderdown. It was almost comforting, he thought. But it wouldn’t remain that way. Nothing smothering ever did.
For half a tremulous breath, he thought Ezra was back to finish him.
And then he heard her voice.
‘Jude—’ Her voice was muffled and damp, her touch frantic, the press of her body unyielding.
He tried to move his lips, to answer her, reassure her that he wasfine. He was always fine. How often had he looked in a mirror and told himself those very words? How many faces had he seen staring back? He remembered seeing a child once. Unburdened by the weight of expectation. Then, an acolyte. A young man with shoulders weighed down too heavily for his young body to carry. If Jude were to face a mirror now, who would be there to greet him?
A saint, an exile, a martyr – an unholy triptych armed to fight a holy war.
His fingers twitched. Searching. Her cold hand met his.
Why are you cold? You shouldn’t be cold. I gave you my scarf.
