He wrenched his eyes from the medallion to find Maeve staring at him. Dark brows furrowed over darker eyes. Her mouth, so close to his.
‘What is it?’ he breathed. Had they been speaking?
‘You were in some sort of daze.’ She searched his face, brows furrowing. ‘What were you staring at?’
He squeezed the bridge of his nose. The headache was back with a vengeance. ‘The medallion Mr Peters is wearing. It looks familiar.’
Maeve rotated until her back was against his chest, an awkward shift in the small space. She rose on her toes and tried to peer out the window. The motion jostled her against the front of hisbody. Too quickly, Jude remembered his earlier distraction. Warmth rekindled faster than he thought possible.
‘Maeve—’ he warned. He stilled her with both hands on her hips.
She pressed tighter. ‘Sorry.’
‘I’m quite sure you’re not,’ he managed. He tightened his grip on her hips. Her answering inhale made him kick back his head against the wall behind him, closing his eyes. ‘Stop it,’ he whispered, almost pleading. Her head fell back against his shoulder for a brief heartbeat before she straightened. ‘Maeve—’ Jude rasped. To say what, he didn’t know.
Suddenly, she stilled. ‘Is Mr Peters wearing a relic?’
Relic.
The word leapt into existence.
He hadn’t thought about relics in a very, very long time, but he’d used to think of them more often, hadn’t he? Try as he might, his memory came up empty. A void of carefully placed darkness, fitting itself into a space he’d very much like to see clearly.
‘Remind me what a relic is, again?’ he asked.
‘They’re a mark of devotion. Elders wear them as a sign of commitment to the Abbey.’
Deep in his stomach, something sharp and urgent dug in teeth. ‘Is there a purpose? Do they do anything?’
She was quiet for a long moment. ‘I’ve heard rumours that they help the elders connect to saints individually. A direct tie to whatever saint the relic represents. I’ve always thought that it was more… metaphorical. A sign of devotion. An outward request for a saint’s blessing and protection, but maybe—’ her throat clicked. ‘Maybe it’s more.’
Jude wasn’t sure whether his memory of relics had been forgotten, in the way humans naturally filed away information they deemed unimportant, or whether the Abbey had taken it from him. But he couldn’t dismiss the feeling there was something to be explored.
He glanced back down at the congregants.
Wait.His heart slammed into his throat. If Mr Peters was wearing a relic—
‘Fuck, Maeve. We need to leave.Now.’
‘Now? Why?’ she asked, bobbing on her toes to scan the crowd below. She gasped, spinning to face him. ‘Wait. The relic… I wasn’t sure before, but thisisan Abbey church, isn’t it?’ She reached around him and rattled the doorknob. It held fast. ‘Did Mr Peters lock it after it shut?’
Jude slammed his shoulder into the door as hard as he could.
It groaned, but didn’t budge. He tried again. Sweat beaded at his temples. Maeve jammed the toe of her boot against the hinges. Finally, the door gave with a shattering crack, spilling them both out into the narrow landing. Maeve reached up, steering him by the shoulders towards the stairs. Black crawled in his peripherals. He forced himself to keep moving
Behind him, she whimpered. ‘I can’t see… Jude. My eyes. I can’tsee—’
He spun, putting her in front of him, and guided them both down the stairs as quickly as he could. Wrongness permeated his body. The undeniable ache of violation sent pain throttling across his jaw, the back of his skull. They hadn’t just been locked in the organ stall; the Abbey was here, in their minds, eating away at their memories, their sanity.
They careened down the remaining few steps. Beside them, the formerly colourful stained glass was nothing more than an indistinct wash of grey, disappearing entirely when he turned his head to look.
The sound of voices trickled past the pounding in his ears.
Shouting.
‘Hurry,’ Jude urged, looping his arm around Maeve’s waist to move her along. She sagged against him, head lolling on his shoulder as they moved across the narthex. The doors were in sight.
‘Stop!’ a voice called.
