There were no saints.No altar.No collar.
“Help me,” she whispered.
Her voice broke on the words.
I moved toward her, but possibly I moved too quickly, because she flinched.
I stopped immediately and lifted my hands where she could see them.
“I won’t hurt you.”
She swallowed, swaying on her feet.Rainwater and blood dripped from her chin onto the stone.
“They’re coming,” she breathed.
The words slid under my skin and found something old sleeping there.Something that opened its eyes.
I listened.Beyond the rain, faint but growing, came the sound of an engine.
It travelled too fast and too recklessly on the gravelly road outside the church.
The woman heard it too.Her face crumpled.
“Please.”
I crossed the distance between just us as her knees gave out.
She collapsed into my arms.
She was lighter than I expected.Burning with fever and shock.Her fingers caught in the front of my cassock, clutching the black fabric as though it were the only solid thing she had to hold onto.
I looked down at her face.At the blood on her face and the bruises on her skin.A life hunted to my altar.
The engine grew louder.Headlights swept across the stained-glass windows, cutting the saints into pieces of colour and shadow.
My hand tightened around the woman’s waist.
For one breath, I tried to think like Father Demitri Marco.
Call the police.
Ring the convent.
Hide her and pray.
Then the car stopped outside.
Doors slammed.
Men’s voices cut through the rain.
My gaze lifted to the entrance.
Peace was a fragile thing.
Mine shattered without a sound.
I gathered the woman against my chest and carried her into the dark.
