The sudden concern—God. It’d make me laugh if I weren’t already almost hysterical.
“I mean I’m going to myroom, Kingston.”
I don’t wait for him to follow as I leave.
TWELVE
KINGSTON
The host tasteslike chalk in my mouth.
I swallow anyway.
“Corpus Christi,” intones the warm voice of Father Denis. “The body of Christ.”
The words ring through the emptiness of the chapel, swirling through the incense and weak morning sunlight. No one comes to 7:30 Communion—barely anyone, that is: sometimes a few students after an all-nighter and before an exam, looking for one last blessing, but that’s about it.
It is no surprise that I’m alone.
“Amen.” I cross myself and rise.
Except that I’m not. Because as I turn, I nearly walk into someone.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “Pardon m?—”
I stop myself. A single tawny eye fixes on me, its twin hidden behind black silk.
Father?
Luther Pendragon smiles, nods to acknowledge me, and all I can do is step to the side as he kneels for the sacrament.
It isn’t so early—nearly eight a.m. now—but I’ve been awake for hours, and now, seeing my father, my thoughts want to reel.
Not an option. Instead, I retake my pew and close my eyes, attempting to refocus my mind to prayer.
“Sanguis Christi.”
“Amen.”
“Corpus Christi.”
“Amen.”
I open my eyes. Nothing prayed.
As though I forgot how.
I speak rotely through the final blessing and dismissal, watching my father from across the aisle.
“Gloria Dei,” he murmurs, crossing himself. As Father Denis nods and gathers the chalice and ciborium, my own father turns to me.
“Kingston,” he says. “I thought I might find you here.”
Ironic, I think. I’ve barely been to church outside of Sundays.
But things have changed.
Desperately.
