“Business has been slow,” he said quietly, stabilizing himself on the edge of a wooden shelf lined with jars of stale candy.
McKinney beckoned him to follow after a furtive glance down the darkening street. The mercantile was McKinney’s specialty—prying into a pocket of space and anchored somewhere tangible, he could tuck away anything he wanted like a damn packrat. Decker supposed they called him by a different name back in his country, but like almost everyone here, old lives weren’t much spoken about.
Decker trailed him through the ever-changing alleys in the shop that seemed to stretch for miles until the mundane became the arcane. Bars of gold replaced sewing notions and bags of flour turned to bulbous sacks tumbling off the shelf and reaching for his legs. The mercantile was nearly as old as Ender’s Ridge—about seventy now—and it showed in cracked ceilings that groaned above them and dusted fine maroon powder into their hair.
Never asked him where he anchored this damn thing. Maybe in the old mines at Amaretto.
He preferred to imagine it was amorite dust instead of something worse. With the things McKinney squirreled away into his pocket between the worlds, Decker just never knew.
“I have this.” They both winced at the blackened ooze leaking from under the canteen cap. “Not perfect, but it might do you,” McKinney said hesitantly.
Decker wasn’t sure if he was quite that desperate, so he searched through the shelves once more, tilting jars to catch a glimpse of what treasures they contained, and swirling one until an eyeball squinted back at him.
The bell rang distantly from the front of the shop.
McKinney started and shot a glance at Decker, pushing the canteen at him. Old blood streaked across Decker’s shirt from the cap and he frowned, trying to scrub it away with his gloves as he followed McKinney to the front.
“We’re closed,” the shopkeeper called out.
The answering voice rang out from under black garments. “The lights are on.” Stern, dark eyes peered out from under a nun’s habit. She swept an elegant brown hand over the black garb, knocking flies away from her.
McKinney stumbled over his words, smoothing his wrinkled apron. “I was helping a neighbor find one last thing, Sister—”
“Sister Inez Castillo.” Her eyes narrowed at Decker, as if remembering the last time she’d seen him in Silver Creek. It’d only been in passing, but Decker still recalled the scent of dried blood and antiseptic on her companion.
He smiled too pleasantly and slipped the canteen strap on his shoulder.
“What can we help you with, Sister?” McKinney asked.
Her gaze finally flicked down to the shopkeeper. The nun was only two heads taller, just reaching Decker’s chest, but he got the distinct impression of a six-foot mindset in a much smaller body.
“I answered the ad,” she said in the same rounded accent that matched the cadence of her name. She handed McKinney a newspaper clipping from theStarand Decker read it over his shoulder.
Help Wanted: individual with strength in faith and body to assist in the christening and repair of the Chapel at Ender’s Ridge. Pay monthly. God bless.
“Searched the east side of town after I got off the train. No church,” she said, as if it were their fault.
“There hasn’t been a church in a long time, except for the one down the road,” Mr. McKinney said.
Sister Inez folded her hands in front of her. “Then I suppose that’s the one.”
Laurie, what use do you have for a nun?
Decker pulled the bandana over his face to avoid the last bit of sun. “I’ll take you. Thanks for the help, McKinney,” he said over his shoulder, the jingling of gold bells drowning out the shopkeeper’s goodbye.
Sister Inez prowled next to him, footsteps muffled by the folds of her habit snapping behind her like wings. “I saw you in SilverCreek, Mr—”
“Decker Belmont,” he said. “The damn preacher tricked me into helping him with his ad. Can’t imagine what notion Mr. Lane had in his head.”
“Not Father Lane?”
Almost answering that Laurie once was, he caught himself. Laurie’s past—the little of it he knew—was not his to tell. “Just Mr. Lane.” A fly wriggled between his coat and his leather gloves, the bite searing into his wrist. He hissed at the squish of the fat body onto his skin and brushed away another three.
The chapel rose in front of them and blocked out the last rays of sun, and Decker slipped his bandana down to swat at another fly caught in the patterned red fabric.
Sister Inez watched him with her hands clasped in front of her, gaze scraping along his gloves and the maroon stain on his shirt. Studying, seeming to weigh her words before she spoke. “My sister is like you. She can’t be in the sun for long.”
The smell of the old blood at Decker’s hip suddenly made his stomach clench. “That so?”
