“Understand this is an honor,” the High Ecclesian says, the pitch of Their voice slinking into a growl. “You are to be a member of the great House of Amadeus. Prove yourself worthy.”
“Yes,” I say with a shaky nod. “Of course. Thank you for this honor, Fair One. Please, just show me what needs to be done. I am but a vessel of the Church.”
The High Ecclesian leans away as if examining me. I feel Their eyes roving, searching for a weakness—and I know better than anyone that there are so terribly many to choose from. I set my jaw. But Icando this. I can heal without the Mysteries, a skill most don’t bother to learn, considering all that can be done with a Saint’s gifted power.
Then the High Ecclesian turns, quick as a shadow, and with a flick of Their armored wrist, the golden gate guarding the LupaNox creaks open. I take a deep breath, desperately trying to prepare myself for what is to come: the Beast of the Sepulchyre, the warrior who has cut down so many of our soldiers, who charges into battle wearing a silver helm fashioned into the open, waiting jaws of a wolf. I have no defenses against a thing of such destruction and ruin.
But I follow the High Ecclesian. I have no other choice.
I slip through the gate into a large room. The only light comes from the wall sconces, creating long shadows that stretch across the space. There are no windows, and the floor is made of hard-packed, well-swept dirt. In the center of the room there is a rough-hewn table, a little taller than my waist.
And upon it lies the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.
Chapter 3
“She has been Blessed to sleep,” the High Ecclesian says, beckoning me closer. “You may examine her safely.”
I nod, setting my basket of yarrow down by the door. My mind churns, spitting out chaotic half-thoughts that do little in the way of helping. Only a bell or so past dawn, and already this day has been far too much. I pull in a deep breath—damp earth, beeswax candles, the metallic tang of blood—and force my legs to carry me to the examination table upon which the Lupa Nox lies.
Her eyes are indeed closed, her ankles and wrists secured by Blessed restraints. She wears a simple, dark gray linen blouse with loose sleeves tucked into slim-legged black trousers. Both have been repaired in multiple places more than once. The symmetrical dark pools of sweat on the blouse tell me she was wearing armor. Her sleeves are rolled to the elbow, exposing intricate tattooing across her skin. There are no obvious puncture wounds in dangerous places, no twisted limbs that speak of bad breaks in the bone.
My throat tightens as I look into the Lupa Nox’s face. Her features are sharp and angular, fawn-colored skin flawlesssave for the congealed blood gathered at her hairline. Likely a head wound, I note. Then I continue my visual exam, running a careful gaze down her neck—no apparent injuries—and the rest of her body. Even beneath the loose linen top, her shoulders speak to her well-known prowess with a blade—broad and powerful, thick with coiled muscle. My eyes skim her collarbones, all deadly, symmetrical angles, and then the flat, elegant expanse of her chest. For some reason, I flush, as if I haven’t examined bodies a thousand times before.
I dare not look up at the High Ecclesian; instead, I duck my chin and force myself to focus. The knight’s bottom lip is split and bleeding. One of her long, slim fingers appears broken, a plain silver band cutting into the swelling flesh. No blood seeps through her trousers, so I decide to have a better look at the Lupa Nox’s head wound first. Hating myself for how much I tremble, I lean over the table, wishing the room were brighter.
Her pitch-dark hair is gathered in a thick braid, the lower portions of her skull shaved down to a stubble. I rest my cane against the table, and then my hands rise from my sides, seemingly of their own accord. I should be thinking about the proper preparations first—gloves to provide a barrier between my skin and her blood—but even unconscious, there is something about the Sepulchyre knight that sends my head spinning. No, probably not the knight—more likely the weight of the High Ecclesian’s ancient, sacred attention.
With a gentle touch, I brush the knight’s black locks away from her forehead, searching for the source of the blood. I steel myself for a gaping wound or a caved-in skull, but what I find is so much worse. A sharp spike of fear burns through my body and I gasp, the sound painfully loud in the quiet chamber.
Beneath the dark sweep of her hair, the Lupa Nox’s ears are slightly elongated, tapering into a distinctive point that could only mean one thing.
I look up, my gaze snapping to the High Ecclesian, who is, of course, already looking at me. “This . . .thisis the Lupa Nox?” I ask, the words as thick in my mouth as honey but without any sweetness.
Their vestment-draped body is preternaturally still. “Yes.”
“B-but she’s...” I begin, remembering to lower my gaze in Their presence. “She’s?—”
“Fatum,” They finish for me, Their tone flat and hard. “Yes. One of the Fallen. The last of them, as it were.”
My head swims. I wish desperately to sit down, even right here on the hard-packed dirt floor. Our Lord destroyed the Fallen so long ago. After they’d thought Him defeated, after they’d nailed Him by His divine wings to a cross in the middle of the lands they Sundered with goetia, still He rose and beat back their tide of wickedness.
“Aren’t . . . I thought all the Fallen Fatum were dead,” I manage, though those are words I evidently should’ve kept inside my head, for the High Ecclesian shoots halfway across the room. Their armored fingers curl into a fist, the gold-washed plate armor glimmering in the candlelight. For a long moment, my body reacts as though I’m facing down a Hexen in the desolation of the Sundered Lands, not standing before the mouthpiece of my Lord. Fear spikes through me, and all I want is to limp away as fast as I can, back to the sunlight.
“For many anni, We thought as much Ourselves,” They say, the tilt of Their head predatory, frightening. “We thought only the righteous Fatum of the High Ecclesia remained.”
My desire to run intensifies, and I grip the edge of the table with one hand, as if to keep myself in place. They are so much more enlightened than me—exalted to the Most High by our God. Of course such divinity is fearsome to a small, immeasurably flawed and mortal thing like me.
“Our people cannot know. Though We yearn to be frank about the dangers of this world with Our flock, such knowledge would only cause panic,” the High Ecclesian hisses, coming around the table to stand over me, Their body pitched forward like a stone tower. “And that, too, is why you have been chosen for this divine task, child. You will join an Apostle House soon. There are terrible things, foundling, that those who sit at His table must bear. This is one of them. Wear this mantle with grace and obedience. Or face the consequences.”
And then, without another word, the High Ecclesian sweeps out of the room, leaving the Mysterium-charged gate slightly ajar. I stand there alone, save for the Lupa Nox, my hands trembling so badly that I lean my hip against the table and shove them into the deep pockets of my apron.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The High Ecclesian’s underlying meaning is not particularly subtle. Brides without the power of the Mysteries simply do not marry into Apostle Houses. I am an anomaly, an exception, barely permitted by the powers that be. The Twelve revoking their approval of my and Renault’s wedding is a looming concern, and if that happened with the High Ecclesia’s influence...then...then I would be . . .
I pull my hands from my pockets and rub my temples, trying to take deep breaths, but my vision goes dark and blurry anyway. Panic climbs up my throat, filling my chest with stones, stopping my lungs from inflating. I sway, reaching forward with one hand to grab my cane. With a deep breath, I set my jaw.No. I can’t let myself spiral at the mere thought of possibilities. Instead, I force my eyes open and reorient myself to the task at hand.
At that exact moment, two members of the Holy Guard come through the gate, acknowledging me tersely, giving the table where the Lupa Nox lies a wide berth. I appreciate the distraction more than they’ll ever know.
“I need gloves, fresh water, bandages, and a healer’s kit, please,” I say, straightening as I address the soldiers, trying not to think about how Sergio can so easily watch my every move through the eyes of the Holy Guard. “Magdalena at the infirmary will get you what you need.”
