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Bara’s slow, impressed grin was pure evil. Bara knocked the priest out as Dinah opened the hatch. “Get in,” she said, and Candace, Beth, Jo and Naomi jumped down. Uriel, Raphael and Sela followed.
Noa shook her head when it came to her turn. “The children,” she whispered. Noa saw the pain flash across Dinah’s face, the thought of leaving the children behind crippling her soul. But then—
“They’re down here!” Candace shouted. Noa frowned in confusion, but Candace added, “The children. They’re hurt and unconscious, but they’re alive.” Noa couldn’t believe Candace’s words. How were the children there? How had they been rescued from the Brethren? It didn’t make sense—
Then Dinah met Noa’s eyes, and they shared a knowing look. Of course they knew who had helped them. Noa knew down deep in her soul who had caused that explosion.
Priscilla.
Noa glanced behind her at the empty hallway, searching for her older sister.
“If she wants us to see her, she’ll come to us,” Dinah said, and Noa knew that was true.
“Let’s go,” Diel said, pulling Noa’s attention. She studied his face. He had been cut and wounded, tasered, but he was holding strong. He had always held strong. Diel wrapped his hand around Noa’s and lowered her down the hatch. Gabriel came next, then Diel jumped down, sealing the hatch shut behind him.
Then they ran. They ran and ran, with the children secured in Raphael’s and Uriel’s arms. They finally reached the spring and raced back to the van. Bara had the unconscious priest over his shoulder, his blood soiling Bara’s leathers. Noa and Diel looked back in the direction of the meeting place, and through the trees they could see the barn now ablaze in the distance.
It has to be her. Noa’s gut clenched and her heart squeezed in gratitude.
Gabriel rapped his fist on the partition of the van, and they took off back to the manor under the cover of darkness. Candace and Jo kept vigil out of the rear tinted windows, checking they weren’t being followed.
Noa sank into Diel’s side, and she held his hand. But her eyes drifted to the little boy in Raphael’s arms. The one still wearing the collar. She heard a hitched breath, and when she looked up, Diel was staring at him too. Pain was clear on his handsome face. And in the heavy silence, Diel held her hand even tighter, so tightly her bones ached.
“We didn’t get any of their books,” Gabriel said dejectedly, the first to say anything after the clusterfuck that was the attack. Noa immediately felt overcome with guilt. She had broken their only rule when it came to fighting. All because of her past. She inhaled Diel’s comforting scent. All because of the man who had captured her heart. Gabriel looked at Dinah. “The explosions? The open door? The slain priests in the hallway?”
Dinah smiled. “Guessing that was our sister, Priscilla. It feels like something she would do.”
“The killer witch?” Bara said casually, running a knife over the cheeks of the unconscious priest, like it was taking all his willpower not to sink the blade into his flesh. Bara didn’t break the skin, but judging by the fire in his eyes, he was imagining it.
“Killer witch,” Noa said, echoing Bara’s titles for her and her sisters. Exhaustion was dragging her down. But she kept her eyes open as they took the boys to the temporary home, and to Katie, who cared for them. Gabriel stayed with them, wanting to make sure they were okay, to offer them comfort when they awoke in a strange new place.
Then the van took off for the manor, where she knew she had some explaining to do to Diel. She would have to speak of that day, the biggest shame of her life.
Just thinking of that night, her damned soul ached.
Chapter 21
Fire singed the ends of Father Auguste’s hair; the thick smoke surged down his throat and into his nostrils. But he stood firm. His fists were clenched at his sides as he stood among the pile of fallen priests. He scanned over their bodies, his eyes streaming from the acrid fumes that rose from the charred pews and paintings of Brethren warriors of old, from the crumbling barn walls. But even with his vision encumbered, he could see that not all of them had been killed in the explosions. Some had knife wounds. Some had slit throats and sliced-open stomachs.
Auguste shook with rage, but he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. He would not succumb to rage. He would not give himself over to wrath—he wouldn’t sin.
He opened his eyes and walked over the bodies littering the floor. Some groaned and rolled, only half dead, their souls still gripping on to the hope that they would be saved. But it wouldn’t be by Auguste. These men had failed him. They had failed the Brethren by being weak.
