Saint, Sorrow, Sinner (The Gideon Testaments Book 3), page 13
Colin approached next, holding a small vial in one hand and the box in the other. “I’d like to anoint you in Holy Water before we start.” When she lifted one finger away from the rabbit and pointed at the box, he continued. “Forged from the tool that decapitated Paul the Apostle.”
Laughter rumbled in Lincoln’s chest. “That’s the box you thought could—”
Tehlor swatted him before he could finish. “Leave it.”
Juniper stepped forward, sighing through her nose. “Once we’ve established the connection between you and Tehlor, you’ll make your sacrifice, and the ritual will start. You’ll enter the afterlife, suspending the Breath of Judas in your empty vessel, which will give me an opportunity to extract it. Then I’ll guide you back. Bishop will assist. Colin will keep the room warded while you’re in limbo. Lincoln will siphon energy to Tehlor, keeping you both anchored. Do you understand?”
Sophia nodded. Such simple instructions. Such an impossible task.
I am going to die tonight.
“I’ll bring you back, Sophia,” Juniper whispered. She met Sophia’s wide, unblinking eyes, and squeezed her elbow. “Do you trust me?”
Again, Sophia nodded. The truth, harsher, far more complicated, sat close to bone. I covet you.
The psychic inclined her head. “Good. Let’s begin.”
The ritual started the way all terrible things were meant to start. With the death of innocence.
Sophia held Hazel like a lifeline before reluctantly handing him to Tehlor. Her consciousness, cluttered and fearful, still clamored for the stability slowly slipping out from under her. Tehlor handed her a long, hollow blade, shaped like a needle—horror movie shit, the kind people plunged into eye sockets or pushed between ribs—and gestured to the soft indent on the rabbit’s chest. I can’t, she thought, again and again, like a metronome ticking. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
But as she lowered herself into the tub, water soaked through her clothes, and she watched the witch kneel beside the freestanding bath, saw how carefully she held Hazel in place. Her pale hands, gentle and sure, lifted him up, and one long, knobby finger stretched toward the middle of his upper half, tapping rusty fur. Her glacial eyes stayed pinned to Sophia.
Mayhem thickened the air. The cloistered magic, humming between each wall, radiated outward from the individual practitioners, churning into an unrecognizable presence. On the other side of the tub, Lincoln removed his labradorite necklace and shook out his wolfish head. Bishop, golden-eyed, mouth shaping an incantation, paced in front of the doorway. Colin trickled Holy Water onto Sophia’s forehead and said a quick blessing. Her hand trembled, pinching the silver weapon. She exhaled a quaking breath and urged her wrist to move. Nothing. Water sloshed around her shoulders.
Tehlor adjusted the rabbit. “It’s okay,” she assured, nodding. “It’ll be quick.”
I’m sorry, Sophia thought, screaming a silent apology to nowhere, to no one. The spirit world echoed her, hollering the same sentiment. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—
Before she realized what she’d done, Hazel seized and twitched, flopping uselessly in Tehlor’s grip. Blood dripped into the water, twisting like distilled smoke. Sophia hardly glimpsed the rabbit’s limp corpse before two hands latched around her shoulders—Lincoln—and another landed on her sternum—Juniper—and she was submerged.
Beyond the water, Sophia saw Tehlor streak the rabbit’s blood down her face.
At the same time, Colin struck his palms together. A heavenly, powerful gong cracked through the room.
Sophia opened her mouth to scream, but she gasped instead. Water, so much, too much, filled her tired lungs. Death arrived, déjà vu, and peeled Sophia De’voreaux from flesh and bone, de-armoring the soul from the body. She slipped free, glassy and incorporeal. The silence she’d once longed for surfaced in an instant. Postmortem rung, almost, like tinnitus.
But it didn’t take long for the quiet to shift, making room for distant drums. No, not drums. Hooves smacking hard ground, growing closer.
The comfortable darkness gave way.
Oh, king of sorrow. Lilith’s breath tasted like dried apple, fresh fig, old blood. This child is mine.
Chapter eleven
The first time Sophia died, she felt nothing. It was water, struggle, thrash, no and please, breathe, mercy, stop followed by unbothered darkness and a weightlessness she could not replicate. There was a surety to it that left her feeling unsatisfied. One moment, she’d stared into vast pitch, unable to decipher herself from wherever she’d gone, and the next, her lungs had rioted, and she’d returned. Unmaking murder had been an act of violence. Bringing her back from the brink, deciding against death, was a violation.
This time, Sophia wasn’t met with serenity. The otherworldliness split, unfurling around her like a cobra lily, and she stood on a black surface, staring across the night sky, searching for something familiar.
Where am I?
Water dripped from her soaked trousers and her shirt clung uncomfortably. No water puddled beneath her feet, though. In the distance, beyond glittering comet-trails, she noticed light—firelight—wading across the blackness toward her.
After is an odd place, she thought.
Unlike the séance, when she’d sank inside herself, death was a place outside her body. Wherever she stood, it was apart from the attic, away from the Belle House, somewhere mortality couldn’t reach.
The flame grew closer. Sophia bundled her wet sleeves in her palm and squeezed, focusing on the flickering orange and glinting gold, how cinders glowed atop slender shoulders and singed the end of dark, cropped hair. Sophia’s rosary was still fastened around her wrist. The medallion warmed her palm, but she couldn’t recall where she’d found it. It was a gift, wasn’t it? Slowly, the figure became human-shaped and decipherable.
Sophia didn’t say their name, but she knew, somehow. Jehanne d’Arc. Joan of Arc. The androgynous saint’s eyes shone like polished stone, stark against their milky skin. Flame chewed on them, but they didn’t burn, and when they came to stand before Sophia, she expected heat to radiate from their half-melted armor. None did.
Darkness rippled and bent, making room for another meteorite to beam beneath Sophia’s feet.
“Courage.” Jehanne spoke without opening their mouth. Their voice manifested from above, falling like a cup over a spider.
Something vaguely familiar gnawed on Sophia. The urge to be somewhere different with someone else.
Jehanne stepped forward, turning to meet Sophia’s gaze, and walked past her. Sophia followed, swiveling on her heels.
The dark expanse widened infinitely in every direction. Galaxies turned, planets spun, star nurseries gave birth to recycled matter, and Sophia wondered who she might be looking for. What life she could’ve possibly left.
Death rinsed her, wrung her out, made her new.
Sophia! The call echoed, muffled and grainy. When Sophia glanced backward, darkness tunneled inward, vacuuming out the nebulous.
Hooves, again. Closer. She remembered hearing them before, somewhere. Remembered the tail end of another life.
Sophia, where are you? Take my hand! Take my—
“Courage,” Jehanne repeated. Their voice coasted Sophia’s ear.
The ground shook. Before her, like a titan, a deity stood on equine feet. Her body presented itself under the guise of familiarity, as if God had opened a deer and spilled its skeleton, arranging beast and human bones interchangeably. Knees bent outward and hip bones concaved, jutting where curves should’ve smoothed spotted flesh. Above her misshapen ribcage, too narrow, too long, dark nipples flecked her small chest, and higher, slender throat met harsh jaw.
Sophia almost fell. Almost sent a scream barreling through the air.
But Lilith leaned over her, beautiful and monstrous, and wrapped her hand around Sophia’s neck, forcing her attention.
“The dead can’t be kept,” Lilith said. She spoke in a language Sophia didn’t know. Arabic, maybe. Or Aramaic. But she understood, nonetheless. “First daughter, first son, first of many. Do you recognize me, girl?”
Sophia stared, awestruck. Thick, curled horns sprouted from Lilith’s temples and her slender eyes reflected like black glass.
Sophia!
Lilith leaned closer. Sweet breath warmed Sophia’s face. “I have sired saints, I have whispered to warriors, I have stitched ambition into resilient women, and carved impunity out of forgettable men.” Her palm dwarfed Sophia’s face. When she tilted her head and smiled, Sophia prepared to be swallowed. But Lilith said, “Eden named me forsaken. You will call me mother.”
Before Sophia could scream, or weep, or say yes, mother, something, someone reached through the blackness and grasped her wrist, yanking her backward.
Lilith’s laughter echoed, growing louder, stronger. Enchantress. The goddess hummed appreciatively. Her voice faded. Fenrir is lucky to have you.
The darkness ruptured. Something strong and bright caught Sophia’s hand.
Tehlor. Witch. Magic.
Life—Sophia De’voreaux’s life—surged through her, filling all the peaceful, empty places death had hollowed out. The afterlife bent and split. Ghosts drove through the silence; purgatory punctured the deadscape. Sophia came back to Haven, to survival, to fear, to Judas Iscariot and the rot spreading through her abandoned body, to Colin’s compassion and Bishop’s honesty, to Lincoln’s power and Tehlor’s friendship, to fate, to an unforgiving world, to a gorgeous psychic named Juniper Castle, to everything.
I will not give up.
She inhaled a ragged breath and opened her mouth.
The spectral noise stopped in the center of her throat.
Amy De’voreaux appeared the same way sunlight passed through cloud cover. You’re different, Sophia thought. Her long hair, wild and wavy, hung around her face, and her soft, beige cheeks, bronzed by summer, dimpled for a soft smile. Younger. Gentler. Untouched by Haven, and Rose, and Daniel. She thumbed their father’s crucifix strung around Sophia’s neck and clucked her tongue.
“Take heart,” Amy said. Jehanne’s voice thundered around her sister’s, strengthening each word.
“I miss you,” Sophia choked out. “God, I miss you.”
Sophia! Juniper called, reached.
Amy took her hand. Somewhere nearby, hooves clopped the starless ground.
All the world will be your enemy.
Sophia inhaled, loosened her jaw, and screamed. The sound started low in her belly and shot through her, rattling the blackness. Amy’s unmaking happened slowly. Her ghost chipped away. Bits of her lifted and spun, then all at once, her body flurried apart. The spirits stampeding through Sophia’s corpse howled and screeched, but she was outside their hold, disengaged from their damage, and for the first time, she could use the little power she’d found without tasting blood. She sent righteousness into that scream. Deliverance, and vengeance, and apologies. She stitched everything Haven had done to her, everything Haven had stolen from her into the last push, buckling over like a madwoman, like a banshee.
A huge clawed hand rested on her back. Fingers—three bones too many—curled intimately around her shoulders and waist, and heat glowed hot in her chest. Fire licked the rippling dark. Sabatons bathed in flame stepped into view. Jehanne tucked their bent knuckle beneath Sophia’s chin and lifted her face.
“Do not be afraid,” they said. Their voice was many-limbed, heavy with virtue and confidence. “You were born to do this.”
Sophia’s scream diminished. Its echo rang and rang.
Blessed daughter, Lilith cooed. She nudged Sophia forward. One hooked claw found her wrist. Carefully, the goddess plucked a taut golden thread. Burn brightly.
“Blessed mother—” Sophia yelped. The place where she stood crumbled, and she careened through the pitch.
No, Sophia thought. She swatted at the air. Flailed and twirled. Send me back, I want to live, I need to—
The isolated noise from the Belle House increased—ghostly chatter, booming incantations, roaring wind—and Sophia stretched her arm toward it, spread her fingers, reached for that thin, phantom thread until the pitch finally evaporated, and time slowed to a crawl. Once again, Sophia found herself outside reality, so close she could almost touch it. She hovered above everyone, watching smoke reach upward from extinguished wicks. There you are. Juniper stood in the center of the room with her arm outstretched, palm open, teeth gritted. In front of her, Colin struggled to close the lid on Paul the Apostle’s wooden box—the prison meant for the Breath of Judas—and on the floor, holding Sophia’s waterlogged face, Tehlor sent breath past blue lips.
Sophia glimpsed what they couldn’t, though.
Colin was wrapped in unyielding light. Hand-shaped auras reached around him—six, seven, ten of them—all corralling a batch of thick, oily smoke into the holy box. Lincoln, sprawled on the ground, post-collapse. He held Tehlor’s ankle with one hand and cradled Gunnhild against his chest with the other. Bishop guided a small batch of humming light toward Sophia’s limp form. Everyone seeped, hardly moving. Sophia reached, and reached, and reached. Her fingertip met the piece of her soul Bishop had tethered to Tehlor, the part of her waiting to reconnect, and she proceeded to fall.
Burn brightly.
Rich, heady, hurtful life poured into her limp body. She fit herself into every unoccupied place, into every vein and ligament and organ and bone, thoughtlessly rushing through the entirety of what she’d left behind. Time stabilized. Pain bloomed. Sound heightened, sudden and overwhelming.
“Close it, Colin,” Juniper shouted. “Do it! Now!”
Colin prayed. “Gabriel, keeper of power, ascendent to God on high, I beg of thee, allow the Heavenly Court to extend its might—”
Water spurted over Sophia’s lips. A gasp tore through her, chafing her raw throat. Tehlor skittered backward.
Sophia’s first inclination after inhale, oxygen, alive, yes was to gather a great breath and scream. Power shredded her lungs. The pitchy, whistling sound of a banshee’s call—depart, depart—sliced the air. All at once, the windows busted, spraying glass across the wet floor. The Belle House shook with the force of it. Juniper covered her ears, Lincoln curled inward, shielding his head, and Colin fell to his knees. Sophia heard the box clap shut.
The scream ended. Silence reigned.
“Sophia!” Tehlor jolted forward. She grasped Sophia’s face with both hands, shaking her. The moment Sophia’s brow cinched, recognition sliding into place, Tehlor let out a joyous, relieved cry, and hauled her closer. “I thought you were gone! I couldn’t find you; I couldn’t feel you—I was fuckin’ terrified. Are you okay? You’re okay, right?”
“I’m back,” Sophia mumbled. Words tasted chalky, unwanted.
“Yeah, you’re back. You’re fine,” she said, patting Sophia’s damp cheek. “Look, see.” She gestured to the attic and whipped around to stare at Colin. “Did we get it? Is it”—she lifted one hand away from Sophia and wiggled her fingers—“sealed or whatever?”
Colin plopped on his rear. His face was beet-red and sweat-slicked. He panted, nodding dramatically, and lifted the locked box. “It’s contained.”
“Where’s Hazel?” Sophia stared blearily at the ceiling.
Tehlor heaved a sigh. “What? Oh, Jesus, the rabbit. Yeah, he’s . . . Bishop, where’s the bunny?”
Bishop tiptoed over broken glass. They kicked Lincoln’s thigh. “Get up,” they scolded, earning a gruff grunt from the wolf-man. They waited for Sophia to sit cross-legged and then offered her Hazel, who happened to be very alive. “He’s got a strong heart,” they said. “I hope whoever listened appreciated the sentiment.”
Sophia rested her cheek atop Hazel’s furry head. She slid her gaze sideways. Next to the toppled-over tub, Juniper sat with Colin, catching her breath. The Santa Muerte charm rested between her clavicles and curls ribboned her face. She looked back at Sophia and gave a soft, bewildered laugh.
“Sorry about your windows,” Sophia croaked.
At that, Lincoln rolled onto his back, set the rat on his sternum, and laughed too. It was barkish and bold. Hearing him like that—alive, relieved, exhausted—made Sophia’s chest squeeze.
Juniper blew out a breath, flapping her pretty, plum-painted lips. “Easy fix, sweetheart.”
Chapter twelve
Sophia stared at her distorted reflection in the steamy bathroom mirror, listening to Juniper’s Tycho playlist over the splatter of water against tile.
Colin was right. Tomorrow had arrived on the cusp of a ripe, pink dawn and the Breath of Judas was no longer sporing inside her. Purgatory remained intact and separate from the corporeal plane. The dead quieted, finally, and her body softened against the breakage left behind. It’d been only a day—less, maybe—but she hadn’t tasted iron since before the ritual and she’d been nosebleed-free since visiting the botánica. Returning felt like the frayed edge of an unfinished tapestry, like rubbing a blunt corner between her fingers and watching the fabric split. She was wobbly and fragile, but she was alive.
Every so often she caught a whiff of smoke, though. Heard Joan of Arc’s voice in birdsong through the window. Courage.Saw a shadow cross the floor, crowned with coiled horns, and thought mother.
The faucet squeaked and the showerhead stopped spraying. Juniper stepped around the glass door and toweled off. She reached past Sophia and wiped the mirror with her palm. “Feel better?”
“Different,” Sophia said.
Juniper rested her chin on Sophia’s shoulder and met her gaze in the reflection. “That’s fair. No one comes back exactly the same.”
“I don’t think many people come back at all.”
“True.”
“How long did I sleep?”
“A while,” Juniper said. When Sophia tilted her head, she relented. “Sixteen hours, give or take.” She smacked a quick kiss to Sophia’s cheek. “You needed it.”
Exhaustion sank to the bone. She swallowed uncomfortably and grabbed the comb off the vanity, swiping it through her hair. The adjoining washroom in Juniper’s primary suite was exactly what Sophia had imagined. Clean and cluttered, stocked with an assortment of sweet balms, fragrant oils, and well-loved makeup. The bedroom was lavish and beautiful. White bedding, violet sheets, sun-shaped pillows, and framed replicas of famous paintings. Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, Ophelia by John Everett Millais, and The Virgin of Guadalupe by Nicolás Enríquez were among them. She’d stared at the assortment of pinned butterflies above Juniper’s bed, clinging to wakefulness after the ritual, hungry for rest but afraid she’d never wake up if she closed her eyes again.
