Mal reaches the door first, carefully opening it with one hand, while we cover him. Nothing happens, and he nods and jerks his chin to say we’re safe to enter.
He goes first, and we follow. We find ourselves in the rear vestibules of the church. There are several doors that lead off it. I pray, which is ironic, that we will find Ophelia behind one of them. But each room we check—an office, a bathroom, a closet containing supplies—is empty.
Together, we head deeper into the church.
A strange man steps out in front of us. His eyes widen as he sees us, and he opens his mouth to shout a warning, but I silence him with a bullet. His knees fold, and he crumples to the floor.
We exit into the main body of the church, and it takes me a split second to take in the scene.
A tall man wearing a cassock stands next to Ophelia, who is on her knees beside him. She’s tied to the pulpit with rope, and beside her is Daisy. The sight of the girl—either unconscious or dead—twists something inside me. If she was on the Prophet’s side, why would she be tied up as well? Is it possible we got it wrong about her?
I aim my weapon, planning to shoot the man who is clearly the Prophet, dead, but he notices us before I get the chance and ducks behind the pulpit the girls are tied to. He’s holding a jug full of red liquid and, as he moves, he drops it to the unforgiving stone floor. The jug shatters, glass shards flying, and what looks to be red wine spills everywhere. It reminds me of blood.
“No,” he screams as it coats the floor, as if he’s lost his wife or child.
Moving as a unit, we separate and round the pulpit, covering every side except for where the damn Prophet is cowering. I can’t get a clear shot, and I don’t think anyone else can as he drops even lower.
Ophelia sees us and barks out a sob of relief combined with fear. I hold her gaze, the moment stretching as my heart hammers with the joy of seeing her, and the terror of her being so vulnerable.
“Don’t you fucking dare!” the Prophet snarls.
He swiftly produces a gun from the inside of his cassock—seriously, this asshole is wearing a holster under that garb—and jams the muzzle to Ophelia’s head. Her beautiful, dual-colored eyes widened in fear.
“Daisy,” she cries, “you need to help Daisy. Please. I’m not sure she’s breathing.”
Even with a gun to the head, she’s still thinking about other people before herself.
The Prophet is outnumbered. He still has some of his men around, but now they’re being covered by Malachi and Roman, plus it doesn’t look as though they’re armed. Felix also has his gun aimed at the Prophet. The Prophet catches sight of him, and something flickers in his pale-blue eyes.
The reaction twangs at my nerve endings like a pick at guitar strings, but I don’t have time to analyze anything now. All I can think about is that gun against Ophelia’s head and how, in a split second, the most precious person in our lives could be torn away from us forever.
The power of that realization snatches the air from my lungs, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. She was my angel from the very first moment I saw her, all those years ago when we were only children. I can’t let this crazy motherfucker take her from us.
“Now!” Ophelia’s screams.
I have no idea what she means, but suddenly her hand is free and she’s swinging for the Prophet. Her fist collides with his neck, and his gun goes off. It doesn’t have a silencer, and the loudness of the gunshot in this enclosed space sends my ears ringing. But I don’t have time to worry about that.
Did the bullet hit Ophelia? Is she hurt?
I move closer, my gun still aimed at the Prophet, and see she’s covered in blood. Time slows, and everything that happens next seems to take an eternity.
Could it be the wine, not blood? I can only hope, but no, my brain registers the thick essence and the metallic scent of copper on the air, and I realize it’s definitely blood. The Prophet is half lying on top of her, and he’s clutching his neck. The gun he’d been holding is on the floor, and I kick it away.
I pull the Prophet off Ophelia and throw him to one side.
Malachi and Roman run to us, but the Prophet isn’t hurting anyone. He’s still clutching his neck, and now he’s making strange choking sounds, and I see why. A large piece of the broken jug protrudes from the side of his throat. Somehow, he gets his fingers around it, and he pulls.
Mistake.Big mistake.
The slow seepage of blood turns to a gush. Bright red, arterial blood spurts from the wound. The Prophet’s ice-blue eyes dim and his mouth opens… then closes for good.
CHAPTER 22
Ophelia
My hand is coveredin blood. The Prophet’s blood.
He always said he could never die. He was wrong.
