“And it passed through history,” I said, understanding beginning to dawn.“Through whose hands?”
“Saints, mostly.”Gabriel turned from the window, his face half in shadow.“St.Ambrose held it when he barred Emperor Theodosius from the cathedral after the massacre at Thessalonica.St.Leo the Great carried it when he faced Attila.For centuries, it moved through holy hands, always appearing when the Church faced its greatest threats—from without and within.”
I thought of my Puritan upbringing, how my father had taught me to distrust such Catholic notions.Relics were superstition, he’d said.Idolatry dressed in gold and lies.But standing here, with the Host’s warmth still spreading through my dead veins, I couldn’t dismiss it so easily.
“I don’t understand,” I admitted.“My father taught me that relics were...fabrications.That miracles ceased with the apostles.”
Gabriel’s expression softened, and for a moment I saw the seminary student he’d been, eager to share knowledge, to illuminate faith’s mysteries.“Your father was a good man, Alice, but limited by his tradition.Scripture itself speaks of holy objects carrying divine power.Didn’t handkerchiefs and aprons that had touched Paul’s skin heal the sick and drive out evil spirits?Didn’t a dead man come back to life when his body touched Elisha’s bones?”
He moved closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper.“Even Christ’s own garment—remember the woman with the discharge of blood?She didn’t even touch Him, just the hem of His robe, and power went out from Him.Physical objects can be conduits of grace, testimonies of God’s will made manifest in creation.”
The words struck me with unexpected illumination.How many times had I touched Father O’Malley’s rosary, felt something beyond wood and twine?How many times had sacred spaces affected me in ways that defied my skepticism?
“We are God’s workmanship,” Gabriel quoted, his eyes bright with something between fever and faith.“Created in Christ Jesus for good works.If we, corrupted as we are, can still be vessels of His will, why not objects touched by holiness?Why not things that were set apart, consecrated for prayer and devotion?”
“But the Cross,” I pressed, needing to understand the specific threat we faced.“You said it has a double nature?”
His face darkened again, the brief light of theological enthusiasm extinguished.“Like the Eucharist itself.St.Paul warned the Corinthians, didn’t he?That whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord unworthily will be guilty of the body and blood of the Lord.Didn’t he warn that among those who’d consumed it without discerning the body were some who’d grown sick and died on account of their infidelity?What the light exposes, Alice, is the truth.If that truth be our damnation, the light will expose it.If it be our faith, then it will illuminate us unto righteousness.”
My hand moved unconsciously to my mouth, where the Host had dissolved on my tongue minutes ago.Had I been worthy?Or had grace simply overwhelmed my unworthiness?
“The Gilded Cross operates on the same principle,” Gabriel explained.“In holy hands, it’s a blessing—it heals, protects, sanctifies.But in the hands of the corrupt, those who wield it for hate rather than love, for condemnation rather than redemption...”He trailed off, but his meaning was clear.
“Marcus,” I breathed.
“Marcus obtained it after his excommunication,” Gabriel confirmed.“How, I don’t know.Some say he stole it; others that he discovered it hidden in this monastery.Others claim it was given to him by sympathizers within the Church who shared his...extreme views.Either way, he’s perverted its purpose.He believes it will only destroy those he deems damned—vampires, witches, anyone who doesn’t conform to his agenda.”
“But that’s not how it works?”
Gabriel met my eyes, and in them my own realization reflected.“The Cross doesn’t discriminate based on Marcus’s prejudices.It responds to the state of the soul—but not in the way he thinks.It judges the wielder as much as the target.And Marcus, in his hatred, his self-righteousness, his willingness to murder in God’s name...”
He didn’t need to finish.The candle guttered, sending shadows careening across the walls like souls fleeing judgment.In that moment, I understood with terrible clarity what Marcus intended—and what it would cost him.The Cross he meant to use as an instrument of our destruction would become his own damnation, unless someone intervened.
Unless I intervened.
This was why I’d been brought here, why I’d been prepared through suffering and grace.Not to defeat Marcus, but to save him from himself.And in doing so, perhaps, to save us all.
Chapter 16
Ipushedawayfromthe table and paced the narrow confines of Father O’Malley’s quarters, my movements sharp and restless despite the new strength flowing through my limbs.The floorboards creaked beneath my weight.Gabriel watched me from his position by the desk.
“There’s more,” he said.“This entire mission—the one Marcus sent you on to this very mission—it’s not what you think.”
I stopped mid-stride, turning to face him fully.“What do you mean?”
“The test.”His voice dropped lower, as if the walls themselves might be listening.“It was never about the mission.Never about proving our brutality or willingness to kill for the Order.It was designed specifically for you, Alice.”
My mind raced back through the evening’s events—our arrival, the consecrated ground that should have destroyed me, my companions’ agony while I remained standing.“You knew.You knew what would happen when we crossed that threshold.”
“I suspected,” Gabriel corrected, though the distinction felt meaningless.“I’d been watching you, studying your transformation.The spiritual journey you’ve undertaken since leaving Providence.The book I left was meant to be an aid.”
I thought of St.Teresa, St.John of the Cross, their words about suffering and surrender that had become my lifeline.“You weren’t wrong.”
“The Carmelite path of self-denial, the mortification of appetites, the dark night of the soul—these weren’t just spiritual exercises for you.They were preparation.”
The pacing resumed.“Preparation to wield the Gilded Cross?”
“More than that.”He moved to block my path, forcing me to stop and look at him.“The nuns who met you at the entrance, the ones who took your companions—they’re not who they appear to be.”
