“My parents. If—when—they come back, could they get a message to me there?” Phin asked.
“Yes, there are methods of communication that could be used in such an instance.”
She nodded slowly, a whole conversation held between her and the priest with just their eyes.
“It is a better option than we’ve been presented with so far.” Father Morton reached across the table and covered her hand with his.
“Is it wrong to trust him?” she asked. They both pinned me with a stare.
“I can step out for a moment if you like?” I suggested, feeling awkward that they were discussing me while I was still present.
“No, stay,” Phin said quietly. “I mean no insult. I’m just not always the best judge of things. I’d like Father’s opinion.”
“As you wish.” I leaned back in the chair, hands folded in my lap as they continued.
“No, I don’t think it’s wrong. He’s been truthful,” Father Morton said sincerely. I appreciated his words, despite the covert insult.
“What about the chores?”
“I can find some members from within the congregation to help me, don’t worry about that.” He patted her hand.
I felt it then, the subtle shifting of my entire world.
Phin looked at me, violet eyes bravely holding my gaze even as her voice wobbled. “I… Yes, okay. I’ll go with you.”
After a bitmore discussion about logistics, Father led us all down a steep stone stairwell to the lower level of the church. There were marks on the walls, traces left behind from the fingertips that had dragged along the stones for balance and comfort up and down through many decades. I added mine, unable to ignore the pull of participating in such rich, tangible history.
At the bottom of the curving stairs sat thick wooden doors that stretched from floor to ceiling. They would certainly serve as a mighty blockade if not propped open, but they seemed out of place in a humble village church. Through them was a room perhaps double the size of Father Morton’s modest living quarters. The walls were lined with shelving, the air was heavier and scented with the unique smell of old books.
Phin walked straight to one of the shelves and ran a finger down the spine of a wide leather-bound tome. Her eyes lingered on it as she continued on to the single doorway at the far end of the library that Father had gone ahead to unlock. She disappeared into the dark room, leaving the door halfway open behind herself.
“Does she scribe for you?” I asked, noticing the works in progress on a shelf.
Father clasped his hands at his waist. “She does.” After a moment’s deliberation, he pulled a stack of single sheets from a shelf. “Most of these are hers.”
The form was tidy, the flourishes clearly made with care. They were also proof that the apothecary had at least one customer for the gold and blue inks I’d admired. “I will not allow her talents to be neglected. She’ll be able to practice whenever she likes.”
“She’ll be very happy to hear that, I’m sure.”
I scanned the shelves, finding many old tomes. Surprise lifted my eyebrows as a few stored near the floor were obviously ancient and beyond any monetary value. I wondered if these were the secrets Tormund was protecting or if he’d been referring to Phin. Glancing over, I realized that the massive, heavy doors did make sense after all, if this was what was kept behind them.
A much more sinister thought crossed my mind. He’d locked her bedroom door to keep the angel out. And the bigger ones…
“These doors—you lock her behind them?” He bowed his head and my anger flared. “How often?”
“Only at night,” he said quickly, hands raised. “After dark, once she comes down. I lock her in. For her safety. And to block the sound of the bells.”
I simply stared at him, communicating how displeased I was with that information until he turned away from me.
He sighed and hunted along the shelves until he pulled out the book he wanted. He cracked it open on the little desk and flipped pages, stopping about three quarters of the way through. When he spoke again, it was in the old language, a tongue I would never forget but had not used in centuries. Father had selected a vow to read, and I understood immediately what he was doing.
As he spoke, my demon was brought to the surface. I rarely shifted anymore, but the old tongue triggered an almost instant response. My black bat-like wings unfurled from my back and spread wide, taking up most of the free space in the room. The tip of my thin, whiplike tail came to rest by my foot and tapped restlessly on the floor. I could feel my canines elongate and my tongue split at the tip. My scalp ached where my crescent-shaped horns had slid out, the points facing the wall behind me. Father Morton, to his credit, didn’t stop speaking, though he’d taken a step backwards as he surveyed the changes.
He stopped talking, and I completed the phrase I’d committed to memory centuries before, the old language rolling off my lips like I’d never stopped speaking it. Sparks flew as I spoke, the priest’s eyes widening when he realized he’d invoked the magic built into the language itself.
He nodded solemnly, and looked in the direction of Phin’s room, then back to me. “She is not for you, my son.” Father Morton frowned, leaving me curious what he’d seen in my face that concerned him.
“You would claim me?” I joked, a bit shocked that he’d addressed me in such a way. “Even after seeing the ancient words burn in the air between us? After seeing my true nature?” I gestured to my body, intentionally shifting all my features back to their human form, thankful my clothing hadn’t suffered any damage.
