Second, she's not just telling me where George is. She's arming me to kill him.
I nod, and so does she.
"Be careful," she says, then lets me go, and I pull away before I give myself time to think about what this makes us.
I tuck the dagger under my robe and slip into the crowd, weaving between people swaying to the chant. The smell of incense thickens, mixing with sweat and blood. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the voices around me.
I keep my head down, pace steady and casual, as my eyes track him.
He's about twenty feet ahead as he disappears through the corridor's entrance. I can't lose him, so I pick up my pace.
The hallway is darker than the main chamber, lit only by scattered candles mounted on the walls.
Brother George walks ahead of me, unaware, his steps echoing softly.
He rounds a corner, and as I follow, my hand tightens around the handle of the dagger.
He turns slightly, like he senses something.
That's when I move.
I surge forward and slam into him, driving him into the wall.
My left hand clamps over his mouth as I drive the blade into the side of his neck.
"From the Killaneys," I whisper into his ear.
George's body jerks, his scream muffled against my palm. I yank the blade out and feel the hot spray of blood against my hand. I stab him again, same spot, deeper this time, twisting.
His legs buckle and he spasms, but I'm not done.
I pull the knife free and plunge it into his chest, right where his heart should be.
It's not clean. There's too much emotion for it.
I hold him as the life drains out of him, his body twitching against mine, his breath rattling in his throat until it doesn't anymore.
When he goes limp, I lower him to the ground slowly, carefully, so he doesn't make a sound.
The hallway is silent except for my own breathing.
I stare at him as blood pools beneath him. The man who killed my father is dead. Now there's just one person left.
I wipe the blade on his sleeve, slip the dagger back under my robe, and move quickly, retracing my steps. The chanting is louder now, the crowd swaying as the ritual reaches some kind of crescendo.
I find Zaria right where I left her. She turns when she sees me, her eyes searching my face.
"Let's go," I say, grabbing her hand.
She tries to stop me, but I don't let her this time. I pull her with me, weaving through the crowd, back toward the way we came in.
We walk down the same hall we walked through when we first arrived, and I see her looking around frantically.
We almost make it, but the same guard who put the sticker on my shoulder earlier appears.
"Sorry," he says, blocking the door. "No one can leave now."
Then he steps forward and grabs Zaria's arm, yanking her toward him. "And you should know better than to let your guest leave early."
