“Accept this sacrifice, Lord.” The reverend stands before her, back to me, arms raised toward the vaulted ceiling. “Cleanse this unholy place with blood. Turn away the demons you have sent to test us!”
In his right hand gleams a knife.
White-hot rage floods my veins.
I step into the chapel, the door groaning.
Shit.
The reverend’s head twists around, eyes wild, pupils contracted to pinpoints, but he doesn’t lower the knife. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Put the knife down. Please.” I advance slowly, keeping my voice even. “She’s not a sacrifice. She’s a person. Let her go.”
“Don’t you see? This is mercy.” He shakes his head. “Her blood will sanctify this place. She’ll be remembered as a martyr, not a sinner.” He gestures toward Dakota with the knife. “I’m saving her. Her sins brought them here.”
I take another step. Ten feet between us. “The bell brought them. Not her. That fucking bell YOU didn’t warn us about.”
“The bell called the cleansing fire!” Spittle flies from his lips. “The Lord’s judgment! It was supposed to be.”
Dakota stirs slightly on the altar.
“This must be done.” The reverend’s attention shifts back to her. “For all of us.”
“If you touch her—” I tighten my grip on the machete. “—I’ll make sure you meet your God today.”
“He waits for me with open arms.” He hauls the knife back before plunging it straight toward her chest.
I throw myself forward, dropping the machete in the process, and catch his wrist mid-strike.
The knife’s edge hovers inches from Dakota’s heart, trembling with the force of our struggle.
Over my dead body.
I wrench his arm back, twisting until he gasps, but he doesn’t release the knife.
“Let go,” I growl through clenched teeth.
“Never!” He slams his forehead into my nose.
Pain explodes through my face, blood flooding my mouth. My grip falters for half a second, and he tears free, knife still clutched in his hand, breathing hard.
“You can’t stop His will,” he pants.
“Watch me.”
I feint left, then drive right, my shoulder connecting with his chest. We crash into the altar rail, wood splintering beneath our combined weight, and the knife flies from his grip, skittering across the stone floor.
The reverend scrambles after it on hands and knees, but I grab his ankle and yank him back. He kicks out, catching me in the chest. My lungs empty in a rush. He reaches the knife, fingers closing around the handle as he rolls onto his back. Triumph blazes in his eyes as he raises it again.
I dive forward, tackling him before he can throw or lunge. We roll across the floor, trading blows, neither gaining advantage. His knuckles connect with my temple, stars bursting across my vision as I keep his hand with the knife hostage. I drive my elbow into his ribs, feeling something give way with a satisfying crack.
He howls. I grab his wrist with both hands, slamming it repeatedly against the floor until his fingers around the knife finally open.
It slides away again. We both lunge for it. His fingers brush the handle first?—
I grab the nearest object—a heavy brass cross—and bring it down on his reaching arm.
Bone crunches.
