“A woman, maybe? Shorter than me. Black hair styled like a pinup model. Attractive in a wicked-stepmother kind of way?”
That raises his eyebrows. “What about this book’s got you so rattled, Judeth?”
The sound of my name in his mouth startles me, familiar and unexpected at once. I take a step back. Who is this man whose bookstore brought the devil to my door? The way he stands, feet planted like an oak tree in a broad, sunlit field, the way he stares down at me—I can’t imagine he’s ever experienced a crisis of confidence, ever wandered through a park at midnight because his name was written on a piece of paper, ever run for his life from thepyre of his childhood. I can’t imagine he’d ever suffer a man like my grandfather. He’s too solid, too firm.
“Nothing, I—”
He peers at me, waiting, expectant. Giving me his undivided attention. I can’t remember the last time Roger gave me his undivided attention. Maybe he never did.
I clear my throat. “Sorry. It’s nothing. I should go.”
“Where you off to in such a hurry?” he asks before I can scramble away.
I glance down at the book in my arms. “An outing of sorts.”
“This late?” He looks skeptical, and I realize again how unbalanced I must seem—slamming the bell, the rush of questions, the strange female description I gave, and now my hurry to leave.
“Do you know which is the oldest church in the city?” I’ve been thinking about it since I woke up, and the phraseicon shinesmust refer to a religious structure.
This catches him off guard, but despite his surprise, he tries to answer, glancing up as he thinks. A curl of hair escapes his bun and he tucks it quickly behind an ear. “Well, there’s St. James Cathedral. I don’t know if it’s the oldest, but it’s definitely old. Probably the most well-known, the most Instagrammable anyway. And then there’s Trinity Parish, also in First Hill. Lovely but smaller. There’s also the Temple De Hirsch Sinai. We’re Jewish and my grandfather took me there as a kid. And of course, Bikur Cholim Machzikay Hadath is the oldest synagogue in Washington state. Though, if you want a real old-world treat, you should go to St. Nicholas Russian Orthodox Cathedral.”
Now it’s my turn to be surprised. “You know a lot about churches,” I tell him, amazed and a little alarmed.
He shrugs. “I know a lot about old buildings. Local history buff.”
“Right.” I break eye contact to stare at my shoes, twisting my mouth to one side, and take a step away. “Okay then. Thank you.Levi.”
“You’re welcome.Judeth.” He doesn’t quite smile, but there’s a lift to his eyes that says this exchange wasn’tallbad.
It strikes me as so boyishly cute, I stumble on my way out the door.
Did I justflirt? I wonder. With a man in a bookstore not even twenty-four hours after I contemplated taking my own life? The whiplash of it leaves me sickened. The fires of the night I fled, blazing against an indigo sky choked with smoke, burn through my brain. A quiet, Saturday morning on the toilet, feeling the one thing I could promise Roger slip away from me. Reminders that I don’t deserve the kind of happy, easy existence so many other people enjoy. That someone—maybe not God, but someone—isalways watching.
Who am I to flirt? To take pleasure? To move on? The one person on this planet I loved and wanted to protect above all others, Ikilledher. All she ever told me was not to trust my grandfather, not to heed the voice, not to use the power. But I didn’t listen. If I had, she’d still be here. They all would.
I’m rotten inside. It’s why I lost the baby. I let the devil nest in me as a girl, something willful and dark natured. Of course nothing that innocent could take root in my womb. No matter how many years have passed, how desperately I’ve tried to live a quiet, upstanding life since leaving Solidago, I can’t escape it. I can’t escape who I was. Even if she died that night as well.
I right myself on the street, stiffening my spine. I’ll get to the bottom of this—who these people are, how much they know, how they found out. And then I’ll bury this along with all the other shameful secrets I carry.
But first, the cathedral. The Fathom are waiting.
THE SUN SITSlow in the sky—toolow. I’ve combed every church and synagogue older than the moon landing in this city for the last forty-two hours, when I wasn’t putting in an appearance atwork. I started with Levi’s suggestion and went to St. Nicholas first because nothing says iconography quite like the Russian Orthodox Church. And it did not disappoint, with its gleaming spires and painted iconostasis, the red carpet passing through the Beautiful Gate into the building’s holy heart. I pored over every fine detail, looking for any kind of clue, anything out of place, anything left for me. I fully expected to find another envelope resting against the Deacon’s Door or tucked against a towering candlestick. Maybe with another verse, something more to go on thanshadows bend. But I found nothing.
It was the same with Trinity Parish Church, with All Pilgrims Christian Church and Christ Our Hope Catholic Church. I fared no better at Epiphany Parish, Immaculate Conception Church, or the Temple De Hirsch Sinai. Even the labyrinth at Saint Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral was appallingly empty. I waited in the center for a cluster of shadowy figures in black hoods to encircle me.
They did not.
So now I sit here in St. James Cathedral, the most spectacular Seattle has to offer as cathedrals go and the last stop on my list. I can scarcely recall the masses I would attend with my dad in San Francisco, the rows of hard pews and the dramatic crucifix hanging over the altar. It did little to inspire my soul to divine heights. I asked my mom once why she didn’t come with us, and her answer was deceptively simple, “God doesn’t like competition.” I didn’t understand then—that would come with the burgeoning of my gifts and the textbooks and coursework in history that would arrive in the mail. I was essentially responsible for my own education after the age of eight, the last point at which Nina felt competent to help me.
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.It was as clear a message as any, coupled with the dissuasive tales of our family lineage passed down the generations. And my grandfather never would have thought of stepping foot in a church. Like God, he didn’t appreciate competition.
Maybe I should visit the confessional. Pour my soul out to someone forced to listen and keep quiet. What would I tell them? About the fire, of course. My greatest sin. But also about the other, less obvious offenses. My magical rebellions, my stolen goods. Dara… How I could have protected her if I’d listened, if I’d told someone.
The week before he raped her my grandfather caught me sneaking out of one of the back bedrooms, a pilfered jewelry box in my hand. He had pressed me up against the wall, his breath hot and sour, and whispered what he wanted to do to me,woulddo to me soon enough. “Your mother thinks she can hide you from me in this house,” he said as I turned my face from his. “But I see everything.” His fingers wound through my yellow hair, clenching. “She’s half the woman your grandmother was, and you’ll be less than that, but I’m owed. And until I’m with Aurelia again, I’ll take my debt out of every one of you.”
He would have likely done it right there had Nina not rounded the corner, dropping the carefully folded stack of bedsheets she was carrying. Something in her gaze cowed him, and he stepped away from me, ripping the box from my hand. As he passed Nina, he handed it to her. “Watch her,” he said with disdain. “She steals.”
I can only imagine what a priest would make of our family, of the string of deaths that stain our line. Of me letting Dara into our house knowing a violent predator was stalking it, and fleeing into the night weeks later, leaving a trail of flames behind. I wonder if there is absolution for me. I doubt it.
