A strange calm spreads through my chest. It tightens around my fear and holds it still.
He came because he was sent. Because I was meant to see him. Because I was meant to stand between him and what he would take.
And he bled. He can be cut.
The trembling in my hands fades as I move toward the hearth and kneel. The silver knife rests where I left it, wrapped in cloth. I unwrap it and hold it in my hand. The blade catches the firelight and answers it in a thin line.
Silver bites what is unclean.
I know this.
Scripture binds what prowls in darkness.
I know this too.
I press my thumb along the flat of the blade. My skin prickles at the memory of his touch. My throat aches where his breath lingered.
He smiled when I struck him. He believed I would not finish it. A small laugh slips from me before I can stop it. It sounds thin in the room. I bow my head and murmur the words I know, the ones that steady the air around me. My voice does not shake.
God sent a sign.
I will not turn from it.
I will end this.
Chapter Seven
The church smells of wax and damp wool.
I stand beside Elena, her fingers locked around mine so tight they ache. Her palm is cold. I press back, steadying the fingers that have not stopped trembling since morning.
Doamna Irina rests before the altar, white cloth covering her from chin to feet. The coins glint faintly where they rest on her eyes, and someone has tucked rosemary at her throat. The scent rises faint and green beneath the smoke.
Elena does not look at her mother’s face.
Popa Vasile stands above the coffin. His gaze sweeps over us all.
"We must not surrender to fear," he says. "Fear is a door through which the Adversary enters."
A murmur moves through the pews. Heads bow. Crosses are drawn.
My thumb brushes the inside of Elena’s wrist. Her pulse flutters there, thin and rapid. She sways slightly. I tighten my grip to keep her upright.
"The beast has been slain," The priest continues. "The danger removed. In His mercy, The Lord has delivered us from its jaws."
Outside, the wolf’s body lies in the square. I saw it at dawn. Its fur was matted with mud. Its jaws hung open, teeth bared to nothing. The men dragged it by its hind legs. They laughed when they lifted its head.
It is finished, they said. They believed it.
The memories press against my skull.
Red eyes in the basin.
White fangs at my throat.
The wolf’s dull stare beneath the morning light.
Popa Vasile raises his hand.
