Toward her blade.
That war cry echoes out again as the Lupa Nox buries the point of the stolen broadsword into the High Ecclesian. My heart careens up my throat when all the Ecclesians shriek at once, as if They’veallbeen stabbed. The one with a sword protruding from Their chest stumbles forward toward the group of hooded mortals. I don’t know what I expect, my face pressed against the grate, my blood pounding in my veins, but it’s certainly not for the Ecclesian to grab one of the figures and sink teeth into their flesh. For a long, horrible moment, it’s all I can see—teeth bared beneath the silk veil, all the more terrible, somehow, and then the Ecclesian drawing away, storm-gray vestments stained black with blood.
A single knight, no matter how glorious, cannot defend against what They are.
The Ecclesian turns back to the fray, snapping off the end of the broadsword with one massive, gauntleted hand. The Lupa Nox slips beyond the reach of two clashing weapons and vaults onto the altar. From there, her chain lashes out again, wrapping around another Ecclesian’s neck. This time, she follows the movement a moment later, using the altar to take a running leap and, arms outstretched, tackling the Ecclesian to the ground.
It’s so quick, so strangely elegant, the way the Lupa Nox wraps her hands around the veiled thing’s neck and snaps it. Just like that. The Ecclesian goes limp, and again, all the others shriek. She launches herself back onto the altar, winding in her length of chain.
Three Ecclesians circle her, but the others dive toward the half-moons of hooded figures. And then—though it takes my mind so long to process it—I watch as the Ecclesians feast. They tear into the gathering of people, gauntleted hands outstretched, chainmail sprayed with blood, Their gold masks little more than smears of gore in only moments.
Up on the altar, the Lupa Nox looks up and sees the same thing. Terror crosses her face. I know the look of it because I feel it constantly, haunting me like a phantom. As the Ecclesians feast, she keeps the other three at bay with sharp cracks of the chain. But when the one with a broken neck shudders and rises back to Their feet, something that might be utter desperation fills me. The Ecclesians close in, and I realize that I am not looking at ten creatures hunting Their quarry.
I am—Saints, I hope I am wrong—looking atonemind peering out from ten Fatum bodies.
I let out a strangled cry, throwing all of my weight against the latch. The knight is tiring, her chest rising in great heaves, and the High Ecclesia is a ceaseless horror. No one appears to havenoticed me. The High Ecclesia’s attention is settled squarely on the Lupa Nox, and there are only a few hooded figures left alive. Anyone could be under those cloaks. It could beanyone’sblood seeping out onto the marble floor, glimmering strangely in the altar’s corpse-lights. Renault’s blood, even. Saints, it could be Carina’s.
“Forgive me,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face, “but this cannot be right.”
And then the latch gives. I almost fall as the panel swings forward, creating an open tunnel instead of a tight confessional. I stumble forward, my heart slamming into my breastbone so hard I feel faint and feverish.
“Nyatrix!” I shout her name for the first time, the syllables hoarse and holy in my burning torch of a throat.
Up on the altar, her head snaps in my direction, and the weight of her gaze lands on me, heavy as chainmail. For a moment, she hesitates.
“Here!” I shout again, gesturing with my free hand, hoping beyond hope that she gets to me before the High Ecclesia. Because They’ve noticed me now, veiled heads swiveling on Their towering bodies, masked faces catching the light, shimmering with blood.
Nyatrix takes advantage of Their distraction and leaps off the altar, diving past the High Ecclesia, slipping for just a moment in a pool of blood. As she runs to me, the entire world seems to slow, and I feel the horrid gaze of the eye-wound in the First Son’s statue upon me. Nausea blooms in my stomach, and I retch, tearing my gaze away from its seeking pupil.
Instead, I look at her: a terrifying thing, her hair streaming behind her like a war banner, the length of her strides devouring the distance between us. For an eternity, I think, I hold her gaze—that thunderstorm of endless, relentless rage as terrifying as it is beautiful.
And then the Lupa Nox is upon me, a wolf with its quarry between its teeth. She slams the panel back into place, lithe hands closing the latch. Her sharp gaze darts about the space, and in an instant pushes the priest’s heavy sitting chair up against the panel as if it weighs no more than a basket of blackberries.
And then, wordless, she’s upon me, one hand ghosting the side of my face. I shiver, pressed against the paneled walls of the place where I confessed to the very sins I’m now committing. The heat of her banishes the feverish chill stretching across my skin.
“That was very brave,” she breathes, her eyes searching mine, “and very stupid.”
“I can get you out of here,” I tell her. This betrayal should poison me, but instead, the simmering pit of sorrow in my stomach seems to settle, just a little. There’s no time to explain, no time to make her trust me, so instead I grip my cane in my clammy grasp and turn back into the hallway, moving at the fastest pace I can manage. My hip screams in protest, the flail wounds on my back feeling like they’re being torn open anew. I grit my teeth and ignore it, guiding the Lupa Nox through the darkness of the hallway.
Behind us, I hear a vicious splinter of wood as the High Ecclesia breaks through the confessional’s panel. My heart leaps into my throat, and I press on fast, Nyatrix like a wolf at my heels.
“Why are you doing this?” she hisses, her breath racing past my ear. “They’ll kill you for it. You understand that, right? They’llkillyou.”
My lungs tighten, but I keep moving. “What you don’t understand,” I tell her, my eyes focused on the shadowed hallway, “is that I’m already dead.”
And I won’t even get to choose what eats me. Renault, Sergio, the stake, my Lord Himself—any might make a feast of my flesh.
The Sepulchyre warrior has nothing to say. I take a hard right into the tiny kitchen, trusting my memory to guide me over the uneven slate floor. At the far side, I throw open a narrow, creaking door. The mouth of a tunnel beckons; it slopes down beneath the floor of the Spine, connecting to Cathedral Hill’s main kitchens. With the door open, Mysterium-charged lights bolted to the stone walls flicker into existence, providing a dim glow by which to navigate the uneven dirt floor.
I turn to look at Nyatrix at the same moment another one of those demonic shrieks pierces the air. My mind immediately conjures an unhelpful image of a High Ecclesian with Their head thrown back, blood-soaked vestments rippling, as that awful noise leaves Their motionless lips.
“Do you trust me?” I ask her, breathless.
She meets my gaze, her dark eyebrows drawing together. “No,” she replies after a moment of hesitation, glancing over her shoulder before looking back at me, “but you’re a better option than whatever the fuck They are.”
I inhale deeply, nod, and then plunge into the darkness. I can feel the heat of the knight as she follows, pulling the door closed tightly behind her.
“Is there a lock?” she asks, her voice breathy.
