Page 45 of When the Sky Breaks

The shopkeeper looked nervous, tugging at his collar. He bent below the counter and grabbed a pen and paper.

“Did it look like this?” he asked, swallowing hard as he sketched out the same eye and spiral we’d seen twice now.

“It may have,” I hedged. “We didn’t stop and take a close look.”

“One showed up on Reverend Whittaker’s chapel door. Only yesterday,” the shopkeeper said. “Nobody knows why. He just painted over it, but it scared us all half to death.”

“How awful,” Sorcha replied.

“Hopefully nothing will come of it,” the shopkeeper said, recovering himself. “Now if you’ve made your selections I’d be happy to package everything up for you.”

We reconvened at the stables where we’d boarded our horses the night before.

“They talk?” Ansel asked immediately.

“No mention of the cattle, but apparently we’re not the first in town to be graced with that symbol,” I said. “Storekeeper mentioned a Reverend Whittaker.”

“Then I think we know our next stop,” Ansel said.

“Are we entirely sure that’s a good idea?” I hedged. “We don’t even have proof this is connected to the portals. And you said yourself that it’s not connected to Iksura. If our goal is to get to New York, prove Sorcha’s legitimacy, settle the Court somewhere safe . . . this feels counterproductive.”

“Asking a preacher a couple of questions isn’t gonna get us killed,” Ansel replied.

“But do we want to stay here another night?” I pressed. “If they know we’re here? Whoever they are . . .”

“We could skip the preacher entirely. If someone’s doing occult sacrifices that involve slaughtering cows I’m pretty sure we can find it on our own,” Sorcha said.

“We’ll move to a different hotel,” Ansel said, “and we’ll leave in the morning. After we talk to Reverend Whittaker.”

“I still don’t like it,” I replied.

“Do we have to go talk to this preacher?” Sorcha continued.

“Why are you so against it?” Ansel asked.

“I’m not against it,” Sorcha snapped. “I’m concerned about efficiency and safety. Those are valid points to consider.”

“Why are you so against specifically talking to the preacher?” I clarified. “You went to church what, three times a week back in Santa Fe?”

“I went to Mass three times a week in Santa Fe,” Sorcha clarified. “Revivalist protestants scare me a little.”

“Well you have your valiant protectors,” Ansel said. “And a bowie knife. And I’m pretty sure if you tried hard enough you could summon a bear out of those hills to take care of any trouble.”

He gestured at the horizon line. Sorcha suppressed a laugh. Ansel fished Milkweed out of his pocket and held him out to Sorcha. “And him. I’m sure that’s protective somehow. Now come on. Let’s go meet the reverend.

Eighteen

Sorcha

“What brings you to my chapel?” Reverend Whittaker asked as he led us into the spartan church hall. The reverend was an older man with a short grey beard and a notable potbelly. The church itself was simple, no stained glass, no crucifix above the pulpit, no altar to speak of. And it smelled like mildew. I fought back nausea. It would probably complicate things if I threw up in his church.

“That,” Ansel said bluntly, pointing to where the church’s back door had been haphazardly boarded up and painted over. “Heard someone etched an occult symbol. Wanted to see what you knew?”

Reverend Whittaker dithered for a moment before finally replying.

“Yes,” the reverend said. “Someone did. I . . . I talk a lot about the Ten Commandments. And lately there’s been these cattle mutilations. They look sacrificial. So I started talking about avoiding idolatry. And I guess someone took offense.”

“You have your services here?” Ansel asked.