Page 94 of The Light Within

“I’m guessing that you disagree?”

Julien snorted. “Mèrewas very religious, but I’m not.” Not since that day, anyway. What god would allow him to kill his own mother? “Andif he offers to bless you with water, heads up that it’ll be infused with something.”

Julien pulled Maz right up to the building, feeling the car’s tyres skid against the gravel as he braked. The quicker this visit was over, the better. Cinn was practically running to keep up with him as Julien marched up to the front door with its scuffed dark wood. He ignored the ornate knocker shaped like a lion’s head and pressed on the iron handle.

The door swung open to reveal a dimly lit interior that Julien partially recognised from his handful of visits here. Candlelight danced unevenly across the stone walls, dramatizing the stark contrast between the ancient stone and the newer, lighter materials used in the rebuilt sections. The high, vaulted ceiling arched overhead, but halfway down the nave, the wooden beams and fresh mortar betrayed the point where the old church met the new.

He couldn’t help but flinch at the sight, but Julien dragged his gaze away. It wouldn’t do to get distracted by memories of that day.

Stepping further inside, the pungent scent of incense immediately filled Julien’s nostrils, both overwhelming and familiar. Cedarwood and frankincense. It was exactly as he remembered it from over a decade ago, unchanged despite everything else that had been lost.

Of course, there was one other thing that had survived that day, miraculously unscathed. A true holy miracle.

At the far end of the aisle, near the altar, stood Father Gérard, his hands folded in front of him, eyes solemn as he watched Julien and Cinn approach.

Father Gérard’s gaze was calm and steady. He wasn’t surprised to see Julien.

“Père,” Julien said, his voice more clipped than he intended. He nodded towards Cinn, who looked as French as a British tourist in a beret and a striped shirt. “Or rather, Father.”

Cinn gave him a nudge with his elbow.

Had he sounded rude? Maybe, but Julien was too damn exhausted to care.

Some days, it felt like Béatrice had died just yesterday; on others, like a lifetime had passed. The weight of it all blurred time, leaving him frayed at the edges. He was all done with this now. He had nothing left in the tank.

“Julien Montaigne! And a new friend,” the priest said in thickly accented English.

Father Gérard shook Cinn’s hand first, causing him to squirm uncomfortably. Then the old man hobbled over to sit on a pew, his movements slow and deliberate, each step seeming to weigh heavily on his frail frame.

The priest had seemed ancient when Julien was a child, and now he was almost spectral, a fragile remnant of the past Julien wanted to forget.

“I’ve been waiting for you to pay a visit.”

“Have you?” Julien said flatly. “What a surprise.”

Father Gérard’s face crumpled. Julien cared very little.

“You sound angry, child. Tell me, what is the matter? Tell me your problem.”

“My problem?”

Cinn squeezed tightly around Julien’s arm in warning.

“My problem is that you were having secret meetings with my dead sister.”

A ripple of laughter echoed through the church.

“These were not ‘secret meetings,’ Julien. We were not meeting by moonlight in disguises. Young Béatrice was lost, and I was acting as shepherd.”

“Ah,” Julien said. “You wereguidingher. I see. So I’m guessing you advised her not to continue her involvement with the Arcane Purifiers?”

Father Gérard flinched.

Cinn tugged on Julien’s sleeve. “Julien.”

Julien ripped his arm from Cinn’s grasp.

“Now that—” Father Gérard’s words were interrupted by a harsh coughing fit, his frail body trembling with each ragged breath.

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