Page 41 of Borrowed
Toby growled low before I could answer.“I hate Elliot.”
“He used to give us a peppermint after confession,” I offered, trying to calm him.
“He gave me nothing.”Toby’s voice cracked into something not quite human, the black butterflies erratic, fluttering around his bandaged face.“He prayed over the bruises and called them lessons.”
I smiled sweetly at the doorman like you’re supposed to with people in fancy clothes.“Good morning.”
Inside was cold.Cleaner than any place has the right to be.The pews were empty, but the sanctuary was lit.Father Elliot waited near the altar.His hands clasped like he already regretted agreeing to this.
“Tabitha?”he said, looking to my Mother, who nodded curtly.“It’s good to see you.”
I glanced toward the crucifix.The man hung limp, head bowed, judging.
“Does he blink when I’m not looking?”I said.
The priest said nothing.
Toby leaned down and whispered, “I could snap his wooden neck.”
Father Elliot cleared his throat.“Would you like to pray with me, child?”
Mother sat behind me, eyes shut so tight it looked painful.She kept muttering.I heard ‘deliver,’ and ‘darkness,’ and ‘taint.’
“Maybe Toby would?”he insisted.
“Mother thinks I’m possessed,” I told Elliot, skipping to the altar steps with Trumpet clutched in one hand.“Isn’t that funny?”
Father Elliot didn’t smile.“Do you feel…like yourself?”
I tilted my head.“What self?”
And then the voices came louder.Not from Toby…others.
Like whispers stuffed into my ears with needles.
Like laughter from somewhere underground.
“She brought me here to die,” I said.Calm.Clear.“She thinks this place will kill me.Or him.”
“She’s right,” Toby hissed.“It’s burning.”
I sank to my knees at the altar, clutching Trumpet tight, pressing my forehead to the cold tile.
“Save me,” I said.“Please.”
Then I lifted my face and grinned.“Or don’t.I’ve already felt hell.”
He waited until the candles flickered.Until the sanctuary fell still, breath held like even God had turned His back for a moment.Mother was crying, and the priest was busy whispering a made-up language to her.
“Come on, Sister,” Toby murmured, voice slick and low against my temple.“This place makes your skin itch.Let me take you somewhere quiet.”
My knees popped as I stood.
Slow.
Obedient.
My bones creaked in agreement.
