Page 47 of Borrowed
“Oops,” I said, licking the blood from my lip where the priest’s head smashed into me.“He must not have wanted salvation after all.”
Toby snickered, petting his grey head.“We did him a favor.He wanted to see his God so bad.Now he has.You’re welcome.”
I smiled.Feeling Toby’s come run down my thighs.
“Sleep tight, Father.”
Istayed crouched over his body, fingers tangled in Father Elliot’s soaked hair, the scent of sanctified death blooming like lilies in my lungs.
Toby dipped his fingers in the water, then touched my forehead.
“Sanctus,” he whispered, voice like smoke curling from a pyre.
A blessing.
Or a claim.
Maybe both.
The priest’s body floated like a sin denied, bloated, still, eyes wide and glassy beneath the ripples.The cross had slipped from his neck, tangled in the hem of his soaked robes.
Toby stood behind me, his voice gentler now.“Take it.”
I leaned forward and pulled the collar from the priest’s throat.It came off easily, like skin.
I held it in my palm and looked down at the once-man who thought he could save me.“He wore it like it meant something.”
“It didn’t,” Toby said.“But it will on you.”
He guided me, reverent, peeling the wet cassock from Father Elliot’s corpse.It draped around my naked frame like a funeral veil.
Heavy.
Cold.
Intoxicating.
The collar snapped into place around my throat.
And something inside me…settled.
Not peace.
But purpose.
Toby’s lips brushed my temple.“How does it feel?”
“Like I’m ready to hear a confession.”
He chuckled.“And what will you tell them, sister?Will you forgive them…or damn them?”
“God’s dead,” I said.“And we buried Him in the font.”
Toby licked his thumb and dragged it across my cheekbone, smearing what little innocence might’ve remained.
“We should go before they realize mass has been canceled,” he murmured.
“But where?”I said, voice light now, dreamy.
