Page 5 of The Black Table
I inhale. The pine-and-smoke smell of distant incense floodsmy senses, and my last few pathetic sniffles choke their way from my throat.
But then, just as I breathe out, I hear it.
I’m not alone.
My eyes fly open with a prey animal’s instincts, and I tense my grip on my sheaf of papers, one foot planted protectively outside my suitcase. I dart a glance left, right, left, and yetseenothing, only hear it,senseit, practically, until I look right again.
A few rows up, and behind a pillar, is a corner, a dark shift in the wall revealing some sort of secondary open space: the arm of the cross-shaped church, no doubt.
Ishouldleave. But I’m curious.
Silently as I can, I slip from the pew to the side aisle, taking tiptoe steps in the vastness of the stone space until I can peek around and see. It’s as I thought: a chapel-within-the-chapel, outfitted with a few rows of chairs and a smaller altar: gold, carved, and set with rows and rows of red-glass tea candles before it, their little flames dancing.
And, sitting in front of it, a man.
No, not sitting, I realize.
Kneeling.
He’s really and truly on his knees before the altar, head bowed, arms planted just forward on the railing and fingers clasped—praying, I suppose. And just in front of him, on the flagstones, something long and thin that flashes in even in the dim light of the chapel.
A blade. Asword.
And just as soon as I take it all in, he moves.
A quick flutter of the eyes and twitch of the lips and he’s on his feet, lightning-quick,tooquick, and I’m stumbling backwards over my own stupid feet until my back hits a pillar and a pair of bronze-colored eyes cut into mine.
He’s tall, fearsomely tall, easily a head above my own five-nine, with broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and a serious set to his lips. Golden hair catches the winking candlelight as it falls just over his forehead, and even in the dark layers of sport coat, sweater, and button-down, he looks powerful.
Yet for all that, he doesn’t menace. Doesn’t encroach on me or try to intimidate. If anything, he stands back, keeps his distance, arms folded at attention behind him—which, combined with his sharp attire, gives him an almost soldierly air.
No, he just…stares.
Stares and takes me in.Drinksme in, practically, with a kind of scrutiny that’s so intense it’s almost disarming.
And before I can realize the sorry state of my being, the rumpled clothes and blotchy face and wide-eyed panic, he moves.
A hand only, slipping into his inner jacket pocket to withdraw something, which he proffers to me, a flash of white in the space between us.
I blink, computing.
When I don’t move, he offers again, gesturing it toward me, stepping only as close as necessary to get within the radius of my reach.
“For your face,” he explains, in a voice deep and rich as coffee at midnight.
All at once, it clicks. A handkerchief. He’s offering me ahandkerchief.Dumbfounded, I reach, take it, a smart reply frozen in my throat—I know what a handkerchief’s for—as my fingertips close over the slip of fabric.
I draw my hand back to my chest, still flattened against the stone pillar, and try to conjure something to say.
“I…I’m…”
My gaze flits to the altar behind him, where the sword—because that’s indeed what it is—now lies unobstructed from view, resting on a deep red cushion.
His eyes follow mine. Then surge back to me.
“Don’t go where you’re not invited.”
My jaw falls slightly in surprise, but before I can get a word out, he turns on his heel, strides to the altar, and slips away through some unseen exit, sword and all.
