Page 41 of Heathens
Happiness.
His eyes are bright, and he looks a bit startled, but in a good way. I must’ve run my fingers through his hair at some point, because it’s all mussed up. He’s touching his lips too.
“Salem,” I murmur, shaking my head and taking a step forward.
He breaks the distance and wraps one arm around my waist. The other lifts my chin tenderly, and he places his soft lips against mine again before I can continue. Opposed to the last kiss, which was hungry, fervent... this one is sweet, slow, romantic. My hands fall to my sides as both of his hands come up and grip the side of my face. He pulls away this time, but his face is mere inches away, his breathing labored. Our breath mixes and mingles. I reach up and put my hands on his, steadying myself.
“Salem,” I repeat, smiling.
“I know.” His eyes lock onto mine. “Don’t say it. I already know.” He grins.
“You’re going to get fired from priest school for doing that,” I tease, laughing right alongside him.
“Perhaps. But at least it was worth it.” He’s looking at me with idolization, with some sort of unexpected and undeserved devotion.
“We missed our train.”
“We were distracted.” He nips my lips with his, and then he pulls apart, looking over my shoulder. “Luckily, there’s another one coming right now.”
As the metro pulls in, Salem wraps an arm around me, pulling me in tightly as the air blows past us. I can’t stop smiling, can’t stop staring at the way he grips the leather hand hoops above our heads and wraps the other around my shoulders.
The way he sways with the jerky movements and vibrations.
The way his cheeks flush ever so slightly when he catches me watching him.
We don't say anything the entire way to the next stop, and once we're out, he leads us through the Les Halles station to the RER trains. Once we board our train, we choose two seats facing each other and talk about his family. He's catching me up on their lives so I'm not lost when I meet them. He had a Scottish-French-Catholic upbringing, not unlike the way I was brought up. Except, it seems he likes his family. Unlike me.
Killian, the eldest, is thirty-four, married, with two young children. He's a nurse, and he lives with his family in the town they all grew up in outside of Paris. As Salem describes, he's the caretaker of the bunch. He looks after their father, Bastian Tempest—a retired metalsmith. The middle brother—Felix, thirty-two—lives with his boyfriend in Montmartre, and works in Fashion. He's the wild one, the life of the party. As the youngest, Salem balances them out, being a little of both. His mother, Catriona, is treated like a saint now that she's deceased. They pray to her instead of God. They even have a shrine on their mantel.
“Tonight will probably scare you off,” Salem jokes, shaking his head and running his hand through his hair. The motion causes heat to flare through me, remembering what we were doing just a few minutes ago.
“I’m not easily scared off, Salem Tempest.”
His eyes twinkle as he smiles, rubbing his mouth with his hand and leaning forward, a conspiratorial smirk on his face. He arches an eyebrow, teasing. “Good, Lilith Damewood. Because although it’s fun chasing you, it’ll make things much harder for me if you run.”
I try to catch my breath a bit as the train barrels us through Paris. His words remind me of the party boy from the Facebook Picture, and the thought of seeing Salem likethatmakes me feel dizzy and euphoric all at once.
May the Lord Be with You
Salem
Two Hours Earlier
My jaw ticks as I wait for Father Monsignor in his office. I’ve been at the cathedral all morning and afternoon, waiting for his schedule to loosen up a bit so that I could pop in and feel him out.
I have to know.
Ineedto know.
I study the office while I wait. It’s plain, save for a few posters of bands he saw live back in the day—a way to relate to the younger crowds turning to Catholicism. He thinks the world’s youth will be the reason Catholicism will transform how people see us, so he spends a lot of time befriending them. Among his possessions scattered about, I pay close attention to the set of keys sitting in front of me. The key to the delivery van sits angled toward me, and I swallow thickly.
No.
It’s impossible.
But... I can’t forget the fear in Lily’s eyes that day we snuck in the back of the church.
The way her face went ashen, her eyes deathly still, at the sight of the van.
