Page 17 of Heathens
With you I walk the hidden road,
To find the heartstring’s calm abode.
When we first made it up, it was just a stupid rhyme that tied us together indefinitely. But over the years, we found ourselves repeating the lines in times of need. After graduating from Boston University and moving to Paris together, we even got the first line of the rhyme tattooed on our left ribcages, underneath our hearts. It makes me sick to think about whose eyes have gazed upon her ink in the last two years.
“Hey,” Salem says, and I jump. He gives me that criminal smile again—the one that renders me incapable of all thought. He’s wearing street clothes—a black button-up and black trousers. The top button is undone.
God save me.
As he leads us out of the church, I have to shake my head and smile. I shouldn’t feel this way about him. I mean,yes, he’s undeniably handsome, and different, and enigmatic.Sure. But he’s verboten—and a few months short of being a fucking priest. And me? I’m defective, hellish, flawed. I’m the dark cloud on what was supposed to be a sunny day. The rain that ruins everything it touches.
“So, where are we headed to?” I ask as we walk out into the late afternoon warmth.
He smirks at me as we traipse through a crowd of pigeons. They scatter in every direction, and he makes an immediate left along the river.
“I know a guy.” Another left, and we’re at the back of the church. It’s almost entirely deserted back here, with the garden on our right and the stone walls on our left. Salem looks around before stepping into the rose bushes and jumping over the short fence. “Follow me.”
I frown. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be back here.” I want to laugh, because when’s the last time I cared about the rules and what’s right or wrong? I lift one leg over and then the other, pivoting so that I don’t trample the flowers. We walk along the building, skimming it until we reach a small enclave with a dumpster and a white van.
So similar to the van Evelyn and I were shoved into, unable to fight back, unable to break away from the two strong men that held us...
My chest tightens, and I hesitate. Salem continues to walk toward a door, but I don’t move an inch. He turns around once he realizes I’m no longer following him and takes a step back in my direction.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” A few more steps. He puts his hands in his pockets and gives me a warm smile. “I promise we’re not breaking that many rules.” He thinks I’m hung up on the trespassing.
“No, it’s not that.” I glance at the car and widen my eyes.
“Ah. Stirring up memories, I presume.” He nods once and walks over to the van, pulling the back door open.
I gasp.
Bouquets of fresh flowersfillthe back seats—hydrangeas, peonies, ranunculus, tuberoses, carnations...
“Father Monsignor works with local florists to decorate the church for mass. These are on their way inside, if I had to guess.”
Flowers.
Just flowers.
One is beautiful and bright; the other is dark and malevolent.
Nothing like the dirt on my fingers that night, clawing the oily, non-carpeted floor. Nothing like the smell of urine and petroleum, or the sound of Evelyn’s wailing. Nothing,nothing, like the feeling of knowing you’re probably heading to your death—knowing you might have to watch your best friend suffer.
“Wherearewe going?” I ask, my voice raspy.
He walks over to where I’m standing, that swagger once again present. My stomach somersaults. “Haven’t you ever wanted to see the parts of Notre Dame that aren’t open to the public?”
I suck in a breath of air. “Obviously.”
He regards me for a moment and then cocks his head. “Then let’s go, or we’ll miss the best part.”
I follow without another word. He takes a small key ring out of his pocket—adorned with multiple skeleton keys—and opens the arched, wooden door, heaving it open with little to no effort. I open my mouth to say something snarky, but he just furrows his brows and holds a finger to his lips.
Be quiet.
We walk down a dark, stone hallway—some sort of tunnel for the workers. The kind of thing that’s been used for centuries. I can hear voices, though I’m not sure if they’re close or far away. The sconces on the walls flicker with real candles, and I tiptoe behind him. The voices fade as we walk on. Turning left, he ushers me up a set of winding, stone stairs barely wide enough to fit me, let alone him.
“Sorry it’s so cramped,” he whispers, looking back with a devilish gleam in his eyes.
