Page 54 of Heathens
I can’t—can’t—move. A group of tourists titters by, looking at me with amusement. I want to clobber them.
I look up at the church.
I want to burn the fucking place down.
Salem rushes up to me and grabs my shoulders with his hands, but I pull out of his grip.
“Where is she?” I snarl, fueling my hatred for Auguste into my voice.
“I don’t know,” he says sternly. “Lily, I just found out tonight. I had—I hadnoidea.”
“Before dinner?” I squeak, my voice shaky. And then it hits me—his weird behavior, the kiss, the drinking... he knew. He knew hours ago.
Salem blanches. Everything begins to spin. “Yes. I was going to tell you tonight. I swear.”
“Are you—are you—” I can’t get the words out before I begin choking on my sobs.
“No. Lily. No,” he repeats, his voice low, rough. “I would never,” he adds, taking a step toward me.
I feel my body begin to shake, and I touch my hand to my lips. “Do you know where Evelyn is?”
He shakes his head quickly. “No. As I said, I only found out tonight.“
I straighten, looking at Salem and narrowing my eyes between ragged breaths. His forehead is pinched in worry, and his hands are fidgeting at his side. And his eyes—the truth-tellers—are wide and tormented. Salem—the man who danced with me in the dark. Salem—my friend, the person who brought a trickle of light into my life all those weeks ago in an ornate, wooden confessional. Salem—the man who told me, not even twenty minutes ago, that he was willing to give everything up.
For me.
“Tell me everything,” I whisper, trying to still my shaking.
Nodding, he sags a bit before taking another step toward me. This time, I let him envelop me in a tight embrace. “I was going to tell you everything, Lily,” he says, his voice breaking on my name. “There was never any other option for me. I value honesty above all else. I just needed to find the right time.”
I pull away slowly and wipe the tears off of my face, looking at his pained face.
I believe him. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand the fact that he—Auguste—is so close.”
“Of course.” No hesitation in his voice or demeanor.
No trepidation.
He is not working with Auguste Martin. Thank. God.
He looks back at the cathedral as we walk away, an arm slung loosely around my shoulders.
And then I see it, clear as day, written all over his face.
The corded neck, the clenched jaw, the flared nostrils.
The hatred.
The inferno.
The ire and wrath of Salem Tempest.
Just a Couple of Heathens
Lily
Present
