Page 26 of Crossed
He nods. “You’d think but…after they moved here, things started to fall apart in Festivalé. Poverty started hitting the streets. People strayed from the path of God.”
My stomach sours. “People blame Amaya’s mother for the downturn of this town?”
Jeremiah shakes his head. “People blameAmaya.”
“Non, la sorcière?”
Is it possible she’s truly using witchcraft?She ensnares me so easily.
He nods. “Cursed, at the very least. Ever since she’s come to town, it’s been nothing but trouble. The only reason she hasn’t been run out is because Mr. Errien won’t allow it. He has a soft spot for her, I think.”
I stare at the empty space where she was moments ago. I wonder if I breathe deeply enough whether I’d be able to inhale her scent or if it’s faded away as fast as her physical form. “She’s all alone then?”
He frowns. “She shouldn’t be here.”
“All God’s children are welcome,” I reprimand.
“She’s beyond saving, Father.”
I clench my jaw, half of me wanting to reprimand him for not accepting my word as law and the other half reveling in the thought of being the one to rid her from the earth. If what he says is true, then she has a demon inside her that needs to be eradicated.
And it’s up to me to free her soul.
“No one is beyond saving. That’s why I’m here.”
Chapter10
Cade
ITHROW THE PEN DOWN AND RUN MY HAND through my hair, tugging on the roots. I’ve been trying to write Sunday’s homily for the past two hours, but my mind keeps wandering back to Amaya like a nightmare that lingers in the daytime.
I’m not somebody who believes in love at first sight, and I’m under no illusion that what I feel for her is anything close to the emotion, but clearly lust has dug its talons deep. Just a moment in her presence and she’s become the biggest temptation of my life.
Glancing down at my words on the paper, I curl my lip, hating the red lines marked through the passages.
It needs to be perfect, but I can tell with every swipe of my pen that my personal demons are slipping into the teachings.
For the first time, I wonder ifIneed the reminder as much as everyone else. I shake my head to dispel the ridiculous notion. I just need to kill Amaya, that’s all. As long as she’s around, she’ll be a distraction, and I’ve never needed focus and clarity more than I do right now. Maybe she’s a test sent from God.
Clicking my tongue against the back of my teeth, I flick my gaze between the clock on the wall and the papers on my desk, debating what I should do. It’s already the evening, and it’s painfully obvious that I’m unprepared for the morning’s Holy Mass, but the need for preparation dulls like sunshine on an overcast day when my mind clouds with thoughts of Amaya. Where she is. What she’s doing.
Before I can stop myself, I’m leaving the church entirely, and when I end up nearing the bus stop at the end of the block— having memorized the schedule that runs to Coddington Heights, the town where Amaya works—I slip off the collar from around my neck, shoving it deep in my jacket’s pocket.
Because I’ve memorized the schedule, I know there’s twenty minutes before the next bus, and in that time, I’ve halfway convinced myself to turn around, but my feet are rooted to the ground like they’re covered in cement.
I’m going to kill her tonight.
The thought is quite erotic, actually. There’s something so deeply satisfying about hunting my prey. A heady rush of capturing them and holding their life in my hands.
Large round headlights cut through the crisp December evening, blinding me to reason as the bus rolls down the street, brakes whirring and screeching as it pulls to a stop, the accordion door opening, a large plume of smoke emitting from the back. I move onto the steps, glancing over the empty seats before tucking my chin into my neck and sitting at the very front so I can get off quickly if I need.
It’s mostly empty.
There’s an older man with a pot belly in the middle row, his eyes closed and arms crossed as he leans against the window, and a young woman in the very back, her eyes glued to the screen of her phone. Giant headphones cover the sides of her face like earmuffs. I don’t pay any more attention to them, and they completely ignore me, which is just as well. So far at least, anonymity still has its grip on me. But I know that after Holy Mass tomorrow, that won’t be the case.
The bus lurches forward, and then we’re on our way out of Festivalé. Just like that, there’s no turning back, not that I would even if there was. Adrenaline percolates through my veins in a steady drip, nerves dancing beneath my skin like sparks of fire, that dark feeling I keep locked up in the daytime eager to come out and play.
It takes over an hour to get to Coddington Heights, and before I can blink, I’m at the Chapel, paying the twenty-dollar entry fee and hiding in the shadows, the same way I did last time.
