Page 8 of Crossed
“Cade Frédéric!” Sister Agnes screeches, her voice echoing off the concrete walls in the dining hall.
I cower behind the longest table in the back, trying to conceal myself in the corner, keeping to the shadows and hoping that she can’t see. If she finds me, she’ll surely take the belt to me again, and I still haven’t healed from last week when I stole that new boy’s toy. This time, I didn’t do anything.
Not really.
Footsteps draw near, and I hunch down farther, sliding from being on my knees to on my belly, trying to keep myself as flat to the floor as I can. My eyes are peeled for a sign of her, and my heart shoots to my throat when I see her plain black shoes stomping into the room. She moves closer, and with every step, my stomach sinks, regret for losing control of myself and smashing those plates in the kitchen hitting me full force.
But I was just so…angry. And I needed to get it out.
Her footsteps halt right in front of the table where I’m hiding, and her knees crack as she crouches down, her habit making her seem even more threatening than if she was in plain clothes.
Her lips pinch. “Come out from under there this instant.”
My stomach drops and I crawl out from beneath the table, my head down and my hands clasped behind my back, but I don’t say a word. I don’t like to speak English with her. I stumble over my words and forget proper phrasing. Every time I mess up, she adds another lashing.
She reaches forward and grips my ear tightly, twisting until it feels like she might rip it off altogether. I hiss but know better than to fight against the pain.
“I see you’ve made a mess of things again, child. Always getting into trouble. Do you know how much money you’ve cost us this time? Dozens of dishes, shattered in the kitchen. So much destruction for a five- year- old.”
“Je suis désolé,” I mumble.
She twists my ear harder. “English, child.”
“S- sorry, Sister. I’m sorry,” I stutter.
She lets go of my ear, pain radiating down the entire left side of my face as she does.
“What caused you to do it this time?” She looks down her nose at me.
“André’s p-parents came back for him.”
She crosses her arms. “And that made you angry?”
I nod. It did make me angry. And jealous. “Oui.”
Sighing, she says, “It isn’t your fault, Cade. You’re sick.”
Swallowing, I nod again. “I know.”
“Come on.” She grips my arm and drags me behind her through the dining hall and into the kitchen. Dozens of shattered dishes litter the ground, and she places me in the center of them before walking over to grab a thick wooden spoon.
When she’s standing directly in front of me, she leans in close, her gaze meeting mine. It’s quick, but I swear I see her pupils dilate and a flash of black coast across her eyes. It makes my shoulders tense and my mouth run dry.
“There’s a monster in you, child. And God wants me to beat it out.”
Sighing, I come out of the memory and glance down at the calendar that takes up the majority of the empty space on my desk, a reminder that my duties are ingraining myself into the spaces here, getting to know the parish, overseeing the curate— Father Jeremiah, the apprentice of mine whom I’ve yet to meet. I’m here to lead people back onto the path of Christ. To help Festivalé become a righteous land instead of a sinful pit.
I already know I’ll be doing none of those things today.
Instead, I follow Parker, needing to know more about the man who has the ear of the bishop and the stink of corruption.
Chapter3
Amaya
IHOP OFF THE BUS AT THE EDGE OF CARNIVAL
Street, heading around the corner to where the Chapel sits, the strip club I’ve danced at for the past three years. A bright purple cross—shattered in the middle— flickers above gold neon lights, like a homing beacon for the depraved to gather.
