Page 91 of Rogue
I bow my head and clasp my hands together. Kneeling on a pew in the last place I expected to find myself today, before an alter inside the Val-de-Grâce church. Praying God will bless me with the strength to hate Jaxson back.
“I’ll always find you,” he promised me. He loved me once. But beware of promises. Because in time, they can twist and turn and change on a dime. Andfinding meis the last thing I need from him right now.
The cathedral is as large as it is beautiful, with its painted dome and Baroque-style architecture. A perfect peaceful place to rest after exploring the tunnels beneath the church, the attached hospital, the grounds and the graveyards nearby.
“American?” I jump as a voice penetrates the silence. A priest as old as this church kneels down beside me.
Nodding, I still wonder how he guessed. With a mental eye roll, I make a promise to myself: going forward and no matter what I’m up to, I’ll wear that bleeding scarf. Frenchify myself.
The priest scrunches his nose, clearly catching a rancid whiff ofeau des catacombes.
With a softhumph, he hands me a white lace handkerchief. “Another American with an aversion toward cleanliness.”
“Cleanliness is next to godliness, after all,” I mutter, trying to act normal in a situation that’s anything but. I’d correct him and say, “What does it matter, I’m going to hell anyway?”
Except I’ve been there, done that.
“You’ve been in the catacombs.”
Yep, the gateway to hell, I think, using his handkerchief to wipe the grime off my face. “That obvious?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. I smell like a sewer rat and my fingernails look like I’ve been digging myself out of a grave.
In a way, I have been. I’m no closer to discovering Novák’s location within the catacombs than I was a week ago. The cafe in Montmartre seem to be on a Prick-free hiatus. And although I’ve returned to the teahouse on several occasions, there’s been no further sign of Novák.
Or Jaxson—a fact I’d rejoice in if the ache in my heart would only go away.
“You’re undoubtedly the American he’s looking for.” His eyes flash over my wrinkled shirt and mud-caked pants.
“What?”
“The other American would like to see you.”
The priest taps my hand, comforting me, then issues anotherhumph. “Find it in your heart to forgive him.”
I rise to my feet and peer around the small church. “Forgive?” I say, not askingForgive who?because I already know the truth. How the hell did he find me?
“Matters of the heart are often overshadowed by insecurities and doubt. Open yourself up to forgiveness. Forget your grievances.”
I’m going to throttle that Jax-ass. “Where is he?” I snap, unable to control my anger. My panic.
He turns and points upward, toward heaven. For a second, I think the worse. Dead? He’s dead. No. No. No.
I clutch my stomach, bending over and panting. Hyperventilating, while the memories come rushing back.
Blood everywhere. Seven Pricks the cause. And . . . I’m late. So horribly late.
I feel the priest’s gentle touch on my arm. “You love him?”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think straight. I can’t even choke out the truth.
But in the sage, all-knowing, godlike way priests have, he pats my arm and comforts me. “Shhh. Go. He’s waiting for you.”
My emotions are like a runaway train. Headed toward devastation with no hope in sight, only to be derailed, rolled down an embankment, and crashing flat out into the most enormous yet and devastatingly beautifully load of horse crap known to womankind. What to do—laugh or cry?
I straighten, and my gaze follows the priest’s finger, pointing in the direction of the church choir, high up in the loft at the back of the church.
“He wanted me to tell you he’s open for discussion.”
“Open for discussion . . .”
