Page 19 of Breaking Isolde
IfollowherbecauseI have to. Even when I try not to, my body moves after hers with the inevitability of a moon-pulled tide. The cold is merciless tonight, wind hammering across the abandoned quad and knifing through the open cathedral doors. She doesn’t hesitate at the threshold, doesn’t even slow—just walks in like the chapel is a temple built for her alone.
I linger outside, watching her reflection warp and bend in the ancient leaded glass. She’s methodical, always is. Pulls a notebook from her bag, checks the flash on her phone, then starts snapping pictures of the first stained glass panel. There’s nothing special about this window, except it’s directly opposite the altar, and most people never notice the hairline fractureacross the Hunter’s face. She does. The phone’s shutter click slices the silence.
What is this little wench doing now?
The air in the chapel is close and heavy, layered with the ghost of incense and a moldy tang that lives in all old churches. At the far end, tarnished candelabras flank the altar, their arms bent at weird angles from a century of abuse. Some are streaked with wax, others with rust or something that looks a lot like dried blood. The altar itself is a block of marble, black-veined and cold, carved with sigils that no one talks about in daylight.
Most people don’t come here. It’s got bad mojo, yet this wildcat decided to make knowing everything about Westpoint her business.
She moves down the aisle, stopping at each pew to scribble a note or snap another picture. She’s wearing a jacket three sizes too big for her, probably stolen from a boyfriend or maybe a thrift store. The collar is turned up to hide her mouth, but I know she’s chewing her lip—she does it every time she’s about to do something reckless.
The moon is bright enough tonight that I can track her without making a sound. I drift quietly, careful to keep my shadow long and out of her line of sight. She’s so absorbed in the act of gathering evidence, she doesn’t notice me until I’m almost on her.
Almost.
I slow my breathing to nothing. Wait. Let her get deep enough into the maze of pews that she can’t run without tripping over her own feet. She kneels at the front row, just three arm-lengths from the altar, and pulls out a pencil. Her hands are steady, even when she draws the Hunt sigil at the base of the stone—precise, fast, as if she’s memorized it from somewhere else.
She takes a picture, then another. Her face is pale in the reflected screen light. When she stands, her movement is quick and decisive.
I step out of the darkness. “Looking for the Holy Grail, or just a little light creeping?”
She jolts hard enough to knock her notebook to the floor. The pencil rolls under the first pew. She spins, and for the first time since I started watching her, I see the flash of real fear. It doesn’t last; her expression locks down into suspicion.
“What do you want?” she snaps. There’s a tremor in her voice, just one, but I catch it.
“Curiosity,” I say. “Couldn’t sleep.”
She narrows her eyes, hands curling around the edge of the pew. “You always haunt the chapel at midnight?”
“Only when there’s something worth praying for.”
She scoffs. “You expect me to believe you go to confession?”
I close the gap between us. “Everyone at Westpoint is guilty of something. Some of us just admit it.”
She shifts, puts the pew between us like it’s a seawall. “That’s not a confession. That’s an excuse.”
“Depends on the context.” I let my eyes drift to the open notebook, then back to her face. “You cataloging ghosts, or making your own?”
She scoops up the notebook, hugs it to her chest. “What do you care?”
“I’m just wondering if you know what you’re getting into.”
She straightens, chin up, defiant. “More than you think.”
The stained glass paints her face in shards of color: red over the brow, blue slicing the left cheek, a shot of yellow blazing across her lips. The hair at her temple is already wild from the wind outside, and her eyes—hard, dark, unblinking—lock onto mine with a heat I haven’t felt in years.
I put my palms on the back of the pew and lean in, not enough to threaten, just enough to block her exit.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I say. “You stop poking around in places you don’t belong, and I’ll stop pretending to care.”
She laughs, the sound sharp and ugly. “You’re scared. That’s what this is. I’m getting close, and you’re scared I’ll find something you tried to cover up.”
I smile, just enough to show a canine. “You think you’re the first one to try?”
“I think I’m the only one who can finish it,” she says. “Casey—”
The name hits me like a shot of cold water. I let her see it, just for a second.
