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He put his palms on the table and leaned into his arms. I tightened my grip on the knife. One swipe would slice off his sprawled fingers. I would use that moment of surprise, aim the knife up and bury it in his throat.

“May I sit?” he asked with a thick Irish accent.

I made no answer.

He leaned in closer. “Please den’ be afraid. I am only curious.” He paused. Waited.

The dagger’s hilt burned in my grip. I didn’t respond.

A few heartbeats later, he straightened his stance and opened his coat. Underneath, he donned a black button-down cassock, a rosary, and a white collar.

“May I sit?” His brogue softened the vowels.

I remained silent and paranoid.

He kept his post and tilted his head. “Are ye still peckish?”

If I ignored him long enough, would he go away?

He motioned to the bartender. “Em…Lloyd? Another boul of your insatiable stew.”

Lloyd’s shuffle faded into the kitchen.

The hovering presence held out his hand. Scars bubbled across his knuckles, some freshly pink. “I’m Father Roark Molony.”

He waited, allowing me to peruse him. I struggled to believe this man was a priest. His course dialect and bulky physique suggested a harder life. Yet, I’d wager his age was close to mine. I studied his eyes, his deep pools of jade. Behind them, I saw a disciplined constitution. And he smiled when he saw the woman behind mine.

I wasn’t sure if it was my Catholic upbringing that brought on my moment of weakness, but I surprised and frightened myself when I motioned across the table and said, “Please sit, Father.”

He lowered his hand and descended into the chair. The movement revealed a shoulder rig and a scabbard on his belt.

I flexed my fingers on the knife and used my other hand to slide my hood back a few inches. “What gave me away?”

His lips twisted. “Your dainty fingers and small stature.”

At least he didn’t blame my attempts to walk like a man. “I’m Eveline Delina. Evie.”

He widened his eyes and gasped. “Hallowed be thy name.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your name. Eve.” He stroked the cross hanging from his neck and stared at me.

I blinked, pretending ignorance to the obvious reference. “It’s Evie.”

“Right. Ye know the book of Genesis? Genesis 3:20, ‘The man named his wife Eve, because she would become the mother of all the living.’”

I dropped my head as Lloyd slid another bowl of stew on the table. When he returned to the bar, I raised my eyes. “Of course I know it, Father. And to this woman, your god said, I will make your pains in childbearing very severe; with pain you will give birth to children. Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you. Let us be clear. You will not preach your dogma to me. I served my time in the Catholic Church and I have no use for it.”

He bristled. “No offense intended.”

Damn my temper and cursed Catholic guilt trip. I forced a steady exhale. “Besides Father, given the current affairs, shouldn’t you be looking for someone from the book of Revelations?”

“Perhaps.” He smiled. A boyish smile I found comforting. But that strong chin made it sexy. I shoved the thought away.

“Please call me Roark.” He swallowed. “Are there others? Women?”

I tilted the bowl to my mouth and shook my head. “I’ve come a long way”—the stew was lukewarm sliding down my throat—”and I haven’t seen any. Human women, that is.”

He closed his eyes and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. “How is it that you’re here? When no other women survived?”

I sat back and sheathed the blade. Did a day go by when I wasn’t asking myself that question? “Can’t find that answer in your bible?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. Was my disrespect amusing him?

Broth sloshed out of my bowl, quivering as it escaped. Was my hand shaking? Or was it the room? I set it down and rubbed the gooseflesh on my arms.

The temperature dropped, and the air seemed to swirl and gather by the front door. A mist of smoke seeped from the keyhole and, within it, floated Annie. A grin lit her face and her feet found the floor, framed in tendrils of gray fog. The folds of her eyelet dress licked her legs as she skipped to the bar, curly pigtails bouncing.

I trembled, unable to meet Roark’s eyes, though I could feel them on me. He couldn’t see her, my delusion.

At the bar, she reached for the circle of sconces. I pressed myself into the chair when her fingers neared the candles. She brushed over one burning wick as she chanted.

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood

Her grin fell, and her head jerked toward the door.

And burbled as it came!

Her fingers melted into the flame. The skin on her arm, then her body, followed the liquidation.