Page 12

12

REYES

E ven with all the commotion around the den, I still have a homily to write.

It’s tradition, a way we cling to some semblance of normalcy. Most days of the week, we’re raiding Heavenly Host bases, scavenging, or working in the fields. At night, we cook, play salvaged board games, and listen to Charlotte play her fiddle.

And on Sundays, we go to church.

The mornings are quiet, the kind of stillness that must be sacred. We gather in the outdoor chapel and I stand at the music stand to read my homily, where the sun filters through the live oaks and paints everything in gold. Some people come with their breakfast in hand, some with crafts for their kids. The preschool teacher, Magnolia, always makes sure to have supplies on hand.

Elijah sits in the back, his legs sprawled out, always with that irreverent smirk like he’s daring me to say something that’ll convince him. Suyin meditates off to the side, her hands resting lightly on her knees. Grant usually arrives late, claiming “divine intervention” made him miss the start–but he’s there.

I try not to preach. Grant gives me enough grief as it is.

It’s not about faith for most of them—it’s about marking time. A moment to share what we’ve found, what we’ve lost, and what we’re fighting for.

And for me, it’s a chance to remind myself that even in this chaos, there’s still something holy about coming together.

This week, though, I’m struggling…because I’ve changed.

Tilda’s presence has changed me.

I shouldn’t think about her this way. Every time her scent reaches me—blackberries, so delicious my mouth waters even at the thought of her—it feels like a betrayal of everything I swore to uphold. I remember the last homily I gave in San Antonio, weeks before the Convergence. Standing at the pulpit, the congregation murmuring the Lord’s Prayer in unison. The peace I felt then, the certainty in my purpose—it’s a distant memory now, blurred by blood and war.

And then there’s Tilda. She’s fire and thorns and raw earth, and I’m drawn to her in ways I can’t explain. My wolf calls her mine, insistent and primal, a voice I can’t seem to silence.

It’s wrong. But it feels inevitable, powerful, like something outside myself.

What if that’s God talking? What’s more divine than the feeling of rightness one feels with the person they were destined for?

And then…there’s the earth, the farm. The soil between my fingers, underneath my nails, the seedlings sprouting green against the gray of our lives—Tilda has brought that back into focus too. She’s a symbol of life, fertility, renewal.

My wolf, of course, is convinced she’s my mate. That claim roars louder every day, insistent and primal. That breeding her would be the truest form of devotion, a way to serve both her and God.

The wolf is wrong.

But still.

By the time Saturday night rolls around, I’ve made no progress. The words won’t come, and the blank page stares back at me like a judgment. I don’t know what being a priest even means anymore, not when my vow of celibacy feels as fragile as dried leaves in the face of Tilda’s presence.

A knock at the door interrupts my spiral, and I take it as a sign to stay the course.

“Come in,” I say, immediately catching the harshness of my tone.

The door creaks open, and Elijah steps inside, his cautious grin like a peace offering.

“Hey, tío ,” he says.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” I mutter.

“Alright then—Father Garza?”

I groan. “Reyes is fine. You’re marrying my niece, after all.”

“Thus the tío ,” he says, smirking. “But fine. Reyes. I actually wanted to ask you something.”

“Go on.”

He leans against the wall, arms crossed. Always guarded, this one. I think he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop—for someone to rescind his place here because of his past as a crusader.

“Well,” he starts, “I already talked to Charlotte’s grandparents, but since you’re the closest thing she has to a dad, I figured I should ask for your blessing.”

I stiffen at the word “blessing,” the familiar sting of it prickling under my skin. It’s a word the Angels twisted into something cruel, a mockery of grace.

“You want my blessing,” I say, the words coming out sharper than I intended.

Elijah doesn’t flinch. “I do,” he says simply.

For a moment, I consider saying no. Not because of him—he’s proven himself loyal—but because giving my blessing feels like a concession. Like admitting the world has changed so much that I don’t even recognize the role I’m supposed to play in it anymore.

But then I think of Charlotte. The way she lights up when he’s around, her laugh unguarded and free. My brother would’ve wanted this for her.

“Of course,” I say. “She’s your mate. But more than that, I can see how much you care for her. My brother would’ve wanted the man his daughter marries to worship the ground she walks on.”

“That I do,” Elijah says, his half-smile softening into something earnest. “On that note... Charlotte would really like it if you walked her down the aisle. We’re doing the whole thing: processional, vows, the works. Just like in the romance books she loves.”

“You don’t want me to perform the ceremony?”

“Peaches is doing it. Non-religious. Hope that’s okay.”

I swallow the ache that rises at the thought of the life Charlotte never got to have—with her parents, in a world untouched by the Convergence. “Of course,” I say. “And when’s this happening?”

“Next week. She’s ready to tie the knot, and honestly, I’m not inclined to wait either.”

I nod. “You’re a good man, Elijah. I’m glad she found someone who wants to do right by her.”

We lapse into silence, awkward but not uncomfortable. Elijah shifts, hands shoved into his pockets.

“Alright,” he says. “Guess I’ll go.”

“Wait,” I say. “Did you get her a ring?”

He winces. “Forgive the profanity, Father, but…where the fuck am I supposed to get a ring around here?”

I sigh, shaking my head. “Give me a second.”

I cross to the cabinet by the wall, my fingers hesitating on the latch before I open it. The old wooden doors creak, revealing a cluttered collection of notebooks, boxes, and neatly hung clothes—organized, but barely. My hand moves instinctively to the top shelf, brushing aside a battered copy of The Book of Psalms and a stack of frayed papers.

There it is.

A small cardboard box, its edges softened by time, tucked in the far corner like a forgotten relic. I pull it down and place it carefully on the desk. My chest tightens as I lift the lid, the faint scent of cedar rising from the worn interior. Inside, nestled among a few yellowed photos and an old pocket watch, lies the ring.

It’s a plain gold band, unadorned and weathered, the kind of thing you’d barely notice unless it meant something. I pick it up, rolling the cool metal between my fingers, my thumb tracing the subtle imperfections—scratches and nicks that tell their own story of the man who wore it.

For a moment, I hesitate.

This was Manuel’s. My brother’s. The last tangible piece of him I have left, a reminder of the life he never got to finish. He wore it every day after he got married, never took it off.

I’ve carried it all these years, unsure if I’d ever find a use for it—or if I’d just keep it as a memento, tucked away where it couldn’t hurt me.

But now, it has a purpose.

I turn back to Elijah, holding the ring out in my palm. “You can give her this.”

He stares at it, his expression softening into something I haven’t seen often from him—pure reverence. His fingers brush over the worn metal, careful, almost hesitant, as if he’s afraid to take it.

“She’ll have to wear it on a chain,” I say, my voice quieter now. “It was her father’s. I’ve kept it all these years, not knowing what to do with it.”

Elijah swallows hard, his gaze fixed on the ring. “You’re sure?”

I nod, a lump forming in my throat. “It’s where it belongs.”

His thumb grazes the band, and for a moment, I see something unguarded in his eyes—gratitude mixed with the weight of understanding. “Thank you,” he says softly.

I look away, focusing on the cluttered cabinet, pretending I need to put something back in order. It’s easier than meeting his gaze, easier than confronting the ache in my chest.

“It’s what Manuel would’ve wanted,” I say finally, closing the cabinet with a firm push.

Elijah pockets the ring with care, his shoulders relaxing as if he’s found something he didn’t realize he was missing. “I’ll make sure she knows,” he says.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’ve let go of something—like the weight I’ve carried for years has shifted, if only slightly.

When I look back at Elijah, he’s smiling, his gratitude plain. “I think this is the part where we hug, right?”

I chuckle. “Give it until the wedding. Then, maybe.”

When he leaves, I sit back at my desk, the weight of the day settling over me. My wolf stirs, restless and ever-present, making my skin feel too tight. I feel it in my shoulders, my chest—like I’m growing too big for this space, too big for the man I used to be.

The words come to me then.

I pick up my pen, the familiar weight of it steadying my hand, and start to write. At first, the words come slow, disjointed. But then they pour out in a rush, like water breaking through a dam.

I write about the things that endure—love, family, the land beneath our feet. About the cycles of growth and renewal, the hope that springs up even in the darkest places. I think about Manuel’s ring, about Charlotte and Elijah’s wedding, about the seedlings we planted together this week.

And through it all, I think about her.

Tilda, with her sharp tongue and restless spirit. The way she tilts her head when she’s thinking, or the faint smile she doesn’t realize she’s giving when she looks out at the sky.

By the time I set the pen down, the moon is high, the den quiet. I lean back in my chair, exhausted but strangely at peace.

I know the words I’ve written aren’t just for the pack.

They’re for her.