Page 43 of The Maiden and Her Monster

Malka smelled the chapel first. Musty and drenched in frankincense and the stale, warm scent of burning flora and smoke.

The chapel dwarfed her, spanning upward so high she strained her neck to follow the beams which crisscrossed the domed ceiling adorned with frescoes.

Gems glittered in gold dots along the wall, the images surrounding them coming to life as the light flickered across the paint.

The murals depicted Saint Wenaska’s life—the Ozmini patron saint of Ordobav.

In one scene, he appeared honorable. A sword and a cross folded into his hands, crown gleaming across the crest of his head.

In another, the scene of his assassination, where his hated brother killed him for his role in uniting the Rha?kan Empire.

The story of the patron saint had always been mysterious to Malka.

She had never considered herself Ordobavian because the Order had never treated her as such.

They were Yahad only, and that was fine with Malka.

Though now she questioned why Ordobav was only for the Ozmins, deemed by their beloved martyr and patron saint.

The king commanded her, yet abandoned her people.

Light filtered in from the stained-glass window in shades of purple, blue, green, and yellow. They shone onto the altar, turning it into something otherworldly.

Outside, the wind blew, and the pews creaked, the high-pitch whistle of a singing choir.

Malka suppressed a shiver and ran her hand along the back of a wooden pew.

She felt out of place as a Yahad, to be somewhere so sacred to others that held no meaning to her.

Saint Wenaska’s eyes followed her as she crossed the chapel and Malka wondered if the saint could see through to her deceit.

“I didn’t think you were coming.”

Nimrah leaned against the back of a pew, hood drawn heavy across her face.

Malka had known she was here—had sensed it as she neared the chapel. Her mind steadying with each step, the nausea settling, replaced with the burdensome waxing heat of their nearness.

“There was a hiccup,” Malka said, breathy.

Malka untucked the folded map from her pocket, smoothing the paper beneath her fingers.

“The map shows that the entrance to the dungeons should be somewhere along this back wall.” She squinted at the ornate wooden Ozmini symbols which decorated the wall.

In front of them, the wooden confessional booths, covered by purple curtains, obscured any entrance there might have been.

“They must have concealed the entrance with these booths.”

Nimrah sighed in frustration. “I don’t—”

Conversation cracked through the silence of the chapel and the shadows of two men danced on the walls before they entered the room.

Nimrah yanked Malka hard and fast into one of the confessional booths to hide them, the curtain blanketing them in darkness.

Only a faint shard of light fell through, cutting across Nimrah’s face like a scythe.

Nimrah swallowed Malka’s gasp with her hand, just as she had done when Malka nearly woke the water dragon.

The map fluttered to the ground.

In a space only meant for one, the booth pressed them close.

Nimrah’s unnatural height forced her to hunch, bringing her chin a hair’s breadth from Malka’s forehead.

Each labored breath pressed their bodies together, each hot tendril of Nimrah’s exhale against Malka’s skin feeding the insatiable, delirious hunger she had painstakingly buried.

When Nimrah lifted her palm from Malka’s lips, it was a slow and laborious movement. She dragged the pads of her fingers across Malka’s cheek, her chin, the crest of her jaw, until Nimrah’s hands settled against the wall, ensnaring Malka between them.

Malka told herself Nimrah caged her for balance, to prevent the booth from creaking with their shifting weight. Yet the vestiges of Nimrah’s calloused fingers heated her skin still.

The scythe of light betrayed the bob of Nimrah’s neck and the waver of her lips. What a monster she was, her face half stone, veins forest green. And how wretched it was that the monstrous parts of Nimrah made Malka want to step closer, like Abayda the Mystic to the forbidden book.

Her wanting would be the death of her.

“ I will set out more incense for the afternoon service, ” one of the men said, voice muffled by the curtain.

Malka could hardly focus. Nimrah’s heated gaze fell to her in the dark.

When Nimrah’s mouth parted, Malka’s attention drew to her lips.

They were as plush as the velvet curtain that hid them.

She wanted to caress her thumb across Nimrah’s bottom lip, see what she would do if Malka slipped her finger inside of her mouth.

Nimrah must have sensed her desire, for the box creaked as Nimrah pressed her leg harder between Malka’s thighs. Malka choked on a gasp.

“Did you hear something?”

“It’s the wind. You know how it blows through the wooden pews.”

In their haste to hide, Nimrah’s hood had flown off and her hair fell in messy waves around her shoulders—a dark and wild mane to match the monster.

Even as the threat enveloped her, Malka lifted her hand and gently coiled some of the inky strands around her finger.

Nimrah tensed, staring at Malka’s pale finger in the abyss of her hair. Frowned at it.

Good. She should hate it. Hate her the way Malka hated in return.

Nimrah’s hand left the wall and dropped to Malka’s hip, her thumb caressing the opening of Malka’s apron pocket.

This was something worse than hate.

Nimrah’s face held pain tightly—so subtle one could not decipher it if not for a betrayal of her eyes, wavering like storm clouds. They betrayed the lust that hid there, confirmed by the dart of her tongue across her lips.

“Malka.” Her whisper was soft. Wanting. Warning.

Malka swallowed. Hearing her name, said like that, made her almost forget what brought them there in the first place.

Nimrah’s fate was to die in exchange for Imma’s life. It was the deal they had made from the beginning and Malka wouldn’t fail Imma again. She would not fail Hadar or Danya and the promise she had made to them both.

This was nothing but the intensity of the rooting spell. It clouded her mind like a manta joint—loosened her thoughts like wine. Betraying her again.

Monster. Murderer. Monster. Murderer.

Malka stepped back, desperate to put space between them, between her and the monster she was meant to hate. But her foot caught on a small hitch in the wood. A click echoed through the small space, and the wooden paneling on the back of the box swung open.

The door to the tunnel. It was hidden inside the confessional.

Nimrah’s gaze was on her, but Malka did not look back. Instead, she rushed through the entrance.

Small and dingy, the tunnel stank of mildew and grime. It curved around them so tight it was hardly a reprieve from the confessional booth. Though, Malka was grateful Nimrah couldn’t see the pink biting the top of her ears.

Nimrah unhooked a wooden torch from its sconce, then handed it to Malka. “You can light it with Kefesh if you write in the tallow.” Her voice was still rough, and Malka pretended not to notice.

Instead, Malka took the torch. She began to mold the word for light into the tallow with her finger: ??? . Ohr . A flame ignited on the torch, warming the space around them in golden firelight. Malka shocked herself with the ease of her command. She teetered the glowing torch around, marveling.

The passageway was musty with disuse. With each step, small pebbles peeled from the rock and fell around them.

Malka stole a glance at Nimrah over her shoulder and was met only with Nimrah’s steely gaze. Gone were the unguarded expressions of pain and lust which had plagued the golem only minutes ago.

Good. It was better that way.

They walked trepidatiously, only their gait and the slow drops of moisture interrupting the hollow silence. Until men’s voices carried through the tunnel.

“Extinguish the flame,” Nimrah whispered, and Malka suffocated the flame in the dirt.

Trailing her hand against the wall to guide her, she turned a corner. Light skidded across the stone walls from iron torches.

A set of guardsmen came into view, mirror images of each other as they stood stoic at both sides of the locked gate. The guard closest to them looked around Abba’s age with a dusting of ginger hair. The other was much younger and had a sizeable scar across his cheek.

“Stay here,” Nimrah ordered, so low, Malka barely heard her.

Nimrah flattened her palm to the ground. A vine sprouted between her fingers, studded with thorns. It traveled like a snake and slithered up to meet the younger guard’s full height.

The guard bared his sword and shouted to his counterpart before swinging his blade through the vine.

It hit the ground with a thump. But that snake was only a distraction, as Nimrah already had another one slithering toward them, twisting itself around the older guard’s neck before he fell, blue-faced.

The younger guard shouted, hands tight around his sword. “Show yourself!”

While Nimrah sent another snake-like vine, Malka cowered behind the corner of the wall. She didn’t know how to fight, nor did she have Abba’s dagger. She was too afraid it would’ve foiled her cover as scullery maid if someone discovered it.

Something sharp poked her back. She flinched, the shadow of a man appearing behind her.

“Who are you?” he demanded, digging the sword further into her skin. She cried out as the blade pierced through the back of her vest, hot blood welling under her blouse.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Nimrah appeared in front of the guard, tall and menacing. Vines circled her arms and slithered around her hands.

Malka felt for the wall beside her.

“The golem!” the younger guard exclaimed. Bewilderment had shaken his resolve, but he collected himself swiftly. He slit his eyes and raised his sword again.