Page 45

“Thanks be to God,” I say along with the rest of the parish. As Callum follows the procession down the nave, I turn toward the little door behind me, where I know June will come out of any moment. I want to steal her away from here before her rotten parents cause any more chaos. More than once I caught their eyes on me during Mass. Daren’s black eye continued to bring a smile to my face for the entire hour and a half.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I quickly pull it out. As I’d hoped, it’s the text from Rowan I’ve been waiting for.

Rowan: You owe me big. Took all night to find. Also, thank Willow cause she’s the one who actually found anything. Here’s an article from Belmouth about the convent and the fire. Seems like there were a ton of deaths and disappearances, only a handful of survivors.

Me: Deaths? Belmouth is a small town. The kind that’d memorialize a big event like that.

Rowan sent back a shrug emoji.

Me: Well, thanks. Anything else?

Rowan: I saw mention of a survivor in Boston. Marina Morales. She was a nun in the convent when it burned down.

I take a deep breath. Finally , a lead.

Me: Thanks, Row. Really.

Rowan: Thank Willow too before she flies there and kicks your ass.

I huff a breath.

Me: Priests don’t curse, fuckface.

Now he sends an emoji of a donkey. Hell, I didn’t even know they had an emoji for that.

I slide my phone back in my pocket and go to find June just as she bursts through the door and into my arms.

“We have to go,” she pants in a panicky voice. “We have to go now .” Before I know it, she’s grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the back hallway. I follow her without restraint, but it is only now that I see the tear in her skirt, the shuddering in her shoulders.

I squeeze her hand just after we pass through the door and pull her into me. Her doe eyes are wide, pupils dilated.

“What happened?” I demand more than ask. Cupping her cheeks, I take in her expression. She’s terrified. “Daren?”

June feverishly shakes her head. “No, not him. But we have to go . Now, Marcelo.”

I curse under my breath but run down the hall to our room. She quickly kicks off her skirt, replacing it with a new one.

“Where are we going?” I ask, following her lead and replacing the priest uniform with a fitted black tee, jeans, and boots.

“Boston.”

I turn to her and stare. “Boston.” I don’t have to ask her what’s there—Rowan just told me.

June moves into action again, huddling Diablo into her arms. “I—I don’t want to leave him here,” she mumbles.

I place my hand on her back as I shove my mask and knife in my pocket. “Bring him. Fucker’ll have to deal with it if he doesn’t like car rides.” I grab my hoodie and follow June out the door.

“How long does it take to get from here to Boston?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I’ve only done the trip a few times. I think about two and a half hours.”

June slides into the car the moment I open the door for her, Diablo putting up no fight as he’s jostled along with her. As I peel out of the parking lot, I light a cigarette and lower the window. “All right, what happened?” I demand.

Scratching the cat’s chin, June bites her lip. “I was coming downstairs and . . .” She hesitates, searching for the words. “And what happened in the hallway with the imps—the day I found out you were my masked man—happened again.”

My head snaps to her. “You saw the shadow figure again?”

“Well, yes. But . . .” she huffs a breath, “This wasn’t him.”

Before I can ask what she means, she straightens in the bench and scooches closer to me, her thigh touching mine as Diablo jumps into the back seat. June grips my upper thigh as if she’s holding on for dear life.

“I had a dream the other night. When you left the room and I found you in the confessional. The horned shadow demon was in the convent, and he said something. He . . . didn’t feel scary. Not like those freaky imps that day, and definitely not like what I faced today.”

“Demons lie,” I interrupt.

“I know,” she sighs. “But, Marcelo, it was different. He said some things I didn’t understand. But, today . . . today there was another demon. A demon leading the imps. The horned one saved me. He stopped the other demon from . . .”

June trails off, and my mind immediately goes to the slit in her skirt.

My grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles going white. “Did it hurt you?”

A corner of her lip lifts. “It tried to. But”—June pulls out the rosary from beneath her shirt—“this also saved me. Right after the demon burned himself, the horned one came and stopped him. He told me to leave. To go—”

“To Boston.”

June nods. “And to find—”

“Let me guess. Marina Morales.”

Her head snaps back as her eyebrows scrunch together. “Ho—How do you know?”

I grab the wheel with the hand holding my cigarette and pull out my phone. “Rowan texted me with the same name. Apparently, Miss Morales is one of the sole survivors of the convent burning.”

June shifts, facing the front again, but still pressed against me. “How do we find her?”

I take a puff of my cigarette and throw it out, not wanting to get anymore of the smoke on my precious little songbird. “Rowan was the one who texted me, but Willow was the one who found the information. Maybe she can find us an address too.”

I dial Willow, but—of course—she doesn’t pick up. In fact, it goes so quickly to voicemail, I’m pretty sure she’s got her phone on “do not disturb.” Which means—I can break through it. I call her over and over again, until a frazzled, raspy voice yells, “God dammit, what?!”

June flinches at the volume.

“Willow, I need you to find something.”

“ Cono carajo , do you know what time it is?” she screams.

I keep my voice level, knowing it’ll piss her off even more. Which I find incredibly fun. “Yes. Eleven a.m.”

“You know never to call me before one! It’s the rules!” I hear ruffling in the background, the tossing of sheets, the smacking of pillows. “Wasn’t the article and the lady’s name enough?”

“Well . . . no,” I say matter-of-factly. From the corner of my eye, I see June bite back a laugh. “I need her address, Will. June and I are going now.”

“You and June, ay?” I practically see her eyebrows wiggling. “Weird fucking date, but okay.” The sound of keyboard clicking takes over the phone for a moment before she blurts, “By the way, I’m a video editor. Not a hacker. You could find this lady’s address just as easily as I can.”

I know she’s lying. The girl took IT classes for four years in high school, worked in the field during college, and only later realized her true passion was for editing. She also is an avid true crime fan, considering herself an internet sleuth, and lives on the internet so . . . I know she knows her way around a computer way better than me.

“Anyway, I found it.” Bingo. “I’ll text it over to you now.”

“Thank you,” I coo.

“Don’t call me early again,” she hisses, and then, in a brighter tone, “Bye, June!”

June’s doe-eyes widen. “Ah, b—bye!” she stutters. So fucking cute.

Willow hangs up and, not even a second later, I get the address to an apartment in the heart of Boston. On the drive, I make June tell me every single detail of the encounters she’s had with the demons. I rack my brain trying to figure out what the demon meant in her dream but come up short.

With my hand now braced on her up thigh, I gently squeeze her skin. Something touched my songbird, and I have every intention of reclaiming what’s mine.

My fingers graze her inner thigh, running over the jagged little stretch marks, and something about her soft, textured skin immediately calms me. June shivers next to me, her thighs pressing around my fingers.

“What . . .” she begins, “What demon is affecting us?”

I squeeze her thigh, pausing. “How do we know there has ever been a demon affecting us?” I turn to look at her briefly. “I know what I feel for you is real. There’s never been a doubt that you are the reason I’ve become feral. How do we know the visions and the bouts haven’t just been . . . us the entire time?”

She grabs my wrist, pulling it from her thigh. “I’m not saying it isn’t us,” she breathes. I half expect her to place my hand on the wheel and slide to the far end of the bench. But instead, she gently guides my hand to the center of her thighs. With her hand over mine, she presses my fingers against her panties, feeling the heat emanate from her pussy, the damp, slippery wetness already present. “Look what you do to me with just a caress. I know it’s you doing this to my body—not the demons. But . . .” she says, letting go of my wrist, but leaving my hand free to wander. “The bouts started before you came. And they’re different. They’re dirty and wrong and nearly painful from how bad it demands something from me.” June slowly lifts her skirt over her knees, then raises it to her waist so I can see the dark teal lacy panties she’s wearing. “With you, it just feels right. Dark and needy, yes. Sometimes a little depraved.” She smirks shyly, and it lights a fire in my chest. “But right . With the demon . . . it always feels wrong. I don’t—It’s not like I’m consenting to it. I’m forced into it.”

I remove my hand from her thighs and throw my arm around her instead, pulling her flush to me and hugging her. “It feels right with you too. The fantasies I have of you . . . they don’t feel evil. As you said, they’re definitely depraved. But . . . you make me feel that way.”

She curls her legs to the side, tucking her skirt around them. “Is it possible,” she starts, leaning her head on my shoulder, “we’re being affected by different demons?”

I sigh. “With two, I guess anything is possible.”

We’re both silent for the rest of the drive, and I’m pretty sure June falls asleep at some point on my shoulder, her breaths growing heavy. Diablo hops back over the bench and curls around June’s other side, sandwiching her between us.

I don’t want this to end, I realize. I want to stay here, in my car, with my girl and our devilish cat, for as long as possible. I want to take her from Belmouth and find what her heart desires. I want to give both of them a home, a place to call their own. Something I haven’t had in a really, really long time. Something I haven’t wanted since the night Ana and my parents were murdered.

By the time we finally reach Boston, June’s rubbing Diablo’s little ear, the cat sitting on her lap, but alert. The small tuft of white fur on his chest catches the light, and it once again reminds me how much he does look like a little feline priest.

Traffic is a nightmare, but I would sit through hours of bumper to bumper if only to see the absolute wonder in June’s eyes as she takes in the sights around us.

It’s a brisk seventy-three degrees out, the sun is shining, and the leaves are a gorgeous array of reds, oranges, and yellows. I roll the windows down, breathing in the fresh city air. It’s just about lunchtime, and we see all the people walking the streets to and from offices and homes, colleges and stores. And June’s eyes take in all of it.

Once we find our address, we spend nearly twenty minutes driving in circles just to find parking. Diablo hops out of the car, meowing softly as he looks back at June and waits for her.

I shove my arms into my hoodie as we walk, tucking the mask deep into my back pocket.

“We don’t know what’s going to happen,” I say to June. “So stay close. For all we know, this lady’s part of the cult. Or part of the reason the convent burned down.”

June grabs my hand, quickening her step to keep up with me as Diablo trots along next to us.

We weave around people in the street, following my phone’s map till we make it back outside the apartment building. It’s tall and fully made of red brick with black-painted fire escapes. The neighborhood itself isn’t too shabby but not necessarily rich either. I take the small set of steps of the stoop two at a time and immediately find Morales on the call box at the top. Unit 4B.

“Here it is,” I say, pointing at the button. “Wanna do the honors?”

June presses her lips together and steps forward, pressing the call button. It rings once, twice, and then we finally hear the answer tone.

After a moment, an older, accented voice comes through, “Hello?”

“ Hola, senora. I’m Father Marcelo Serrano and this is Junia Forester. We’re here from St. Mar—”

“Ah,” she interrupts. “I wondered when you’d be coming. Come, come.”

The door buzzes, and I feel myself hesitate. I wondered when you’d be coming . What the Hell does that mean?

June pushes past the entry, holding the door for Diablo to follow in after her before her eyes meet mine.

“I don’t like this,” I admit, entering behind her.

“It’s the only lead we have,” she sighs. Her doe eyes meet mine again, and they’re full of worry.

“Just . . . stay behind me.”

We take the small elevator up to the fourth floor, and quickly find the apartment in question. Partially because there are only five doors, but mostly because the door to 4B is already propped open.

A small, thin woman leans against the door frame, her arms crossed around her. Her long, straight hair has silvered with age, creating a stunning image of tanned skin and glowing hair. Her eyes are dark brown, and a sharp eyebrow raises as she takes us both in. The woman, Marina, doesn’t look like a nun. She’s dressed in a fuzzy dark cardigan, a black turtleneck, and jeans rolled to her ankles. I do spot a rosary around her neck, in a red so dark it nearly looks black.

“ Hola, ” she calls as she straightens. Her eyes fall to Diablo and her hard facade melts away. “ Aye , what a cute baby!” Marina makes kissing noises and Diablo runs to her, rubbing himself against her leg. Unfaithful tool.

“Marina Morales, yes?” I ask, squeezing June’s hand.

She nods and opens the door wider. “And Marcelo y Junia. Come in.”

She pads into her apartment, her feet bare on the hardwood, and June and I look at each other once more before following in behind her.

The apartment is small and quaint, with artwork all around the walls. The paintings range from gorgeous fields of flowers to shadowy abysses, with no rhyme or reason as to where they’re placed.

Marina walks to her small kitchen and pours some café she clearly made only minutes ago into three tiny cups. Then, she pulls a can of tuna from her cabinet, dumps it into a small bowl and places it on the floor for Diablo.

“Marcelo, will you help me carry these to the living room?” she asks.

I grab two of the small cups, and together we follow her into the next room where she sits her cup on a glass coffee table and flops back onto a bright yellow couch. June and I sit on the matching love seat next to it.

“H—how did you know we were coming?” June asks, fiddling with her fingers in her lap. The moment she plucks the skin around her thumb, I entwine my hand with hers.

Marina’s eyes follow the movement, lingering on our fingers for a moment, before meeting our eyes again. “You two are in love.” It isn’t a question but a statement. A fact. Taking a deep breath, she nods. “The church says it’s a sin for a priest to break his vows. Well, they say the same about nuns. We’re supposed to be married to God. Married to the church. And to live our entire lives in that devotion, and nothing more.”

It isn’t till she mentions marriage that I see the black band on her ring finger. It’s simple, thin, but something about it captures my eyes in that moment, and I find it hard to look away. The black is so dark and deep, so . . . I don’t know. It looks like a void, like the true absence of light.

Once again, Marina’s eyes track mine, and she waves her hand, turning to her ring.

“I believe this will be easier if you both tell me what you know first,” she says, picking up her coffee and sipping slowly.

“No. It won’t,” I say, leaning back in the chair. “Tell us how you’re involved, then we’ll tell you what we know.”

Marina smirks, slowly nodding. “Fair enough.” She sits up straighter, placing the cup back on the glass table with a loud clack. “My husband sent you to me. He told me you were coming.”

I scowl, but June just tilts her head. “Your . . . husband?”

Marina, once again, nods.

I watch June from the corner of my eye, her eyes darting around Marina. From her face, to her rings. “Your husband—how long have you been married?”

“Since 1978.” Marina smiles, watching the two of us connect the pieces—the small pieces—she gives to us.

That year . . . 1978. That was the same year the convent burned down.

“If I’m wrong,” June starts, “this is going to sound really , really stupid, but . . .” She pauses, looks at me, then back to Marina, squeezing my hand. “Is your husband the horned demon?”