Canterbury Cathedral, England. Two days later.
Morgan stood by a stone pillar in the nave as the song of the choir soared up to the vaulted roof above and onward to heaven. Twelve male choristers robed in purple sang psalms in praise of their God, each note disappearing in a moment even as their resonance lingered on.
Ancient stone, ancient faith, ancient songs. Morgan didn’t believe as they did, but human voices in harmony were important in every faith. She closed her eyes and let the music transport her to the synagogue of her childhood, with her father as cantor, leading the faithful in prayer. But even that precious memory couldn’t banish the echo of the curse spoken by the Black Anchorite in his final moments, the last gasp of an ancient creature that fought its end.
Morgan sighed and opened her eyes once more, the stark lines of the Gothic cathedral anchoring her to reality. The blood torment was promised as recompense for an act of destruction. An echo of the violence committed right here in the cathedral when the knights of Henry II struck down the Archbishop, his blood and brains soaking the hallowed ground. Perhaps returning the reliquary would be a step toward restitution.
She walked toward the chapel of Martyrdom, retracing her steps of just a few days ago.
The Dean stood in front of the Becket altar and turned as she entered, his face flooding with relief as he saw the reliquary in her hands.
“You have it. Thank God — and thank you, Morgan.”
She handed it to him and he gently placed the precious object back in the glass box, removing the fake to make way for the real thing.
“The Pope will be here tomorrow. Perhaps you’d like to join us for the service?”
Morgan shook her head. “Thank you, but I need to get back to London. We have a lot of relics to sort through.”
The Dean reached out and touched her arm. “You look haunted, like this mission still has a hold over you.”
The expression in his kind eyes almost brought Morgan to tears as the words of the curse echoed in her mind.
“Can I pray for you?” the Dean continued.
After a second, she nodded. “Thank you. I’ll take every prayer I can get right now.”
They knelt next to each other on the padded cushion in front of the Martyrdom site of Thomas Becket. Morgan could feel the Dean’s warmth by her side, and although his head was bowed, she sensed his silent prayer. She could only hope that his intercession might stop whatever curse the Black Anchorite had called down upon her.
Jake believed the words to be worthless, but Morgan still felt an icy hand around her heart, a chilling promise that she couldn’t stop from filling her nightmares.
But when the darkness came, she would be ready, and she knew Jake would be by her side.
THE END