THE SUN WAS not up, though birds heralded its arrival. Shielded from sight, Jovienne stood in a bus stop shelter diagonal from St. Timothy’s watching people shuffle inside for the early service.
They came in small groups. Elderly couples or families with young children. Parents urged sleepy children dressed in their Easter best up the stone steps and through the arched doorway. Not many for such a big church, but the smaller the group the better for her.
Her left hand was gloved. In the hours since the burn, she’d poured holy water from the dagger on it near constantly. It had reached a useable point. The remaining soreness was eased by the glove, but underneath, her hand was yet swollen and ugly. Her fingers wound around the two hilts belted at her waist. The golden sword on her left warmed like a stovetop under her touch. The Hellborne steel hummed a velvet kiss that thrummed up her arm, sliding to her back under her shoulder blade as if it would avoid the bejeweled pin which she wore. The warm desire stirred the parts of her the scimitar’s true master wanted to touch. It filled her with a kind of contentment, similar to that earned by answering the Call, but satisfied something deeper, darker, something bound in flesh.
Contrarily, her bare right hand gripped the sword with the scripted J. It afforded her a cool caress that skittered along her soul like snowflakes moved by a whisper.
Reluctantly, she released both swords. The mass would begin soon. She stepped from the bus shelter ready to cross, but hesitated as a late family hurried toward the church from the parking lot. Then, an approaching cab began to slow. Jovienne stepped back into the bus shelter.
A thin man in a dark coat exited the vehicle. As she watched him trudge up the steps, she decided he either wasn’t able to move fast, or he didn’t mind being late. Something about him was off, so she waited until he’d had time to enter and find a seat.
Aware that if anyone tended the door they would see it open and shut with no one causing it, Jovienne opened St. Timothy’s door quickly. Seeing no attendant, she gave a sigh of relief and passed the small basin of holy water. A rope barrier blocked the stairs to an overhead sign designated as The Rear Choir Loft. Assuming it would have the best view, she stepped over the rope and went up.
The ghost hands crawled up the steps ahead of her and detected no one. She climbed the narrow stairs, which reeked of dampness and rot. Upon emerging into the loft, she noted a dark watermark on the plaster above from a leak in the roof.
The floor up here wasn’t level, and she wasn’t surprised when her next step brought a loud squeak. It probably wasn’t safe up here, but she continued anyway, though she decided to wait until the assemblage began singing so the squeaking wouldn’t be heard.
It wasn’t a long wait. The priest entered and spoke a brief greeting to his tiny congregation. Moments later the first song began and Jovienne took a seat.
NATHAN AWAKENED ON the porch of Father Everly’s Painted Lady, but the priest had already gone to prepare for the service. He’d let himself in with the key from under the flower pot, called for a cab, and showered quickly. What slowed him down was the time it took to dress the burn on his arm.
He ran a hand through his hair. He was losing control. If he ever had any in the first place.
Maybe he was losing his mind. He’d always witnessed weird things in his dreams, but the blackouts and the silent heat in his head were new. Then there was the black diamond woman. She showed up over and over, as did the wet-dream mess on his sheets. He’d taken to sleeping on a towel in the guest room.
But last night…last night was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. And the handprint burn on his forearm terrified him.
Making matters worse, he’d arrived late to the church and rushed through the doors barely before the singing began. Father Everly had given a visible sigh of relief and motioned him to the front pew. The whole congregation knew he was not a familiar face, so by default they knew who he was and what he was here for. He could feel the eyes on him, waiting for him to rise up and bleed.
He shifted in his seat, wishing he could hide from the spirit. But that was impossible. It wouldn’t pass him by and make someone else bleed. This was Easter Sunday and he sat front row center while everyone in the congregation prayed for that watchful eye to make use of him.
JOVIENNE TOOK IN the view from the loft. Built to an impressive size, grand arches sat on doubled pillars before the apse. In the space before the bubble of the dome, painted angels leaned out over the pews. On the right was a woman with light brown hair wearing blue robes, her ivory wings spread wide. On the left, a man in red robes spread brown wings. He reminded her of Eitan.
Both paintings were cracked and in danger of being lost for all time.
The room fell silent as the deacon stepped forward to begin the prayer reading.
Her gaze moving to the stained-glass windows, Jovienne saw an image of an angel bending over a serene, kneeling woman, while directing a pale beam of light to shine on the woman’s head. It made her think of the seraph’s knee-weakening glow.
As the priest gave his Easter lecture about the persecution of Christ and his crucifixion, her attention shifted to him, and the big round stained glass window behind him. It was broad and tall, detailed with blues and golds. It depicted no person, just shapes and colors like a kaleidoscope. She studied the pattern throughout the sermon, but could not decide what it represented, other than the skill of the craftsman.
“Before you stand and come forward to receive this blessed communion,” the priest said, “I’d like to introduce to you our honored guest, Nathan Marshall.” He gestured to the thin man on the front row. That man stood and shrugged out of a dark peacoat, and then turned to the crowd with a sheepish look.
Jovienne came to her feet.
Araxiel!
This was him, or rather the man who had seen her near the Painted Ladies. Anemic-looking, even in his off-white sweater and beige slacks, he was hardly the robust and sensual man who had given her the golden sword, and yet he was none other.
“Nathan has been blessed. He carries stigmata…and though,” the priest smiled at Nathan, “he’s been effected a half dozen times in the last month, there has been no activity these past few days.”
Araxiel is also a stigmatic? How can this be?
“We hope,” the priest continued, “that we are blessed with witnessing this holy manifestation. He will be with us for all masses today.” The priest asked the congregation to come forward and accept the communion.
The man—Araxiel? Nathan?—waited until the aisle filled, and then walked to the end of the line. He scratched his arms and looked up and around. She ducked down. When she checked again, he was fidgeting constantly, more so as he neared the head of the line.
He housed the Sanctus Spiritus, the Holy Spirit of God. That’s who she was supposed to use sword to slay…
I’m being set up.
In order for her plan to work, however, she couldn’t let the Sanctus Spiritus get away, either. It had been her intention to scare the mortals away, but she wouldn’t kill anyone in front of children. She had to alter her plan.
Nathan began to shake.
Dark stains appeared on his sweater. Expression mournful, he pushed the sleeves up, smearing blood up his arm, away from his wrists. More fluid welled up. Thick, scarlet rivulets trailed his arm and dripped on the floor.
“Damn it,” Jovienne said under her breath. She needed more time to work out a change. She called the wings.
People gasped and encircled Nathan, falling to their knees. Nathan’s eyes rolled up in his head and his arms spread rigidly out from his body as if he were resisting. In an instant, he snapped into the pose, crucified before them. Blood dribbled down his brow and a dark stain spread across the side of his sweater. His head lolled to one side and his eyelids jerked. Blood ran over his shoes and dripped to the floor.
He appeared to have slumped, yet something held him up, something raised him above the ground by inches and tucked his feet into position. The noise of numerous murmured prayers filled the sanctuary. A few scrabbled for their phones to film it.
“Fuck it.” Jovienne released the invisibility.
Leaping from the choir loft, her black wings spread. She swooped down, arms encircling Nathan Marshall’s waist even as she slammed against him. Amid shouts of fear, she clutched the stigmatic to her chest and beat her wings, crashing through the center of the round stained glass window behind the lectern.