It had been the first time she’d watched him sleep. Pale golden rays of morning sun were striking through the holes of a broken shutter and falling upon the Inquisitor’s face in pools of light, giving him a more youthful and softer appearance than she’d seen. It was as if a good night’s sleep and the morning sun had erased all the evidence of the exhaustion which had spoiled Tacit’s handsome features for so long.
His breathing was very slight, despite the size of him, his chest rising and falling almost silently beneath his cassock. Isabella pulled her knees up beneath her chin and sat watching him, trying to imagine the life he’d lived, the things which had touched him, the people who had meant anything to him. She wondered if anyone had, if he’d ever let anyone close to him, anyone in. She realised at that moment she was imagining her and Tacit together.
“Silly girl,” she hissed at herself, under her breath. You don’t fall in love with assignments.
But she had fallen in love; she’d felt something change when he’d rescued her from the wolf. And whilst she teased herself, claiming she didn’t know how, she knew why she’d fallen for the man. He was so complete, Tacit, and yet he was damaged. Broken. If only she was able to mend him. If only she could get close enough to hold the pieces together and let them heal.
He’d slept where he had thrown himself, directly onto the floor of the derelict house, once he’d checked the windows and doors were secure. There’d been no idle chatter, no discussion as to the plan for the following day, no ‘goodnight’. He’d gone about his business securing the building and then had stretched himself out and fallen into a deep and immediate sleep.
Outside she could hear the unfolding horror, the stalking of the terrible beasts, their howls and their cries echoing throughout the ruined village, the grotesque slash and splutter of gutted bodies, freshly slaughtered prey. But in here, she felt assured and safe, knowing he would have left nothing to chance. Nevertheless, she looked at him and wondered how the pair of them could hope to defeat so many, armed as they were with just two silver revolvers between them.
Tacit stirred under the beams of sunlight. He swallowed, his lips moving in slow pursed circles. He scowled and exhaled loudly, blowing the air through his lips, making them tremble. His eyes flickered and drew themselves open. He stared up, hard at the ceiling of the place into which they had barricaded themselves, as if taking a moment to reacquaint himself with his surroundings, their predicament. He took in the cracks and the undulations of the room and listened to the sounds of the morning. Then, without hesitation, he levered himself up and onto his feet, striding with purpose and vigour to the table and his case, where it had been set the previous night.
“Morning,” Isabella called lightly, sitting up on an elbow and stifling a yawn. She had found herself a mattress upon which to lie, which had given her a little more comfort than the Inquisitor appeared to need.
“Morning,” he grunted and thrust the case open. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did, thank you. Took me a little while to drop off. You?”
He nodded. “Like the dead.”
Isabella climbed gingerly from the mattress and stretched, leaning back to coax her spine into place, her ribs yelping dully from their bruising. She tousled her hair and began opening shutters to the room, the light almost too bright to bear.
The Inquisitor had begun methodically to unload the case – contraptions of all shapes, sizes and types being removed and carefully placed to one side on the table. Every now and then he would inspect an item closely, work its mechanism, if it had one, and place it into the folds of his long coat. Sometimes these items would go from the case into his coat without a moment’s hesitation; bags, a clutch of bullets, a holy symbol.
All the while Isabella had been surveying the house for evidence of food. She reappeared as Tacit closed the lid of the case with a thump.
“Are you hungry? We should eat,” she said. “I’ve not got much. Some nuts. Dried fruit.”
Tacit dropped his hand to his outer pocket and drew out a bottle, swirling the remains of the amber liquid inside. He turned and sat on the edge of the table, uncorking the bottle.
“You hungry?” Isabella asked again, leaning against the door frame.
“I’ll take some nuts and fruit,” Tacit replied, putting the bottle to his lips and drinking deeply. He frowned and offered the bottle to her. She raised an eyebrow and crinkled her nose, before giving him a knowing shake of her head and turning back to the kitchen. “I’ll bring what I can with us,” she called.
“You’re not coming.” Tacit took another long swig on the bottle, almost draining it. Isabella stepped back to the doorway.
“What do you mean?” she demanded.
“It’s too dangerous. I’m going alone.”
“No, I won’t have that,” Isabella replied adamantly, crossing her arms. She could feel a hammering pain in her chest. “We’ve come this far.”
“This is far enough. From now on it gets serious.”
“And it’s not been so far?” she cried.
“You stay here.” He necked the remainder of the bottle and put it down on the table. A good night’s sleep and a quarter of the bottle of spirits in him. Now he felt ready. “There’s no more booze in the kitchen, is there?” he asked, scratching the side of his heavily whiskered face. The heat of the drink coursed through him, bolstering his limbs, enriching his senses.
“I’m not staying here. You can’t leave me behind, Tacit! I am coming with you!”
“You’re not. You’re staying here. I need you to stay safe.”
“Need, Tacit? You need me to stay safe? What does that mean?”
“I need someone to tell the Vatican, if I don’t come back. If I don’t, they will need to send a squad of Inquisitors to enter the lair and wipe the clan out.”
“A squad?” Isabella moaned desperately. “A squad?!” She came forward and caught Tacit by the elbows, turning him to her. He resisted, briefly, but her touch was firm and determined. “Tacit, you don’t have to do this! You’ve already proved yourself. Proved yourself to me. With the assessment. You have nothing more to prove. On that you have my word. Tacit –” She drew him closer to her. She no longer cared what he thought of her, of how she behaved with him. To hell with opinions and religious etiquette. “Tacit, I don’t … I don’t want to lose you.”
The hope and expectation had tumbled out of her. She couldn’t see how he would survive, going into the lair alone, one against so many. The mission seemed hopeless. She felt crestfallen and forlorn. If he was to die, she wanted to die alongside him. She wanted so dearly to tell him just what … just how she felt.
Tacit pulled himself away and stood back facing her, a stride apart. If he wished, he could have reached out with his long arms and touched her face. How Isabella longed for him to do so. Her heart burned to feel his fingers on her skin. And from an ember buried deep in his heart, Tacit too felt the heat of emotion urge his hand forward towards her, a desire he’d long fought to contain. How she reminded him of her, of Mila, of her spirit and her independence. But she wasn’t Mila. She couldn’t be. And after all that had happened …
He resisted, burying the stupidity of his thoughts and, instead, the Inquisitor stood and watched her with his sad, distant eyes.
“What I’m about to do,” he said, eventually, “it isn’t about the assessment. This isn’t even about the Church. This is about putting right what was done wrong long ago. I’m an Inquisitor, Isabella. I’m not a man. I don’t feel, I don’t think and I don’t brood. I act and I do. Anything else is dead to me.”
“Is that what I am to you, Tacit? Dead to you?” He looked away to the windows. “So what am I to do then?” she muttered, her eyes filling with tears. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth. “Sit and wait for you to come back or not to come back?”
“No,” Tacit growled, checking the cylinder of his gun, “I need you to find Sandrine Prideux.”