They kept vigil in the church for the rest of the night. Cyn retreated to a pew in the front row and curled up against the hard surface, while Thirteen stayed near the pulpit. She was far enough away from him to stay out of his way, but still close enough to keep watch over Father Montgomery.
She should have been using this time to recite whatever prayers she could remember so that his immortal soul would find comfort in the arms of God. Or something like that. But all she could think about was what he’d said about that squirrel.
I hope there are squirrels in heaven for you, Father Montgomery. I hope you have a nice window with a big backyard and lots of squirrels.
It wasn’t a prayer in the traditional sense, but as she closed her eyes and softly said those words, it felt like one to her.
When sunlight started filtering through the windows, Father Montgomery’s protector finally rose and left the church. Cyn followed him to the rectory. Her brain felt sluggish. She really needed to get a couple of hours of sleep before she went back for her stuff.
“Can I crash on the couch? I’m beat.”
He turned to face her, and she was stunned by his appearance. A slant of sunlight angled across his face and revealed his chiseled cheekbones, a sharp chin, and dark, shoulder-length hair. His eyes were the color of melted chocolate.
Cyn’s voice faltered.
He shrugged off the robe and hung it on a coat rack. He was wearing tight black leather pants and a black T-shirt. “And why would you be crashing on the couch?”
“Because I’m tired. I need to get some sleep.”
“So go home. Sleep there.”
“I can’t.”
He cocked his head at her, clearly waiting for an explanation. But Cyn wasn’t in the mood to give him one.
“Look, I won’t bother you, and I won’t get in your way. You won’t even know I’m here.”
“If I want to sit on the couch, you’ll be in my way.”
Cyn tugged on the back of her wig, and it pulled up high on her forehead. Quickly readjusting it, she said, “Fine. Then I’ll sleep in one of the bedrooms, and you can have the couch.”
“Not his.”
She was this close to telling him to go fuck himself. “Are you serious? I just spent the last three hours staring at the body of the only person in this stupid town who’s ever tried to help me, and you think I want to sleep in his bed while he’s growing cold out there? Jesus Christ. I’d rather sleep on the floor.”
“Suit yourself.” He turned his back to her and went into the kitchen.
Cyn didn’t know what to make of that, but she wasn’t going to stand here and argue with him about it. The couch it was, then.
At least until he came and forcibly moved her off of it.
~ ~ ~
The sound of police sirens woke her up, and Cyn panicked. She’d forgotten where she was. Her leg was tangled in a crocheted blanket, and she couldn’t get free. When the fog finally lifted and her brain really woke up, she recognized Father Montgomery’s house.
Shoving the blanket all the way off, Cyn went to go look out one of the windows. A bunch of cops were standing around outside the church. Then a stretcher was rolled out and loaded into a nearby van. It was covered with a white sheet.
One of the police officers gestured to the house, and she pulled back from the window. She couldn’t go outside while they were there, but she couldn’t stay here if any of them decided to come check things out. Cyn glanced at the stairs. There had to be somewhere up there she could hang out while she waited for them to leave.
She went to the attic. It was filled with boxes marked CHURCH CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS and a couple of old pieces of furniture. A large black box shaped like an oversize figure eight was the only thing not covered in dust, and Cyn realized it was some type of musical-instrument case. Obviously well taken care of.
Pulling one of the Christmas boxes over to a small window that overlooked part of the church parking lot, Cyn took a seat. It was a long wait, and she kept dozing off. When she finally heard a door open downstairs and saw that the lot was clear, she went down to the kitchen.
Thirteen was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee in front of him.
“I can make a fresh pot if you want,” she offered.
“Do whatever you want. I’m done anyway.”
He stood up like he was going to leave. Because of course he was. It wasn’t like they were both trying to deal with a murder or anything that just happened.
“Can you just sit with me for, like, five minutes?” Cyn exploded. “I’ve had a really bad night. Actually, a week of bad nights, and I need—” She stopped and rubbed her temples. A monster headache was forming behind her eyes. “I think I need a drink.”
“There’s nothing here but cooking sherry. Father Montgomery was old fashioned that way.”
“I should have known you would have checked.” She moved to a bread keeper on the counter and lifted the lid. Maybe some toast would make her headache go away. “And how can you talk about him so . . . matter of fact like that?”
“Death is pretty matter of fact. You get used to it.”
Cyn found the toaster under a cross-stitched appliance cozy and pushed down two pieces of bread. “Death isn’t something I ever want to get used to. Death isn’t something most normal people want to get used to.”
She gave him a pointed look so he would know what she was referring to.
“You already know I’m not human, so what is this?”
“What exactly are you?” she said bluntly. “With the smoke and the red eyes. Not to mention the horns. . . . Are you the devil?”
He smirked. “The devil. How original. I haven’t heard that one in two centuries. I thought this was supposed to be a politically correct day and age.”
“Politically correct?” Cyn stared at him in disbelief. “Since when do devil guys worry about being politically correct?”
“Since I’m technically a Revenant and not the devil, I’d say that falls under the politically correct category. The horns come from my father’s side of the family.” He crossed his arms, and the action made his T-shirt stretch tightly across his biceps. He saw her gaze shift down. “The burns are another gift from dear old dad. To remember where I came from.”
She should have been asking why the burn marks were there before but weren’t there now, and why his eyes turned red but didn’t stay that way, and if he’d really been around for two centuries, but the word “Revenant” made something twitch in the back of Cyn’s brain.
It was familiar. Like she’d heard it before.
Abruptly pushing that thought to the side, Cyn realized that she’d never met someone like him before. Someone who was like her—different. Granted, his case was pretty extreme with the horns and all that, but maybe she could tell him about the faces she’d seen beneath hers.
Maybe he could even help her.
Suddenly, darkness rimmed the edges of her vision and her hearing started to fade. Right before she blacked out, Cyn heard herself groan, “Not now, you son of a bitch.”