I nodded, but it felt like losing a limb.
The first mile was all running, nothing but breath and mud and the slap of boots. My body worked on muscle memory alone. I saw nothing but darkness and the orange flicker of the castle fire behind us. The pain was a rumor now, distant, drowned by the pounding in my chest and the name I kept whispering: Catherine, Catherine, Catherine.
After the first mile, we slowed. The world grew quiet. Far behind, gunshots echoed, then died. The only sound left was our feet and my breath, ragged as old cloth.
We cut across fields, then through a gorse break, then down into a gully where the fog pooled thick as soup. I nearly tripped, but Moab caught me. He never said a word about it.
Scarlette drifted back, walking beside me. Her face was a mess of dried blood and tears, and she kept rubbing her arm where Hale’s men had marked her. “Do you think he made it?” she asked.
I knew who she meant. Scar.
I wanted to tell her yes, but I’d seen the look in Hale’s eyes. If there was a hell, Scar would be waiting for us at the gate.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “He did what he wanted.”
She nodded, wiped her face, and said nothing else.
The last stretch was uphill, through black mud that sucked at my boots. The church was nothing, just three walls and a half-roof. But there was a candle flickering inside, and I heard the low murmur of a voice.
Catherine was there, backlit by the flame. Her hair was wild, eyes wide, skin pale as milk. She saw me and ran, stumbling, arms out.
She caught me as I collapsed and held me to her chest. She smelled like smoke and rain, like home.
“I said you’d come back,” she whispered.
I tried to laugh, but the only sound was a broken sob.
“I always do,” I said, though my tongue was thick and stupid.
She pressed her hand to my face, and the world steadied.
Moab, Declan, Celeste, Scarlette—they fanned out, set watch, started tending wounds. I didn’t care about any of it. All I saw was Catherine, the way her tears caught the candlelight, the way her hands trembled, but never let go.
“I thought I lost you,” she said.
“Never,” I said. “Not ever.”
I held her, and she held me, and for one perfect second, the pain vanished. I was nothing but her, her voice, her heart beating fast under my ear.
The candle guttered, and the world went dark. But I dreamed of her, and even in the dark, I knew how to find my way back. Always.
Catherine
The first thing I saw was Sully’s boots, the left one dragging a fraction behind, leaving a dark, wet print on the ruined stones. The sound carried: a flat, hollow thud, then the quiet scrape of the heel, then another thud. There were no church bells left in this place, but the way he entered made it feel like a funeral all the same.
He stopped inside the threshold. The wind rattled the door behind him, and I saw the muscle in his jaw flex against the pain. He still wore that ridiculous jacket, the left sleeve stiff from dried blood, and under it, the bandages bulged and glistened where the cloth had soaked through. He looked like he’d been dragged backwards through hell and barely come out in one piece. Maybe that was true.
I was on the floor by the broken altar, candle guttering between my knees. Maeve knelt at my side, one hand locked on my shoulder, her nails biting hard. Nora perched behind us,small and pale, her knees drawn to her chest. She was using her fingertip to sketch something into the dust on the floor. I couldn’t see what it was. I doubted she even knew.
Sully’s eyes went to me first. He tried to smile, but his face was set too hard for it. He took a step forward, but Maeve made a noise in her throat and pressed her fingers deeper.
Maeve shifted, planting her knees like she’d have to tackle him if he got too close. “Stay away from her,” she spat. “You’ve done enough.”
He took another step, then swayed, and I thought he’d fall, but he caught himself on a busted pew.
Nora looked up from her drawing, eyes clear as water. “You’re bleeding again,” she said to him.
He nodded, like it was a minor inconvenience, like it was just another Tuesday for him.