The Silver Scar Read online

  “James, fetch a chair and something to eat. I’m sure the new Reine d’Esprit is hungry, and we’ve many things to discuss.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Take Wolf behind the altar,” Trinidad said. Paul’s funeral was supposed to be tonight, but the body was gone. It was reasonable to expect the funeral had been delayed and to hope no one would come into the sanctuary. He wasn’t sure they could be so fortunate, but maybe hiding would buy them some time.

  Castile guided Wolf behind the altar and sat down with him, shoulders pressed together. Trinidad felt a pang. He should be the one to comfort his brother. But he smothered the feeling and picked up a bucket filled with ammo and a belt.

  He settled next to Castile, his back against the holy table. A thrill of dread stirred his stomach, which he cured by passing a moment gazing at the Gospel statues in niches overhead. When he’d been a kid, he’d help clean them. They were heavy, carved of solid oak, and rubbed smooth by decades of polishing. He’d always found comfort in their symbolism. Maybe, then, Christ was still with him.

  They listened to the voices outside, and more doors slamming. Horses, stomping and blowing in the cold. Then the familiar rattle and engine whine of Seth’s dray driving in and parking. Trinidad’s throat closed. Seth bore his faith as a burden, his archwarden status and tattoos the only outward indication of his devotion to God. He attended services only when required, but Trinidad knew he took communion privately every morning. He had been like an older brother to Trinidad, a guide in the order, their highest-ranking member in the parish.

  His order had hurt Castile. He could trust none of them. Not anymore. With a sigh, Trinidad pulled the ammo belt from the bucket and started loading bullets. His practiced fingers made almost no noise.

  Castile shifted his leg until they rested thigh-to-thigh. “I think Wolf is asleep,” he whispered.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “He’s so heavy he’s about to dislocate my shoulder.”

  “He’s really grown …” Trinidad broke off to listen again and shook his head. “I just hope we can figure out what’s wrong with him.”

  “You really care about him. It’s not something I expected out of you.”

  “You think I’m some heartless bastard because I’m a Christian?”

  “You kill because you’re a Christian, yeah?”

  “And you kill because you’re a witch. An ecoterr.”

  Castile sighed. “I didn’t know what to think before I met you again. I mean, the reports weren’t exactly favorable, but I had some hope. And then when the Indigos killed your friend—”

  “Daniel.”

  “Yeah. Daniel.” Castile paused and his voice gentled. “When he died you seemed … destroyed, somehow. And then Paul …”

  Their arms brushed as Trinidad continued loading bullets into the belt. The Wiccan’s thigh still rested against Trinidad’s with envious ease.

  “You mean because of my parents,” Trinidad said. “You think you know all about that, do you?”

  Castile shifted next to him. “Hardly. We don’t run in the same circles. It’s hard to sort truth from fiction sometimes. People like to talk. Especially Indigos, and they know less parish gossip than anyone.”

  Trinidad dropped a bullet and it rolled between his legs. Castile slid his hand over Trinidad’s thigh and captured the bullet. He put it on Trinidad’s palm and closed his fingers around it. Castile’s hand was cold.

  “I know a little. My papa told me you were there.” A pause. “That’s why the explosions affected you like that in the jail earlier.”

  It wasn’t a question. “Roman tried to train it out of me.”

  “Father Troy always said you didn’t remember it.”

  “It was better he didn’t know.”

  Castile gripped Trinidad’s hand, fingers unyielding as the bullet dug into his palm. “I think you should tell me.”

  “Like you told me what you did to deserve Threefold Bane?”

  “Please, Trin.”

  Trinidad leaned his head against the altar. He was talking almost before he knew it. “Israel and I got in a fight. Israel was crying—he was just being a kid, you know? But he was on my nerves. Papa was about as mad as I’ve ever seen him. He picked up Israel and he yelled at me and told me to—” Trinidad squeezed his eyes shut until he saw sparks.

  “Wait outside,” Castile whispered.

  “He made me wait at the end of the parking lot under a tree. The shopkeepers used to give us candy, so I knew Israel was going to get some and I wasn’t. Papa had a big bag over his shoulder. I didn’t even think about it.”

  “You wouldn’t have. You were just a kid.”

  “Papa was carrying Israel and giving me that mad look and the door closed on them. Mama didn’t say anything. She didn’t yell at us. She was looking at her list. She didn’t even glance back at me. But they had testimony later. She knew. She was in on the whole thing.”

  Castile rested his cheek against Trinidad’s shoulder. “They must have been relieved they could spare one of their children.”

  “No. They didn’t think I was worthy enough to die with them.”

  Castile lifted his head. “That’s some fucked up logic.”

  Trinidad tried to disengage his hand from Castile’s grip, but Castile held on. “I didn’t die with them. I couldn’t die to save Father Troy. I couldn’t even die trying—”

  “Will you just stop, please?” Castile said. “Stop it. You think there’s honor in martyrdom?”

  Trinidad hadn’t saved any of them. “There’s honor in doing the right thing.”

  “Whatever that is. I killed half a dozen people before I turned sixteen. I was in prison at seventeen. You killed Roi d’Esprit because he threatened Father Troy. Reine carved that pentacle in you because you killed Roi. We’re still no good to the world dead—”

  The sharp noise of a slamming door broke through Castile’s rising pitch. Trinidad slapped his hand over Castile’s mouth to silence him.

  Seconds drew on. Trinidad split in two, part of him listened for noise that meant impending discovery. The other half of him drew to the sensation of touching Castile, to the exact place where callused fingers met soft lips. He dropped his hand and closed the distance between their mouths.

  The world fell away. Shock whipped up Trinidad’s spine and corded him to Castile. The witch pulled him closer, fingers digging into the back of his neck—

  A second slam broke through their kiss. Trinidad shoved Castile away, fingers fitting the belt into the rifle as quietly as he could, jaw clenched, lips burning, groin tight.

  Someone lit torches. A faint glow filled the sanctuary as they crackled to life. Boot-falls hesitated on the stone floor, then moved closer. “Someone in here?”

  Damn. Trinidad let the nose of his rifle show around the edge of the holy table. “Stop.”

  The footsteps died. “Trin?”

  Trinidad’s throat closed at the sound of the Seth’s familiar voice. He swallowed. “Seth.”

  A beat. “What are you doing, bro?”

  Quiet rustlings. He snuck a glance. Seth had edged up to the second row of pews and knelt between them. The black barrel of a pistol rested on the back of the pew. Trinidad pressed the back of his head against the holy table and clenched his jaw. Ornate carving dug into his skull.

  He focused on a crucifix in his mind’s eye. Christ, cruel crown of thorns pressing into a head slumped in acceptance.

  Seth said, a little louder: “They’re all over the grounds. Snipers are in position. I don’t want you dead, but there are some trigger-happy folks out there. You come out with a weapon, any other way but in my custody, you’ll get tapped half a dozen times, Trin.”

  Father Troy kept a crucifix in his office, an old thing that had been his mother’s. He’d always indulged Trinidad’s curiosity, had let him take it down and handle it.

  “We know you’ve got Wolf and the Wiccan back there,” Seth added. “We know you’re together
. We know about the bombs. We know you’re doing magic. Going to that silver place. You trying to get them killed, too?”

  Trinidad closed his eyes. Real, tiny nails held the plaster Christ to the wooden cross.

  “—to me and I’ll keep you alive,” Seth was saying. “I got your back. I always got your back, brother.”

  It was tempting, to just surrender. He focused on Castile’s weight against his side, Wolf’s soft, sleeping pant. Castile gripped his bracer.

  The bishop’s lies had tempted him, too. He drew a breath, forced his panic into a knot under his heart. What did they have, what weapon did they have to keep them alive?

  Castile murmured his name. A gentle prod. He met Castile’s eyes, shadowed and black in the dim light. They’d tortured Castile, trying to get him to admit where the coven lived. He thought of the Barren; of killing Paul; of seeing Wolf as a kid, scared of that man; of landing in his own room inparish instead of the cave …

  He had dismissed it when Castile suggested it. Now it wasn’t so easy to set aside. Wolf gave a sleeping, snuffly sigh. His fingers twitched. Maybe he was dreaming. No. Roving. It was the only explanation for getting drawn to him, even if it made no sense.

  “Get her in here. The bishop. Now,” Trinidad said.

  “She’s still on her way from the camp,” Seth answered.

  “We’ll wait.”

  The door slammed and Castile started talking, “They could just come in and—”

  Trinidad interrupted with a hissed whisper. “You said something about Wolf. Before. You said he’s a powerful dreamer. Do you think Wolf can rove to the Barren?”

  Castile dug at his eye with the heel of his hand. “I think it’s not going to matter in a few minutes.”

  “Castile. Focus.”

  “All right. Yeah, maybe. Why?”

  Trinidad raised his hand and tipped his head, listening. Boots on the stairs, softly confident. The balcony, Trinidad thought. They’re going to try to get a decent shot off from the balcony. Castile rolled his eyes upward and nodded that he heard it too.

  “We only have one card left,” Trinidad whispered.

  “The Barren.”

  Trinidad trapped Castile’s hand between his gauntlet and his thigh. “You meant what you said before. About my killing you.”

  Castile nodded, his gaze steady on Trinidad’s face.

  “Do you trust me?”

  Another nod; not a shred of hesitation.

  The doors opened again and fell shut. Trinidad nodded at Castile and released his hand.

  A lengthy silence followed before Marius broke it. “You want to speak with me, archwarden, show me your face. Kneel to me as you’re sworn to do.”

  Trinidad’s knees involuntarily drew up at her voice. He closed his eyes and bit back an angry protest.

  “I am sworn to Christ,” he said. “Not you. Not anymore.”

  “You can’t just undo your vows to the Church, archwarden. You don’t get to pick and choose your loyalties. God holds you to them.”

  Trinidad ignored her. “There are three people alive who can rove to the Barren at will. One of them is me, and I’m holding the other two hostage.”

  Soft consulting out in the pews. Castile tapped his gauntlet. Trinidad ignored him.

  “What do you want?” the bishop asked at last.

  “This has more to do with what you want. You want the Barren. But you can’t go there without us. We’re the only people who know the way. It’s advantageous for you if we live.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “We are going to walk out of here and you are going to let us. All of us, no shots fired, no threats.”

  “I can’t guarantee that.”

  “You can and you will, because if one bullet flies, I will kill them both. And you will never see the Barren again.”

  “You would murder them in cold blood? Your brother? Your lover?”

  He looked at Castile, who shrugged. “She’s got some crazy ideas,” he whispered.

  “Not so crazy,” Trinidad whispered back.

  Castile bared his teeth in a savage grin. Trinidad clenched his fist and waited.

  “How do you want to do this?” the bishop asked after another long pause

  “Instruct your snipers to lay down their rifles. Tell the archwardens to gather in the graveyard, where I can see them, hands up. I want Seth’s dray on the street, already running. Nobody moves, nobody threatens us. One twitch, one sound, and I kill them both.”

  “We can try to capture you, and likely succeed,” she pointed out.

  “We will never rove for you,” Castile called to her. “I think I’ve proved that. I’ll die first.”

  “And this foolish plan is good for me how?” Marius asked.

  “Letting us go is only half of it,” Trinidad said. “I will take you to the Barren when you call off the crusade. When there is real peace.”

  Castile dropped his forehead to his knees. “You would say that.”

  “I accept your terms,” the bishop said. “Not because I trust you, but because I don’t.”

  “Likewise, bitch,” Castile muttered.

  “Clear the sanctuary,” Trinidad said. “Everybody. Even the balcony and the narthex.”

  A soft curse and boots on the steps. Trinidad peeked around the table and saw shadows. Six men. Six she had up there, waiting for their opportunity to kill him. He leaned his head back against the table and sighed. Now he had to count on their not wanting to destroy the sanctuary with a firefight.

  At the slam of the narthex door, Wolf stirred, yawned, and almost fell over. Castile caught his arm. “Whoa there, pup.”

  Wolf blinked at them from beneath his tangle of hair, his scars staining his skin red as blood. “This is going to sound really weird, but how did I get here?”

  Trinidad chambered a bullet and pointed the gun at Wolf. “I trump your weird. You’re our ticket out of here. I’ll do my best to avoid killing you, but sorry in advance just in case.”

  Wolf scrambled back, lips parted in shock, eyes locked on the gun.

  Castile shook his head. “Trin, give the kid a minute—”

  “No, Castile. Don’t. You the one who made me swear to kill you, before Christ.”

  Castile looked at Wolf, who had his hands vaguely raised as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

  “You really want them to capture him?” Trinidad demanded. “Do to him what they did to you? They’ll torture him if he refuses to take them to the Barren.”

  “He can’t withstand it,” Castile admitted.

  Wolf looked from one to the other. “Trinidad … ?”

  “You’ve just become a hostage. Tie him up, Cas, hands behind his back.”

  Castile moved without hesitation. He jerked the altar cloth off sending cross and candles clattering to the floor. A quick cut with his knife and a rip provided him with a long cloth “rope.” He bound Wolf. The boy struggled for a moment until the Wiccan cuffed him sharply on the back of his head. “Knock it off, kid. We’re trying to save your life here.”

  “It doesn’t seem like it.” Plaintive, childlike.

  Trinidad tested the knots without answering. They were tight enough the makeshift bonds would have to be cut to release him. “Give me your gun, Cas.”

  Castile complied and took hold of Wolf’s arm to guide him.

  A silent sob ran through Wolf. “Trin …”

  “Shut up,” Trinidad said, more desperate than harsh. He cleared his throat and straightened his voice into command mode. “Don’t talk. Don’t take a step without my say-so. Don’t fight me. I mean it, Wolf. I’ll kill you if I have to. If they catch you, they’ll make you wish I had.”

  “But I don’t understand.”

  “If the gods have mercy, you soon will,” Castile said, rising to peek over the altar and then standing up all the way. He pulled Wolf to his feet by his arm. “If they don’t, then it won’t matter.”

  Trinidad pressed a pistol to the back of each of
their skulls. “Go.”

  They walked down the center aisle, Trinidad staring down the rows of empty pews. Castile opened the door. The cold air of the dying day swept over them. Seth’s dray rumbled in the street, doors left open, running rough. The gate was open, ready. Seth stood next to the guard tower, his pale face stern.

  Twenty steps, give or take. Twenty steps to live.

  Less than twenty steps to die.

  Seven archwardens, Malachi and the bishop’s men, had gathered into a loose knot in the graveyard, hands resting on their heads. They didn’t look armed, but one could have a knife winging toward him in three seconds, a bullet in one. The bishop waited behind the archwardens—a compromise, Trinidad assumed, because her guards would have argued for her removal.

  Seth cleared his throat and rolled his eyes upward. Trinidad didn’t track his gaze. He knew snipers lingered overhead in the bell-tower, but he had no control over whether they would shoot him in the back or not. He was acting partly in good faith and partly on instinct, and it was too late to figure out whether they were, too, and well past time to do anything about it if they weren’t.

  “Seth can verify I’ve got my fingers on the triggers. They’re depressed. If I’m shot, my hands will contract from the shock and I’ll kill them both. If I sense a weapon about to be used against us, I will kill them. And myself.” He sought the bishop’s gaze through the steely faces of the archwardens. “And then you’re left with nothing, your Grace.”

  She gave him a crisp nod. Her expression was bland, purposefully, he assumed.

  Trinidad nudged Wolf and Castile along and they started walking. Trinidad kept his pistols pressed firmly against their heads. Depressing the triggers just the right amount took all his concentration, especially knowing one stumble could make him pull.

  “What do you think you’re fucking doing?” Seth asked lowly as they passed. “You don’t even have boots on.”

  “He’s trying to save the world,” Castile answered.

  Trinidad avoided Seth’s gaze as they walked through the gate. It felt like a heavy yoke as they got in the dray, Castile first and Wolf between them. Castile slid awkwardly across the seat with his hands tied behind his back. Wolf moved in next to him, head turned, staring at Trinidad.