Ignoring Arrah, I forge on like a freight train, huffing and puffing clouds of frosty breath instead of smoke. I pull my parka tighter around me, but it’s not enough to shield me from the wailing wind’s razor teeth that nibble on my exposed skin. I never thought I’d miss the desert as much as I do at this moment.
Arrah’s gloved fingers lock onto my arm and pull me to a stop. “Slow down. We’re on recon patrol not a relay race, remember?”
My eyes search the horizon. Ghostly outlines of buildings and towers fade in and out in time with the howling breeze. The sky’s coated with grayish sludge—smog from the mines and the sewage and electrical plants mixed with swirling snow.
“We’ve got a lot of ground to cover,” I grunt. “If this weather keeps up, it might whiteout soon. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to get caught outside if it does.”
“I agree. And it could be worse. Leander, Dahlia, and Rod-Man are training on Worm interrogation.” Arrah shakes her head. “This is probably some kind of endurance test. But it’s not like we have a choice. We have our orders. Valerian was really clear: conduct a sweep of the area, make sure no one’s violating curfew, and report back in. Then we can take the rest of the day off.” Her eyes flit from her chronometer to the streets, as if she’s looking for something, then back to me.
I shake my head, trying my best to appear casual. “If we freeze to death, we don’t pass and move on to the next tier.”
She smiles and her eyes dart back to her chronometer. “Gotcha.” She reaches up and swats frost off my brow. “Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor. You’ve barely said a word since we’ve been placed back on active duty. What’s going on?”
If only I could tell her. She’s the closest thing I have to a friend. But there’s too much hanging in the balance. And there’s something about the way she’s been checking the time. What’s she waiting for? What’s her agenda? Trust is nothing more than a set-up that makes you weak. Sometimes it’s hard enough not betraying yourself.
I rub my gloved hands together like I’m trying to start a fire. “Can we talk about this later, over a hot meal in the commissary, before frostbite sets in?”
Arrah backs up and points a finger at me. “I’ll hold you to that.”
I nod and check my chron. “We’ll meet back here in… let’s say… two hours and file our reports.”
She gives me the thumbs-up. “You got it. First one back treats the other to a hot chocolate with whipped cream smuggled from the officer’s lounge.”
“Right.”
Then we move off in opposite directions.
No sooner is she gone from sight than I duck into the mouth of the nearest alleyway, turn onto Liberty Boulevard, and make my way through the mazes of streets and sewers that cut through row upon row of dilapidated tenements. It’s hard to believe I used to share one of these boxlike dwellings with my parents and Cole. That was someone else’s life. Someone who no longer exists—like my parents, like Digory. Melted away and evaporated like one of these snowflakes.
And finally I see it.
The Priory.
The stone relic presides at the top of a hill, looking like a charred skull against the stark white horizon. Windows of angled glass cut through the granite, burning with flickering light. The arched entrance oozes darkness down the sloping pathway to the base of the mound. Five spires claw at the sky. For a place that was built to repel sin, it seems like a natural magnet for it.
And somewhere, swallowed up by this terrible place, Cole waits for me.
The memory of the last time I was here cuts through my brain like slivers of hail. Dad had just died. Mom was left to take care of infant Cole and twelve-year-old me. She’d swallowed her pride and begged the Prior to help us give Dad a proper burial and provide a few meals until she could get back on her feet.
I remember how Prior Delvecchio’s face frightened me, his toothy grin, the way he looked at Mom and licked his lips as if he were hungry. There was an electrical storm raging that night and each flash seemed to take an x-ray of his angular face, making it look more like a corpse. Cole wouldn’t stop crying despite how much my mother rocked him. When Delvecchio asked to speak with her in private, she handed him to me and he wrapped his tiny fist around my finger.
My mother and Delvecchio disappeared behind a partition. All I could see were distorted shadows, accompanied by the awful sound of Delvecchio screeching at my mother to get down on her knees and pray for strength. Then the sound of ripping fabric, and my mother’s screams, followed by a slap. The next thing I knew, Mom came racing around the partition, one cheek red, blood dripping from her nose, her torn work overalls exposing a naked shoulder. Delvecchio followed, his eyes bulging and four claw marks across his face. My mother scooped Cole and me into her arms and as we ran out into the torrential rain, Delvecchio’s angry curses drowned out the storm. You stupid bitch. You could have had it all. Now you’ll rot like your husband.
Dad never got his proper burial. His body was incinerated by the state and disposed of in a mass grave. Of course, Mom hadn’t wanted me to see, but I’d snuck away, hidden among the rank piles of garbage, my eyes glued to that wavering heap of tangled, twisted limbs, searching for my father’s face, too afraid to find it and hoping it was all a mistake.
Less than a year after watching my father burn, and probably as a result of the extra shifts she pulled in the mines, breathing in all those toxins, after Delvecchio refused to help us, my mother was dead too.
I wipe the icy slush from my burning eyes. The muscles in my legs strain with the effort of propelling myself up the mound of snow toward the Priory.
Cresting the top of the hill, I pause and stare at the monstrosity squatting before me.
It probably won’t be a good idea to march right through those wrought-iron gates. I’m sure the Anchorites are under strict orders not to let me see Cole. Fine. I’ve gotten through more heavily guarded places than this before.
Although a monastic order that thrives on other people’s pain could prove to be far more dangerous.
I skirt the abbey’s perimeter to a side entrance, then duck behind a cluster of brambles. The prickly branches skewer the falling snowflakes.
Two hooded figures emerge from the door, clad in bright red robes that bleed against the stark snow. Between them they pull a wooden cart heaped with what looks like piles of garbage, including a cache of old robes. They proceed to dump the refuse in a bin and disappear back inside.
My eyes dart to my chron. I still have time before I have to report in. No one will be missing me—yet.
Checking my surroundings to make sure there’s no one else in sight, I scuttle over to the bin and open it. My nose wrinkles. But foraging through trash is something that’s been a part of my life so long, I barely notice as my hands dive in and pull out an Anchorite garment. A few stains, maybe a tear or two, but hopefully no one will notice before I find Cole and get him out of there.
Slipping on the cassock and drawing the hood over my head, I approach the door and try it. Locked. No problem. Good thing it’s one of those ancient jobs, splintering wood and rusty keyhole. A minute later, after a few quick jabs with the pincers in my utility kit, I’m rewarded with a click.
I pull the door open, cringing as it squeaks and creaks. I pause and hold my breath, listening for approaching footsteps. There aren’t any. I exhale a plume of frost and inch the door open a little more, just enough to squeeze my body through, and ease it closed behind me as quietly as possible.