Wolves Among Us (33 page)

Bastion moved the torch closer, burning Stefan’s cheek. “If you are a good shepherd, save yourself. Your people will need you.”

“You don’t want Mia to burn. You want her for yourself. She will never have you. She has seen through your lies and your promises. It seems that you are the only one left who is deceived.”

Stefan saw a light breaking through the clouds above. Never had the moon and stars burned through a dark sky with such force. The heavens opened in hundreds of glimmering points, the glorious white moon holding back the night. Stefan turned his gaze from the promise of the moon and looked through the flames to face his enemy.

“Have you not read?” Stefan asked. “The good shepherd gives his life for just one sheep.”

The crowd was motionless. Father Stefan looked at them, their horror plain, piercing through their deception. Bastion had all control now, over life and death, and they realized they did not know this man.

“You are condemned!” Bastion screamed, plunging the torch into Stefan’s abdomen, oil and flame spilling across his robes, incinerating the dry linen. Flames shot from all directions as they caught his robes on fire. Stefan saw a flame leap across his arm and lick against the wood door of the church.

Bastion turned on the crowd. “You are my witnesses! He condemned himself by his actions!” He came down the steps, still carrying the torch. “And I will kill any one of you who does not tell the story this way. If you want to live, if you want your children to live, then when you are asked, you will say he was an admitted witch who would not let me burn his consorts.”

Bastion threw the torch at their feet, making the crowd scream and scatter as he walked into the night. Stefan cried out against his will. The flames moved to his legs and arms. His mind began to seize and tumble. He saw Bastion leaving. He did not want the last thing he saw on earth to be that man. He turned to look at Ava instead.

Her cage door hung open. She was gone.

Stefan’s legs gave out. He stumbled toward the church steps and fell down them, landing on his back. He lifted his eyes to the stars as he died.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Stefan was dead, Mary had said. His body was at the bottom of the steps.

Bastion was gone—he had ridden away on his horse, no one knew in which direction—and the streets were empty. Smoke settled in the church, stinging their eyes. Alma closed hers for relief and slept.

Mia couldn’t help the tears that flowed, and when Dame Alice wrapped her arms around Mia and spoke soft words, Mia embraced them. Eventually, she fell asleep.

When she woke, strong daylight illuminated the windows of the church. Alma sat with Erick. Mia watched as Erick tore a linen shirt in his lap into strips, braiding them, then tying them off, making a little rag-doll figure. Alma held her hand out, looking down. Erick lifted her face up, gently, with his fingers, and tapped her on the nose. He stared at the doors, still bolted, as if looking beyond them. He rose, surveying the women. Seeing Mia awake, he nudged Alma and pointed to her. Mia nodded, still too weak to move first.

Erick turned to the doors. He pushed back the bolt and swung the doors open to the day. Brilliant sunlight flooded the church. The women looked away, squinting, murmuring, some just awakening. Mia saw the empty town square, the abandoned church steps, and the stakes. She looked away from the spot where Father Stefan’s remains rested.

Erick walked out, returning after a few minutes with a shovel. Mia and the women watched him choose a spot at the front of the church steps and begin to dig. He was digging a grave, she realized. No one would be able to enter this church again without thinking of Father Stefan. He would be its constant gate, its conscience.

Erick finished digging the grave, then laid the body inside. He moved to remove the largest stake first, and Mia shuddered.

Erick wrapped his arms around the larger stake, grunting and heaving, doing the work of three men. Mia saw it move, rising from the cold ground, teetering, before Erick let it fall. He went to the smaller stake next, lifting it, letting it fall, then dragging it to the first. Laying the smaller stake across the taller one, he fetched rope from the sheep pen and returned, fastening the stake together. He dug again, another grave perhaps, Mia thought. But it was deeper, and round.

Villagers had begun to come out of their houses, watching from the lanes, some getting the courage to walk out into the square. None seemed angry. Mia knew the expression they wore. It was shame and confusion. Her heart opened to them, forgiveness surprising her in its sudden birth, and, like a newborn, its lack of logic or principle.

Erick lifted the stakes, dragging them to the smaller hole, and dropped them in. Mia heard her own gasp at what Erick had built, echoing among the others who watched.

Erick had built a cross. When his work was finished, he looked up into the church and caught Mia’s eye. A feeling passed between them, clean and pure, like a sacrament.

Alma left Mia, walking to the painting of Jesus above the altar, straining on the tip of her toes to point to His face. The women watched as she ran her little hands over the altar below, then held her hands up to the light. Her fingertips were dirty with soot. She looked at Mia, a question on her face.

“Yes, we will clean this church, Alma.”

Alma turned back to stare at the painting, a single tear rolling down her face.

Chapter Twenty-eight

A year later

Mia felt satisfied as she walked. Dame Alice cooked such heavy meals, even in this warm weather. Spring had come early this year, but Dame Alice still insisted on feeding Mia thick roasts and dark breads. She still thought Mia was too thin, though Mia had put on weight. Everything about Mia was different this spring. Her face had softened, she slept without worries, and she was not afraid to talk of the Bible. She was not afraid to read it either, although the new priest the bishop had sent needed convincing that this was a proper thing for a woman to do. Erick had helped convince him, she recalled with a grin. She hoped he had been kind.

Alma ran ahead of Mia as they made their way toward home with surprising energy after hours of playing with little Marie from the village. Alma skipped and hopped as she tried to flush out the spring rabbits for a good chase.

When they arrived at home, Erick stood in the doorway. “What did you bring me?” Alma squealed, running at him with full speed.

Erick wiped his hands on the side of his trousers, grinning at them both. “Brought you some fresh milk. From Mary.”

Alma ran to him, and he caught her under the arms, swinging her in an arc around himself, spinning in a circle. Mia watched as Alma threw back her head in laughter.

“Not from her cow, surely?” Mia said with a smile.

“She finally traded it for three goats. The goats are at least giving her milk.” Erick set Alma down, and she immediately opened the bag at his side, plunging her hand in.

“Alma! Stop that!” Mia laughed and smoothed out her skirt to busy herself. Her exhortation was futile. Alma pretended not to hear. And Erick himself had created this ritual.

Alma held her prize up to the light. A plain, round stone, but when she turned it, Mia saw it held inside jagged purple fingers, sparkling like gems. She smiled at Alma, whose sweet face glowed with wonder.

Erick took a step forward to leave, and Mia stepped to the side to make room, to avoid coming too close or touching him by accident.

He emptied the bag into his palm as he approached, nodding at Mia to hold out her hand. She did. Erick poured dark, firm black seeds into the folds of her palm. She did not recognize them.

“For flowers. I want you to have something beautiful to look at out your window while you tend to Alma.”

Mia’s breath caught in her chest. She forced herself to look up, into his eyes. She wanted him to know what she felt. She would keep her promise to herself never to run again.

“You are so kind to us. I do not know what to say,” she replied. She truly didn’t. She wanted to put it all into words, but they did not seem enough, after all he had done, after all they had survived together.

“You don’t need to say anything.” Erick smiled at her.

She found it hard to think with him so close. “Well, I thank you. But tell me, what are these seeds called?”

“Bride’s flowers.”

She knew the blush was rising in her cheeks.

His smile widened as he reached for her hand. “We mustn’t waste another spring.”

… a little more …

When a delightful concert comes to an end,

the orchestra might offer an encore.

When a fine meal comes to an end,

it’s always nice to savor a bit of dessert.

When a great story comes to an end,

we think you may want to linger.

And so, we offer ...

AfterWords—
just a little something more after you

have finished a David C Cook novel.

We invite you to stay awhile in the story.

Thanks for reading!

Turn the page for ...

• Bonus Chapter (for readers of the Chronicles of the Scribe series)

• Author’s Note

• Discussion Questions

• Supernatural Housekeeping

Bonus Chapter

For readers of the Chronicles of the Scribe series

Reporters spilled out onto the sidewalk as satellite trucks jockeyed for parking. Everyone scrambled to be the first to the door and into the building. Seasoned pros waved large bills in the air.

Amber-Marie held the foul bag away from her body as she waited in the alley across from the hotel. Her driver, Jim, would start the car as soon as he saw her. Until the press disappeared inside the building, chasing down the story she just gave them, she’d stay hidden.

A greasy stench from the manuscript Amber-Marie just stole nauseated her. The author she represented, Mariskka, had lost her mind writing a sequel to her surprise best seller. She was up there now. Those reporters would get a good dose of crazy. Let them have Mariskka. Amber-Marie had gotten what she wanted. She peered around the corner. Jim watched for her, the engine already running.
Good man.

She had to get rid of the source of this smell first. One fast breath and she opened the bag. A violent blast of burned hair and skin stung her nostrils as something sharp latched onto her ribs from behind. She flew backward so fast her stomach lurched forward. She tried to scream.

Shoved into darkness and dropped, she recognized the sound of a bolt sliding into a lock. She could not detect walls around her or anything else—just a dark void. Then the smell hit her again, stronger now. She put her hand over her mouth, trying not to breathe. Something burned in here, a combination like fast-food grease and melting vacuum belts.

“Is anyone here?” she whispered.

A torch burst into flames near her head.

“Take this,” a man’s voice said.