Hel
I turn back. "Michael?"
Nothing. I start down the stairs to check if dearest Father Roth had been victorious when suddenly a hand catches my shoulder.
I spin frantically, and it's Michael breathing raggedly. His shirt is torn, and the one side of his face is covered in blood.
But he is standing. "Go."
"What happened?"
"I said go."
"You're hurt."
"I'll heal."
I look at the blood running from his mouth. "You're not human or just some sorcerer, are you?"
His expression changes. "Not entirely."
Before I can ask what that means, something moves below us.
Michael looks over my shoulder. "Hel, listen to me."
"What?"
"You cannot be here when she comes back."
"She?"
He looks toward the darkness. "Vera didn't send one of them to kill you."
My stomach twists. "What did she send?"
"A warning."
"That thing was a warning?"
Michael nods. "They don't kill unless they're ordered to."
"Who are they?"
His eyes meet mine. "Not your kind."
I stare at him. "What does that mean?"
"There are different kinds of us."
The words hang between us. Us, not them, us.
Before I can demand an explanation, Michael pushes me toward the stairs.
"Leave."
"I am not leaving you here."
"You are."
"Michael—"
"Hel."
His voice softens. "Please don't make me ask twice."
I look at him, and he looks exhausted and frightened. Not of the creature but rather of me seeing him. I finally understand.
"You don't want me to see you like this."
His eyes flicker. "Like what?"
"Whatever you are."
For several seconds, neither of us speaks.
Then he looks away. "Please just go."
I take another step backward. "I'll be waiting."
"I know."
I turn and run but barely make it more than twenty feet outside the church before I hear the sound of something breaking behind me.
I turn as the church doors burst open and the creature comes flying through them. It hits the stone steps, rolls once, and disappears into the alley.
Michael appears in the doorway, barely able to stand. Still, for one second, I think he's won. Then his knees buckle.
"Michael!"
I run back. He drops onto the steps just as another voice cuts through the morning air. Elaine is standing across the street, holding a paper bag in one hand. Her face is completely white as her eyes move from me to Michael. Then back again.
"Michael?"
He looks up and I watch the colour drain from his face. "Elaine."
She takes a step forward and then another. "I saw you die."
No one moves. I look at Michael, and he looks at his wife. The silence between them is unbearable.
Elaine's voice breaks finally. "You disappeared for three weeks."
He tries to stand but can't, so I reach for him, but Elaine is already moving, running actually, toward him.
"Michael!"
She drops the bag, and the contents spill across the pavement: bread, a bottle of wine, a small packet of medicine. She kneels beside him and touches his face with trembling hands.
"You're alive."
He closes his eyes. "Yes."
"How?"
He doesn't answer and she looks at me. Her expression changes. "What happened?"
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He looks at me with a warning in his eyes and Elaine catches it too.
She looks between us. "What aren't you telling me?"
He takes a breath. "Elaine, I can explain."
"You've been gone for three weeks."
"I know."
"I was told you were dead."
"I know."
"I buried you."
His expression tightens. "I know!"
Her eyes fill with tears. "Then why are you standing here?"
He looks down because there's no answer that doesn't destroy something. I realise that before he does and he looks at me again. This time, I understand exactly what he is asking.
I crouch beside them. "Your husband was investigating something," I say.
She turns to me. "What?"
"A group."
"What group?"
Michael answers before I can. "A religious sect."
She stares at him. "A sect?"
"They've been operating around Millbrook for some time," he says. "Quietly. They present themselves as a religious organisation, but there's something else going on underneath it."
Her eyes narrow. "And you were investigating them?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"There were disappearances."
That catches her. "People disappeared?"
He nods. "I found connections between some of them and the church. Old records. Names. Places. Things that didn't make sense."
She looks toward the church. "And they took you?"
"Yes."
Her voice becomes smaller. "For three weeks?"
"He got too close." I continue before she can ask another question. "They didn't want anyone looking for him. They made sure people believed he was dead."
Her eyes return to him. "So you were kidnapped."
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Somewhere outside town."
"You don't know where?"
Michael shakes his head. "I wasn't exactly in a position to keep track of where they were taking me."
That, at least, is believable; barely.
She looks at me. "And you?"
"I've been looking into the same group."
"Why?"
I hesitate, and Michael watches me, so I choose the safest version of the truth. "They crossed paths with me before. I knew something about them wasn't right. When I realised Michael was involved, I started looking for him."
Her eyes move between us again. "And you found him here?"
"Yes."
Michael nods. "She helped me get out."
Elaine looks at the blood covering his shirt. "Is that what happened?"
Michael says nothing for a moment. Then: "Yes."
Technically, it is. I'm beginning to appreciate how useful technically true lies can be.
She reaches for his hand and closes her fingers around his. "You could have called me."
"I couldn't."
"You could have found a way."
"I tried."
Her eyes fill with tears again. "Do you have any idea what the last three weeks have been like?"
His face breaks. For the first time since she arrived, I see something in him that has nothing to do with monsters or secrets: guilt.
"I know."
"No, you don't." She pulls her hand away. "I thought you were dead."
He looks down. "Lainey, I know."
"I had people telling me to accept it. I had people telling me to make arrangements. I had to stand there and listen to them talk about you in the past tense."
His voice is barely audible. "I'm sorry."
She closes her eyes, and for a minute, I think she's going to slap him but, instead, she touches his face again.
"You're hurt."
"I'll be fine."
She looks at the wound on his cheek, then at the blood on his clothes, and then toward the church. "What happened in there?"
He goes still, and I feel the question settle between us.
The creature, the incantation, the thing he had become to save her—none of it can reach her. Not yet.
"Things went wrong," he says.
She looks at him. "What things?"
"The people holding me were here."
She glances at me."And you fought them?"
"Yes."
"Both of you?"
"Yes."
She studies us for several seconds.
I can almost hear the questions forming behind her eyes.
Why does Helena know so much?
Why does Michael trust her?
Why does none of this sound like anything the police ever told her?
Why is her husband standing in front of a church covered in blood after being declared dead?
Finally, she asks the one question that matters.
"Are you telling me the truth?"
He barely looks at her. "Yes."
I nearly wince since it is the most dangerous answer he could've given. She studies his face again and then mine. I force myself not to look away, and she ends up saying nothing.
For a long moment, the three of us simply stand there before she bends down and picks up the paper bag. The bread has been crushed and wine rolled under a car.
She retrieves it and looks at Michael again. "Come home."
He doesn't move, and her expression softens. "Please."
He looks at me for a second, and I give him the smallest nod. Go. His eyes remain on mine for a second longer than appropriate for a married priest before turning back to his wife. "Of course."
She notices him wincing as we help him to his feet and immediately suggests going to the hospital.
"No."
"Michael."
"No hospital."
He gives her the exhausted smile of a man who has spent three weeks being tortured and has somehow decided that arguing with his wife is still more dangerous.
"I just need to go home."
She doesn't answer and simply helps him toward the car. I remain where I am. Before he reaches the passenger door, he looks back at me. Neither of us says a word. We don't need to.
The lie is between us now. As fragile a thing as any but a necessary one. She opens the car door for him and pauses before looking over her shoulder at me. "Thank you."
I fight back the urge to scoff at the idea that I'm the one owed a thank you and nod instead. I watch the car disappear down the road, and only when the taillights vanish do I let myself breathe.
I had lied to her. Michael had lied to her, and somehow, the worst part wasn't wondering whether she believed us. It was wondering whether she had believed a single word from the time of his disappearance, because when she looked at me before leaving, there had been something in her eyes.
She might have accepted our story. She might have needed to, or she might already know that whatever happened to her husband in those three weeks was something neither of us had been willing to tell her.
I look back at the church. The morning sun has begun to climb over the rooftops. For the first time, I wonder which secret is more dangerous.
What Michael really is or what his wife might discover if she starts looking for the truth.