I am fairly certain Crichton can hear every word out of his mouth. If we are going to discuss breaching our probation conditions and getting ourselves into some deeply European shit, we need to have a little bit more in the way of tact.
“Let’s just get through this,” I say. I am not looking forward to sitting through a tedious service, though I also can't imagine how anything involving Bryn could be boring.
We slip into the back of the church, where the service is already in progress. That is a relief, because it means I won’t have to suffer through the whole thing. We never used to attend church in America. I suppose I could look at this as a quaint cultural experience.
Or I would, if I weren’t so distracted by the man at the front of the church. He is wearing incongruous robes that make him look like the man of faith everybody here needs him to be, but when I see him, I see his darkness. All the way at the back of the chapel, it is obvious to me.
He looks up and sees me. There is a bolt of connection between us, something so powerful it has to be visible and obvious to everyone. But nobody seems to notice. They don't know we are here. They are too busy being buried in their prayer books or song books. I don’t know exactly what they are. Small and maroon and irrelevant because I can’t stop staring at Bryn. How are all these people ignoring his devilish hotness? How do they not catch a glance from those terrible dark eyes and not know precisely what he is.
I’ve been wondering all morning if what happened in the night was a vivid dream or reality. I don’t usually have so much trouble telling what is real from what is not, but everything since Jonah and I were dragged off in cuffs at the airport has felt surreal. I knew the moment I saw Bryn I would have a much better sense of it, because I would see the truth in his eyes.
I see that truth now.
It happened.
It was real.
He put me on my knees and he used my mouth and now he is preaching to a group of innocent people who have no idea what kind of monster he is.
Bryn
“The Lord your God forgives,” I tell my congregation. They knew that already, but they like to hear it again anyway. Church is basically Dora the Explorer for adults, lots of repetition, plenty of good, solid messages.
All is well until Ivy walks into the church with Crichton by her side. My voice falters. It is as though I am staring through time. Then I see the glowering boy beside them and reality reasserts itself painfully. Of course it is not Ivy. It is Nina. And they are late.
The girl is staring at me from the back of the church with an intensity that is almost enough to distract me from the sermon. If I wasn’t so used to standing here in the depths of hypocrisy, I might find it difficult to finish. As it is, there is a brief pause that might easily be interpreted as a brief glower at the latecomers.
Crichton tucks them away in a pew at the rear and the sermon goes on largely undisturbed — or so I imagine until during the second hymn I notice that Jonah is tearing strips of paper from the verges of the song book, chewing them and flicking them about the chapel like a five-year-old. I flick a brow at Crichton, who shrugs helplessly. It is not that he cannot do anything. It is that he does not want to make a scene. These services provide legitimacy for the rest of our activities. If they devolve into chaos, the grapevine will be abuzz with interest and unwanted attention. I am certain, as is Crichton, that Jonah is capable of causing chaos.
The congregation is singing away happily. I cannot leave the pulpit without drawing unwanted attention to myself, and that means I have to let him terrorize the unwary while planning a revenge unlike any that little shit has ever experienced in life.
I AM THE LORD OF THE DANCE, SAID HE, AND I’LL LEAD YOU ALL, WHEREVER YOU MAY BE, AND I’LL LEAD YOU ALL IN THE DANCE, SAID HE.
Nina seems unaware of the chaos her brother is causing. Her gaze is fixed on me, her pretty green eyes searching me for some understanding. I have not explained nearly enough to satisfy her curiosity. My actions, my touch, my domination have all left her with more questions than answers. She is looking at me with an intensity I find just as distracting as her brother’s immature antics. Possibly even more so. She is at as great a distance as it is possible to be and still be inside the church, and not only can I not stop looking at her, I feel as though I can make out every micro-expression on her face. I am inordinately obsessed with her, and she, it would seem, with me.