Consumed by Fire (Fire 1)

And leave a trail of blood wherever she went. She was about to rise when the old priest returned, this time with a richly embroidered drapery over his black robe, and he carried a tray with a heavy silver bowl of water, a little ewer of oil, a box, and a pile of linen cloths.

“I’ve called for help,” he said. “And now you must let me tend to you.” To her absolute horror, the old man knelt at her feet, placing the bowl in front of her.

“Father, no!” She protested, trying to rise, but he was in the way and she could scarcely knock him over.

“My daughter, this is a rite as old as time,” he said calmly, dripping some oil into the steaming water. “Just relax.” He took one of her feet and placed it in the basin, scooping up the water with his hands and pouring it over her. “Tell me, my child, are you a Catholic?”

“I’m afraid not. I wasn’t brought up in any particular religion.” She glanced nervously behind her, but the doors to the street remained shut. “Perhaps you shouldn’t . . .”

“Nonsense. Your parents’ failings were not your fault. Do you repent of your sins?”

At the moment she couldn’t think of any, except being stupid enough not to tell James she loved him. She hated the thought of dying without him knowing, but then, if she didn’t make it through the night, it would probably be easier on him if he didn’t know.

Then again, she didn’t want to make her death easy on him, and surely that was a sin in itself? She needed to humor the old man, though, or he’d never let her go, and they’d both be sitting ducks. “Yes, Father.”

“Then you are absolved, my child.” He made the sign of the cross, then removed her foot from the water and wrapped it with a heavy linen towel. He set it down on the stone and reached for her second foot. Blood filled the water, and the cut stung. The priest continued talking in a calm voice. It took her a moment to realize he was speaking in Latin, but the sound of his voice was as soothing as the touch of his hands. When he finished with her wounded foot and lifted it from the bowl, she could see the cut wasn’t nearly as bad as she feared, though it was still oozing; she wanted to protest that it was ruining the beautiful linen but decided it was a waste of time.

The priest had his own agenda. She wondered what he was saying in Latin. Some blessing or prayer for healing, she imagined. She’d studied Latin—her parents had insisted on it—but she hadn’t heard it spoken conversationally, and she had no idea what he was saying.

He dried his own hands on another towel—she felt sorry for the parish laundry—and then reached for a small case that lay on the tray. Opening it, he took out a small piece of almost paper-like substance. “Open your mouth, child, and let this dissolve. Don’t use your teeth.”

She looked at it warily. “I don’t want painkillers.”

His laugh was warm. “The only painkiller this contains is the Holy Spirit. Open.”

He had the voice of authority beneath his kindly tones, and she figured she needed all the help she could get as he placed the wafer into her mouth, continuing in Latin. Next came a tiny glass of sweet wine, and she decided this must be some Catholic form of healing. Odd that the priest would give communion to a non-Catholic, but she decided he must be a very sweet man. The act of kindness made her want to weep in her exhausted state, but she simply went along with his directions, unable to summon the energy to protest.

Where the hell were the police? He said he’d called them—how long could it possibly take? The priest kept on with his Latin, and some of it began to sound familiar. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. What sin had the priest committed? Oh, no, he was praying for her sins, wasn’t he? It was a good thing he didn’t know what she’d been doing with James Bishop or she’d probably be doomed to the fiery reaches of hell, at least according to the church.

When he was finished, she would leave. Even in the sanctity of a church she didn’t feel safe, but at the moment she couldn’t make herself move. She simply stared at the candle flame, mesmerized.

She could hear muted voices, and she sat up. “Is someone here?”

The priest finished the rest of the wine and put the small bottle back in the heavy silver case, which was ornately engraved and monogrammed. “Only some of my helpers.” He took the little ewer of oil again, poured some on his hand, reaching up to make a mark on her forehead. Blessing her, she supposed. She knew that the Catholic faith was big on ceremony but even this seemed extreme to her, and she was about to protest when he began speaking again in what was clearly a prayer, and she dutifully bowed her head, not wanting to seem ungrateful.

He’d switched to English somewhere along the way. “Through this holy unction and through the great goodness of His mercy, may God pardon thee whatever sins thou hast committed . . .”

He’d already pardoned her so-called sins. “Unction?” she interrupted. “What are you doing?”

For a moment the old priest looked cross, interrupted mid-spate. “I am performing the holy rite of extreme unction.”

The tiny amount of wine in her stomach threatened to erupt. “Extreme unction? Isn’t that the last rites? Do you think I’m going to die?”

He made the sign of the cross over her, rising again. “No, my child,” he said kindly. “I know you’re going to die.”

Panic sliced through her, and she surged to her feet, shoving at the old man, but he remained solid and immovable. “I have asked my men to make it painless,” he continued in his entirely reasonable voice. “It’s an ugly business, but a necessity. The Committee must learn to keep out of our affairs and we will keep out of theirs. Your friends will come searching for you, but it will be too late: you will be dead, and when they touch you, this entire building will disappear.”

“By magic?” she said stupidly.

“No, dynamite.” He moved away from her, heading back to the altar, and when she rose, ready to run, she saw that the doors were now open, and the men were advancing down the center aisle, some in priests’ garb, some in street clothes, but they moved as a unit, purposeful, deadly.

She must be imagining the sound in the distance. Was it real, or had her mind simply given up in terror and she was hallucinating? Merlin would do anything to find her—she trusted him. If James and Ryder realized she was gone, they’d let Merlin out to find her.

She heard the bark, closer now, and she knew it was real—the familiar bay of a dog on the scent. The men had their guns drawn, even the three priests, and she had to find some way to stop them, to slow them down, long enough for Merlin to find her.

She rushed the altar, shoving the old man aside as she grabbed one of the heavy candlesticks. Wax dripped onto her hands and the ornate carving bit into her fingers, but she didn’t hesitate. “Come any closer and I’ll bash his head in, you motherfuckers.”

The priest looked up in shock. “This is a place of holy worship! You watch your language, young lady!”