Verum (The Nocte Trilogy 2)
But they do.
“Calla,” my dad says, kindly and soothingly. “You’re ok. You’re ok. But I need you to trust me right now.”
His face is grave and pale. I look at Dare and notice that his hands are clenched into fists, his knuckles white. The air in this room is charged now, dangerous, and I find that I can scarcely breathe.
I brace myself.
Because deep in the pit of my stomach I feel like I can’t trust anyone.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and push my face into Finn’s blanket. Through the muffled fabric, I hear words. I feel Dare’s hand on my shoulder. I feel the vibration of his deep voice in my chest.
And then I feel his absence.
I open my eyes.
The room is empty.
They’d given up.
Whatever they wanted to tell me, I’m safe from it now.
Because I’m alone.
With shaky steps, I climb to my feet and walk to Finn’s nightstand. I pick up his St. Michael’s medallion and fasten it around my neck.
Holding it in my fingers, I whisper the prayer, each word quick and stiff on my lips.
St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.
I say the prayer three times in a row, just to make sure.
I’m protected.
I’m protected.
I’m protected.
I’m safe now. I’m wearing Finn’s medallion. I’m safe.
I’m just drawing a shaky breath of relief when the door creaks open again and I’m faced once again with my insanity.
My startled eyes flash upward, finding the impossible.
Finn.
My dead brother.
Standing in the doorway of his bedroom.
Chapter 2
“You’re ok,” Finn tells me quickly, his gaze connected with mine, and with lips that are supposed to be dead. He sees my panic, he sees my terror. Because he knows me best.
Quickly, he crosses the room and kneels beside me, his hands cold as he grabs mine and holds them.
St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle.
It can’t be him. But yet, as I stare down at Finn’s white fingers, and the pale freckle that splotches across his middle knuckle, I know it’s him. It has to be. I know that freckle, I know those hands.