The Church (The Cloister Trilogy 3)

More sweat beads along my skin, and I could swear the box closes in tighter around me. Breathe. Breathe. I press my bare feet down toward the bottom, feeling out the space. My left foot feels tight and hot, and I groan at the ripping pain that emanates from my toes. I use my right foot instead, stretching down until I feel the wood. A perfect enclosure, no way out.

Taking in a deep breath, I yell, my hoarse voice loud in my ears though I can tell it doesn’t go much farther than the timber around me. Someone would have to be standing right next to me to even hear it. And if I’m underground … I swallow hard, my mouth dry, my guts twisting in primal horror.

I yell again until my voice gives out and the stillness returns. Trapped. I clamp my eyes shut even though the darkness is absolute either way. She’s there, Emily, her white dress fluttering as she watches me with intense gray eyes. I want to call out to her, but nothing passes my lips.

She moves closer, a slight smile tipping up the corners of her lips. “You’re in quite the predicament.”

God, is she teasing me while I’m buried alive? Naughty little lamb. “I’ll get out of it.”

“You sure?” She lies down next to me and turns her head.

We’re so close, our noses almost touching.

“Piece of cake.” I swear I can smell the scent of her hair.

“I hope you’re right.” She reaches up and raps on the wood with her knuckles. “Dying in here seems even worse than on the cross.”

“Are you safe?” I try to scoot my hand over to touch her, but my fingers meet timber and my vision fades, returning me to the utter darkness. “Emily?”

Something thumps just outside, and then I can sense movement. The coffin is sliding sideways, first the bottom half, then the upper half. I’m jostled, and dust falls onto my face, sticking to my sweaty skin as I breathe out hard through my nose to clear it.

With a wrenching noise, the lid is pulled away. I blink against the light as hands grip my arms and help me to a sitting position.

“Jesus, you almost got us busted.” Jez comes into focus, her anxiety drawing crow’s feet next to her eyes. “You have any idea how close that was?”

I peer over her shoulder. We’re in a narrow space under the baptistry. Bird shit coats a thin ledge behind her, and plants soar above us. One of her birds peers down, its head cocked to the side. I’ve never heard them sing, not in any of the years they’ve been here.

“Why did you put me in a coffin?” I try to swing my legs over the edge, but I can’t do it.

Another woman I don’t recognize grabs my legs and helps me up, Jez digging her shoulder under my arm and supporting my weight as they lower me to stand. I groan as the blood rushes to my feet.

“Maggie, put it all back and close it up.” Jez jerks her chin at the wooden box I’ve just exited.

Maggie grabs some magazines, CDs, and other contraband from a pile in the floor and shoves it all into the box.

“It’s our stash. Lucky for you, the space was just big enough to hide you.” She pulls me up and out via the small staircase. Maggie follows and pulls a huge planter back into place, the fronds of an exotic tree hiding the narrow passage behind the garden. From any angle, it looks as if there is nothing but dirt and plants back here.

“Dad come looking?” I let Jez lead me to one of the chairs around the front of the garden.

“Yes. His asshole brigade trashed the place and would have found your noisy ass if some of my girls hadn’t distracted them. But we still have to be careful. Eyes everywhere.” She points up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. “We’ve changed the angle on the cameras slowly—ridiculously slowly, a centimeter a day over the course of weeks—and they haven’t noticed. My area back here is clear, but you can’t leave this room or they’ll see.”

The room has been tossed, clothes strewn everywhere and the door to her private bedroom wide open, the mattress standing on one end.

I stretch my left leg out and stare at the fat wrapping that obscures the bottom half of my foot. “My toes?”

“You lost two of them, the little one and the one next to it.” She shrugs and sits in another of the gaudy church chairs with gold cushions. “I talked Abigail out of taking the third. It’s not the right color, but I think it’ll survive. The tips of all your toes may come off eventually, but they’ll grow back. At least, that’s what Abigail says.”