Willing (The Un 1)

Then I remember I never properly finished my prayer.

Straightening a candle I knocked over, I pick up my cross and grip it in my hand. I squeeze the cross so hard all the nicks and scratches that blemish it’s dull, silvery finish from being passed down generation after generation dig into the skin of my palm.

The pain, just like the idea of God’s immense, never-ending, boundless love, helps dampen the empty ache behind my ribs.

But doesn’t completely banish it.

No, I feel it burning and throbbing like an old wound that’s been ripped open.

Even when I finally say, “Amen.”

Four

Chloe

The pain behind my ribs gradually fades away as the sun fully rises. Softening to a faint throb that’s easy to ignore unless I purposely focus on it.

The hysteria I was experiencing also seems to lessen, bringing me out of my temporary psychosis. Allowing me to get a grip on my actions.

I have no doubt that my many prayers to Saint Benedict have worked, but I can’t deny that the two events are clearly connected.

My shadow stalker has to sleep during the day. Until night falls, whatever power he has over me is weakened.

Which means all hope is not lost. I still have a few hours to do something about the situation.

Before it’s too late…

As time puts more and more distance between me and the dream, logic returns. The panic doesn’t completely disappear, but it becomes more manageable.

I can breathe. I can think. I can plan.

I can figure a way out of the mess.

The first thing I do is throw myself in the shower and start scrubbing. My mind races a million miles a minute as I wash his phantom touch from my body, paying extra attention to my neck. I go over every little rule the Order taught me about my curse, and the consequences of becoming careless and ignoring them.

Rules about watching for and reporting any signs of a connection.

Up until now, I haven’t really felt any threat of him being closer.

Except for a few days ago, when the first dream of him came… That dream wasn’t nearly intense though so I brushed it off as my own overactive imagination.

I thought my loneliness was starting to get to me and it was just a dirty dream. Something I’ve been warned that can happen over time.

I know some of the other cursed girls like me, girls who bear the mark on their body, have strong intuitions. Whenever their danger is close, their mark will warn them.

But my mark hasn’t done a thing. At least, anything I’ve been aware of.

Lowering my loofah, I rub it over my mark experimentally, expecting to feel a tingle or some kind of jolting shock.

All I feel is the soft mesh of the loofah scraping against my flesh. My mark isn’t alive or sensitive to sensation. It’s just skin that feels like the rest of my skin.

Maybe I’m broken…

That thought almost causes laughter to bubble out of me.

Squeezing out the loofah, I swallow down the bout of hysteria then toss it onto the shelf.

I’m broken alright.

My mark is broken just like my poor brain.

Turning off the shower, I grab the closest towel and wrap it tightly around my body.

Leaving a trail of wet footprints behind me, I walk up to my nightstand and grab my phone. First, I check the time. It’s just after eight. Then I check my missed messages.

I have one message from Isaac. It’s the good morning message he sends every day to remind me of his existence.

Out of habit I start to type good morning back to him but think better of it. If I text him back, he’ll probably answer right away and start asking all kinds of questions. He always wants to know what plans I have for the day, and what I plan on eating.

I really need to call Father McCall first and let him know what happened.

Bracing myself for an unpleasant conversation, I quickly dial Father McCall’s number and press my phone right up to my wet ear.

The phone rings and rings until I get his voicemail.

Frowning, I hang up and dial his number again.

The phone rings and rings with no answer.

I consider leaving a message, but I don’t even know what to say. I can’t explain what happened. Not in a voicemail, anyway.

I could leave my secret codeword, but that would cause a team to be immediately dispatched to my location. The codeword is only to be used in a dire emergency.

Is this even an emergency?

My mark isn’t throbbing or tingling. I have no proof I’m in any danger. I only have a nightmare.

A nightmare that’s becoming sillier and sillier the more I think about it.

In fact, I don’t even know why I freaked out like I did.

It was just a dream. A stupid wet dream that doesn’t bear repeating.