I let her see all of these thoughts dancing in my eyes. She is sensitive to energy, especially the sexual charge between us. She yearns for this. She wants to sink into it, inhabit it, never leave it. She might think she is hiding all these needs, but I see the flush on her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes, the way her nipples are pressing against the pretty fabric of her dress, and I feel the desperate pleading of her unspoken words. I can hear them as clearly as I would if she had spoken them. Will she have the courage?
“Jonah’s paying for his impudence.”
“Where. Is. He?” She narrows her eyes and asks the question in a soft hiss.
“He’s in the catacomb.”
“The what a what?”
“The vault of the dead beneath the chapel.”
Her eyes widen and her nostrils flare. She is shocked and furious, two emotions that must battle for space on her pretty face. I do enjoy the contortions of her expressions. She is so innocent. Everything seems to surprise her. I will enjoy shocking her over and over again as she comes to understand the reality of her situation. This is nothing. This is a comfortable Sunday compared to what will come.
“You're a psycho!” She exclaims loudly enough for the nearby congregation to hear.
She goes storming out into the rain, furious with me, desperate to save the worthless wretch who just so happens to share her DNA. I follow, knowing there is danger in our midst. The congregation will think I am off to chastise my new member. They are not wrong.
The weather has continued to turn. It is the middle of the day, but it is now so dark it could be the middle of the night. The fog is thick enough to hide all mundane structures. Power lines and the road beyond all disappear. The chapel looms from the fog, like an ancient ship sliding across black waters. Is Nina aware of the danger? Is there any part of her pretty red head preoccupied with the sudden onset of frigid air turning a once pleasant warm morning into this marsh of despair?
I draw in deep breaths of the mist and begin to feel lightheaded and powerful. I fight the feelings. I must be sensible now. I have to guide these two wretches through the gloom. But it is thickening. It’s not mist anymore. It is proper fog. I can feel it against my face, tingling and tempting me. It sinks through my pores and works its way through my lungs and it finds my bloodstream.
Fuck. I feel as though I have just downed a bottle of spiritual absinthe. I am immediately uninhibited, reckless, and filled with a restless desire to bring all this flirtation to a screaming climax.
Nina
“Where’s the catacomb?”
I ask the question, but the second I enter the chapel it’s not necessary. Jonah is banging and screaming at the top of his lungs. All I can actually hear is a faint thudding, but it is enough. My mind fills in the rest. A twin’s sense is a powerful thing. His distress calls me to his side. The door is inside a little room that looks like a cloakroom for priests, and it is locked from the outside, with the key still in the lock. I turn it and Jonah comes tumbling out, his face white as a ghost, his fists clenched.
“We are getting the fuck out of here,” he says. “This guy is crazy.”
I was trying to tell him that, but now, as usual, it’s too late for him to have listened.
“Little ginger bastard!” Bryn comes flying through the air. I’ve never seen anybody move with such ease so far above the common consensus of the floor. He’s making for Jonah with what looks like a silver dagger in his hand. The look on his face is, for want of a better word, manic. I am terrified of him in this moment. He appears to be unhinged from the laws of both physics and his own good sense.
It seems as though Jonah is about to be killed before my very eyes for no reason at all, but somehow Crichton appears between us, blocking Bryn’s path. I have no doubt that he has just saved Jonah from a terribly violent fate one way or another.
“Out of my way, Crichton!” Bryn demands.
“I think it would be best if we all returned home,” Crichton says. “The parishioners are beginning to talk. The screaming and the wailing has drawn their attention more than usual. Remember, Bryn, we cannot have innocent blood spilled in the chapel. This is a consecrated space.”
“He’s not innocent!”
I can't help but notice that Bryn is slurring his words slightly, and his eyes are rimmed red. There’s an unsteadiness to him; no, that's not right. He’s not unsteady. He’s on edge, coiled tight like a spring, pupils like the ocular saucers of a feral cat ready to do great damage at short notice.