Wait—what had he said?
“No,” she gasped.
Where was she? In the backseat of Eran’s car, wadded up like a sickly human rag. She tried to move and pain shot through her body, a thousand hot irons cutting across the surface of her human skin. It didn’t matter, she mustn’t let him—
“Not there,” she grated. “Not safe. The Hunter will come back.” She didn’t bother to add that a single human death or two mattered not at all to those who came from Hell. Lucifer’s soldier would kill Eran without blinking, and the only thing that had saved him tonight was the arrival of his fellow humans—too many witnesses.
“There has to be someone who can help you,” Eran said. Despite the agony pulsing through her body—or perhaps because of it—Brynna could hear the desperation in his voice. “If not a doctor, then …” His voice trailed off, but before she could ask, his tone changed. “I know someone,” he said. Then, more to himself than to her, “Yeah, we’ll go there. That’s perfect. It has to be.”
Brynna swallowed, trying to find enough saliva to get her question out. Her throat felt like a tube lined with hot glass. “Where?” she finally managed.
“Saint Clement Church,” Eran answered.
“A c-church?”
“I know one of the priests there. Father Murphy.”
“Church,” Brynna repeated. The notion made a thousand questions bubble through her mind, not the least of which was could she even go inside? She thought she could … but what if she was wrong? Once upon a time she and her kind had been considered Highborn, the first children of God. But now … now she was one of the fallen, a demon. Setting foot in the Creator’s house was a privilege, not a right. Did her quest for redemption give her back that privilege, even in her most dire hour of need?
Well, if that was where Eran was determined to take her, she was certainly going to find out.
And what about Eran’s friend, this Father Murphy? She’d never heard Eran mention him before and had, through some pretty close contact with Eran over these past weeks, gotten the clear impression that Eran and religion were two distinct and unrelated entities.
Before she could form a question for him, one of the car’s back tires sank hard into a pothole. The jolt bounced her sharply on the backseat, launching more pain into Brynna’s human body than it could handle. Whatever question might have come out was lost to unconsciousness as Brynna sank into a very comfortable and pain-free blackness.
THE RECTORY WAS a majestic stone building that had been originally constructed in the 1800s as a mansion, then bought by the parish and used as a convent before eventually being converted into the parish center and rectory. Eran remembered that much from looking up information on the church after he’d met Father Murphy, but the recollection didn’t help him much in navigating, especially under pressure.
He double-parked, crossing his fingers that no one would sideswipe him, then fumbled around until he found a gate in the waist-high iron fence. Once inside, he followed a long, narrow concrete walkway that finally led to the rectory door. The doorbell was difficult to find in the dark. By the time Eran located it, he’d lost all pretenses of trying to be low-key. Besides, if another one of those things—a Hunter—was following them, he needed the company of others to keep it from attacking; he might be good at acting brave in front of Brynna, but after what he’d witnessed in the alley, his firm belief in his own invincibility now rested on damned shaky ground.
By the time Father Murphy finally answered, Eran had given up ringing the bell in favor of pounding on the heavy wooden door until the side of his hand was bruised. He was sweating and fidgeting and couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the sky every few seconds. But then, if that creature did come back, it wouldn’t be concerned about him, it would be back at the car where Brynna was—
“Detective Redmond?”
Eran whirled, realizing he’d actually started to turn away and move back toward the car. “Father Murphy!”
The priest gave him a perplexed smile, but it disappeared when he looked a little more closely at Eran. “Detective, is something wrong? You look—”
“I need your help,” Eran blurted. “I have a friend in the car who’s hurt. I can’t take her to a hospital—it’s complicated. But I’ll explain everything, I swear. If you’ll just help me get her off the street and inside where it’s safe, I’ll explain.” After a second’s pause, he added, “And this doesn’t involve anything illegal, so there’s nothing to worry about there.”
Father Murphy opened his mouth, then closed it. “All right. Where—”
“Here,” Eran said. He was already pulling on the priest’s arm, guiding him to the car as quickly as he could get the other man to move. “Right out front. I need someplace to put her, and I can’t take her to my place.” The priest glanced at him as they hurried down the walkway. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you everything if we can just get her inside where it’s safe.”
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned safe,” the priest said. But they had reached Eran’s car and there was no more time for questions or speculation, because when Eran yanked open the back door, Brynna’s arm, pocked with blackened patches of skin and smelling like burned meat, slid into view. Father Murphy gasped, but as Eran leaned in and slid his arms under Brynna’s shoulders, the priest pitched in to help without hesitating. She’d been unconscious for most of the ride but had started to wake up toward the end. Now she moaned as the two men got her out of the car, upright, and supported between the two of them.
“Detective, this woman needs more care than I can provide,” Murphy protested when Eran steered them back in the direction of the rectory. “A trauma doctor—a burn unit.”
“She can’t go there,” Eran told him without slowing. “And we have to get her inside. It’s dangerous for her to be out in the open.”
“But she’s too badly hurt—she’ll die!”
“No,” Brynna said. Her voice was low but still strong enough so that they could both hear her. “I won’t die. I just need to c-clean up a little, that’s all. Some water. S-Sleep.”
They were at the rectory door now. The priest had left it ajar and Eran nudged it open with his foot. He helped get Brynna inside, then twisted back and pushed the door closed so hard that it slammed against the frame. There was a heavy-looking lock about a foot above the brass doorknob and Eran used one hand to turn it until the cylinders clattered into place. It wasn’t much comfort, but at least it was something.
“Where to?” he asked Father Murphy. “Do you have a bed, or a guest room or something? Someplace where visitors don’t usually go?”
The priest frowned but inclined his head in the direction of a long hallway. “At the end,” he told Eran. “Downstairs. There’s a room in the basement with a couple of twin beds in it. It’s more of a storeroom now, hasn’t been used in awhile so there’s lots of boxes and junk, but I think one of the beds is clear.”
“That’ll do.”
IT WASN’T UNTIL they had Brynna lying on the bed that Eran and Father Murphy could see the full range of her burns in the mellow light cast by a small lamp. Father Murphy hurried away and returned in a couple of minutes with scissors, clean linens, and a big bowl of cool water. Wordlessly, Eran helped him cut away what little was left of Brynna’s charred clothes, then they covered her midsection with a sheet and carefully began to wash her scorched skin. Somehow she kept silent; perhaps she realized that if she cried out, Father Murphy would break and insist on outside help. The worst of the wounds were at her feet, where the gasoline had thoroughly soaked the bottoms of her jeans and her shoes; the burns lessened higher up on her body, but her clothing had provided great fuel. There were a few singed spots on her shoulders and neck, but not much on her face.
Finally they were finished. The sheet below Brynna was speckled with blood and blackened bits of skin and fabric. “We should change that,” Father Murphy said, staring downward. “We have to keep the wounds clean or they�
��ll get infected.” He raised his bleary, shocked gaze to Eran. “These injuries—I don’t see how she’ll survive.”
“She will,” Eran said. He blinked as he realized he believed that, had absolutely no doubt. She really was what she’d claimed all along, and who better to withstand fire than a woman from Hell itself? How ironic that to save her, he’d brought her to a church.
“Is there water?” Brynna murmured. Even though her voice was low, Eran thought it sounded clearer.
“Absolutely,” Father Murphy said. He hurried out of the room and Eran heard water running—there must be a bathroom on this level. The priest came back with a plastic tumbler; when Brynna reached for it, Eran took it and knelt next to the bed so that he could hold her head while she sipped. When she’d finished the entire tumbler, he eased her head back and she sighed. “Thank you. I just need to sleep now, so I can heal.” Her eyes were already closing before she finished the sentence. Changing the sheets was best left for another time.
Eran and the priest eased out of the room, and Father Murphy left the door open slightly. They’d walked only about five feet down the hall before the priest turned and fixed his stern gaze on Eran. “We’ll go upstairs,” he told Eran. “I’ll start some coffee. And you’ll fill me in. On everything. I’ll keep an open mind and you won’t leave anything out. Understand?”
Eran nodded. He wondered if the priest realized just how open his mind needed to be.
Twenty-two
Brynna came awake with enough of a jerk to send a jagged swipe of pain through her ankles. Sitting up took a lot of effort, but it was worth it when the prize was the full tumbler of cool water on a small table next to the bed. She drank it all, forcing herself not to gulp when the first sensation of liquid on her tongue made thirst explode in her mouth. There was something else on the table, a small plate of tomato wedges and soft cheese; like the first sip of water, the initial taste of a tangy tomato wedge made her mouth water and her very empty stomach grumble.
After finishing the simple meal, Brynna peered down at her feet. How long had she been here? She had a dim memory of Eran and someone else—a priest—bringing her in then washing her burns, but there was nothing after that except shadows that occasionally lightened at the edges.
She was groggy, still tired in a way that told her she wasn’t quite where she needed to be as far as healing was concerned. When her mind searched out the last memories she had before passing out on this bed, she wasn’t surprised. It had been quite the pyre, and her ankles and shins were still raw and glistening, dribbling fluids that soaked into a thick pad below them. The burns climbed up her bare shins, where they had finally started to heal just above her knees. She thought back to the burns she’d gotten from the Hunter’s fireballs right after she’d taken this human form, but there was really no comparison. Those had been not much more than grazes on the surface of her skin; this time, great chunks of flesh had been grilled right off her body. Damage like that didn’t fix itself overnight, even for her.
So again, how long had she been here?
On the heels of that thought:
Is Mireva all right?
Brynna ground her teeth and swung her legs over the side of the bed, hissing at the fresh misery that billowed up her nerve endings when her bare feet pressed against the floor. More memories were reasserting themselves now: the priest helping Eran get her out of the car, the long, agonizing walk inside and down the stairs. She wasn’t in the church proper but the rectory, where the priest and, sometimes, church employees lived and worked. Eran’s choice had been excellent—it was a good place, a safe place. But now she had to get back to her apartment and find out about Mireva.
Moving more slowly than she’d ever thought possible, Brynna worked her way to the door, then out into the hallway. The lower the burn on her body, the worse the pain; every step made her want to scream. But she would not give up, and she would not be stopped.
Brynna fixed her gaze on the staircase at the far end of what seemed like the longest hallway in the world, and headed toward it.
“GOING SOMEWHERE?”
Brynna turned a little too sharply and got a much nastier jolt up one of her ankles than she expected. She had been so intent on getting to the stairs that she hadn’t paid attention to the two closed doors she’d passed along the way. One must have opened onto a bathroom, and now Eran was standing just outside of it, drying his hands on a towel and looking at her like there was nothing in the world more ordinary than Brynna lurching down a basement hallway while wrapped in a sheet.
“Yes,” she managed. “Back h-home.”
“To your apartment?” He shook his head and draped the towel over the edge of the sink, then came toward her. “Nope. Not a good idea.”
“Mireva—”
“Is fine. I’ve been in so much contact with Ramiro and Abrienda that they’re starting to think I’m stalking them. In fact, I just talked to him about twenty minutes ago. They have family visiting for a week and their place is crammed with people. It’s the perfect way to keep her safe. She hasn’t been by herself in days.”
Days?
“How long …”
Eran cocked his head and let his gaze travel down to her swollen feet and blistered ankles. “Four days. I’d say you’re only about halfway there, Brynna. You need another four—at least—to get you back to preroasted condition.”
“Four days,” she echoed. Her shoulders sagged. That seemed like so long, and she didn’t know if she was talking about how long she’d been out or how long she still needed to heal.
“Come on,” Eran said, and moved alongside her to guide her back the way she’d come. “Back to bed with you. You’ve come a remarkable distance already—and completely freaked out Father Murphy, by the way—so let’s not screw it up by moving too fast. Besides, Gavino knew where you lived and he probably told Lahash. I don’t know if their kind collaborate with Hunters, but I’m willing to bet it’s time for you to relocate.”
Not a pleasing thought, but she’d deal with that later. Besides, she wasn’t going anywhere until the business of Mireva completing her divine task was finished. And right now she had to admit Eran was right. She was far too tired to do anything but go back to sleep.
“HOW IS SHE?” FATHER Murphy was sitting behind his oversized desk in the large, spacious office directly off the entrance to the rectory. Sunlight shone through the translucent curtains at the windows, washing over the old golden oak trim that surrounded the tall windows and built-in bookcases.
“Good,” Eran answered. He settled himself onto the left one of two leather chairs facing the desk. This was the more comfortable of the pair and his favorite—he’d become very familiar with this office and its furnishings over the last four days. The matching couch centered on the wall opposite the windows was hard and cold, a bitch to sleep on even with a thick quilt as padding. Having done just that for the last four nights, Eran had yet to find a single yielding spot on the damned thing. “She was awake when I went down, actually trying to leave. I sent her back to bed.”
The priest frowned. “Leave? Why?”
“The girl,” Eran reminded him. “Mireva. I told you the story.”
And he had, from start to finish … except, of course, for certain details of the relationship between himself and Brynna. He wasn’t sure what this Catholic priest would think of him once he learned that Eran had made love with a demon. Eran wasn’t sure what he thought of himself.
“I’ll have her out of here in a couple more days, I promise.”
Father Murphy pushed back from his desk and regarded Eran. He looked tired and older, as if the past few days, along with the knowledge he’d gained—if he believed it—had tripled the effects of gravity on him and dragged his skin downward. “She can stay here as long as she needs to. I told you that.”
Eran nodded. “I know. But I get the feeling that you really don’t believe anything I told you, and that means you think … well, I don’t know what you think. Th
at I’m crazy, maybe. Delusional.” He paused as a new option occurred to him. “Or that I hurt Brynna and brought her here to hide her or something.”
Father Murphy held up a hand. “I don’t think either of those things, but you’re right in that I’m having a difficult time accepting the other things you talked about. Angels, demons—everything I’ve been taught is that these are elements of God’s universe that are not seen by humans. They’re taken on faith, not personal experience. They may be in God’s realm, but they don’t exist in our reality. At least not anymore.”
“But what if they do, Father? Doesn’t faith work the same way for that, too?”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t see God, yet you have faith that He exists. Doesn’t the fact that you haven’t seen an angel or a demon in the flesh put them in the same category—beings believed in as a matter of faith, not fact?”
Father Murphy’s gaze was level. “Every religion has a history upon which its faith is based.”
“An accounting of history is not necessarily factual,” Eran pointed out.
“Even so, the older a history is, the more that history serves as fact,” Father Murphy said. “In this case, the Bible, or the Koran, or—”
“You mean the less likely it is that there’s any chance that anyone can prove it’s not fact,” Eran interrupted. “As in ‘I can’t prove God exists, but you can’t prove He doesn’t.’ The ultimate stalemate.”
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