Bound (The Devil's Due Book 3)

by Eva Charles

  “That’s old school stuff. I don’t believe there’s much honor in joining the priesthood anymore.”

  “Maybe not everywhere, but where I’m from, there is still much honor in becoming a priest and it’s still a great blessing bestowed on families.” The sex abuse scandal that I’m sure he’s hinting at is a well-deserved black eye on the institution of the church. It involved so many innocent children, far too many, but it did not involve all priests. Not by a long shot. It grates on me when I hear people speak in sweeping generalities about the travesty. “Since you’re not Catholic, maybe you should keep your uninformed opinion about the priesthood to yourself.”

  He tosses the pin aside, and gazes at me until my skin begins to tingle. “He likes you.”

  “Who?”

  Sinclair lifts a purple pen out of my pencil holder, clicking it on and off a few times before replacing it. Then he takes out another pen, and another. I try to ignore it, but having him paw at my things is driving me crazy. “The Father,” he answers matter-of-factly, while toying with my favorite orange pen.

  “He’s a priest. He likes everyone, even you.”

  “Something off about the way he looked at you—for a priest.”

  I snatch the pen holder away from him, stashing it well out of his reach. “What do you want?”

  Sinclair peers at me, his eyes narrowing. “I stopped by to say hello. I didn’t expect to see you back in Charleston.”

  Stopped by to say hello, my ass. “Well, you’ve said hello, and now it’s time for you to go. I have a lot of things to do before my class this evening.”

  “I’ll be keeping my eye on you. And you … will stay away from the Wilders.”

  “You know, your southern charm could use a little shine, too.” I flash him a saccharine smile. “I already told you I have no interest in the Wilders.”

  “And I already told you I don’t believe you. You took off your clothes to get a story. Any fool could have seen that wasn’t your normal way of operating. That tells me you’re looking for a big story. No bigger story in Charleston than the Wilders. And there’s sure as hell no other story here worth leaving your paper for.”

  When he mentions my clothes, I dig my fingernails into my thighs to control my temper. He’s trying to get a rise out of me, but I’ll be damned if I give it to him. I’m so indignant it takes almost a full minute before it registers that he already knows I’ve left the paper.

  “Life around here must be pretty dull if you have nothing to do but monitor my every move. Maybe the Wilders are paying you too much. Or maybe it’s time to leave Charleston and find something to do that holds your interest so you don’t need to be skulking around, puffing out your chest and growling at reporters trying to do their jobs.”

  His lips are pursed in a tight little line, and he’s all but snarling. I plucked a nerve. For once, just once with him, I feel like I’m the one in control. Even in my fantasies, he’s in charge.

  “I can’t imagine a man like you would be satisfied for long doting on the rich and famous. I know just how you feel. That’s exactly why I left the paper.” His eyes are dark slits. He’s pissed. Good. Now maybe he’ll leave me alone—not just in the real world, but in my fantasy world, too. Although, there’s probably no harm in him making an occasional appearance there.

  Sinclair glowers at me, but today, I’m not squirming. The library is a public place with people milling about on every floor. Besides, I don’t want anything from him. I’m done in that regard.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Kate. It’s not a game you want to play. You won’t win, and next time, you might lose more than your clothes.”

  “I have no interest in playing any game with you, Sinclair. But just like I decide when to take off my clothes, I decide what games I’m playing and who I’m playing them with.”

  He leans across the table and taps the edge of my wrist a couple times. “You keep up that line of thinking. See where it gets you.” With one last snarl, he gets up and strides toward the door without even a goodbye. When he gets to the doorway, he turns abruptly. “That priest wants to fuck you.”

  I slap a hand over my eyes, covering them completely. He sounds like a jealous boyfriend, but that’s not what this is about. This is pure, unadulterated manipulation. Psychological warfare.

  “I can’t say if he’ll act on it. But he wants it.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  With just a few strides, he’s back, both hands flat on the table, leaning over me. “You believe whatever you want to believe. Faith is a highly personal thing.” His eyes are ablaze, and I look away to avoid the singe. “But behind that starched white collar is a man. He’s got the same capacity for good and evil as any other man. Same base needs—food, sleep, and sex. I’ve been all over the world, never seen any difference among men in that regard.” He pauses for a few seconds, the silence vibrating in the room. “You’d be surprised what men do in the name of God.”

  Sinclair is trying to shake me up, to keep me away from the comfort of the church and any friends I might make there. It’ll be easier to chase me out of town if I’m alone and isolated.

  I look down at my laptop and scroll through some documents, searching for nothing in particular. He doesn’t say another word, but I feel his eyes penetrating—his shadow looming large. I don’t breathe again until he’s gone.

  11

  Kate

  As I drive over the causeway to Albert’s Island, the overgrown trees in the distance catch my eye—Live Oaks, draped with Spanish moss. They’re all over Charleston, and for a girl from New England unaccustomed to them, they’re a bit spooky. They remind me of a scene straight out of a horror flick.

  The island is surrounded by swampland with vegetation and murky water on all sides. Albert’s Island is a small landmass that holds St. Maggie’s and a few houses that belong to the church—at least according to Google maps.

  I follow a narrow dirt road a short distance, weaving to avoid the brush. It’s not even summer yet, and the thorny shrubs have already taken over. I can’t imagine this road will be passable in July if the bushes aren’t tamed.

  When I reach the clearing, St. Maggie’s is directly in front of me—a Gothic marvel constructed almost entirely of stone with an ornate cross jutting into the heavens. More than a dozen armed gargoyles with misshapen features are perched along the roof, guarding the castle, perhaps from the devil, or maybe from other fallen angels. Regardless, it’s a grand piece of architecture, out here on a lonely island. Striking, yet haunting, even in the bright sunlight.

  There are a couple dozen cars in the parking lot—nothing particularly fancy or showy. I walk around to the front entrance and climb the steep granite stairs. At the top, I turn to survey the area. It’s so close to the bustling city, yet so desolate.

  A gentle breeze carries the familiar scent of brackish water. The ocean. It’s the one thing about Charleston that always feels welcoming—that, and hopefully St. Maggie’s.

  When I step inside the vestibule, Father Jesse is there, dressed in traditional green vestments, greeting a couple who appear to be in their late sixties. Father Tierney always stood in the back of St. Claire’s before mass began too.

  While waiting my turn to say hello, I notice an opulent font, with cherubs carved from honed marble, along the back. The stone has worn smooth over time, giving it an elegant patina. I quietly admire its beauty before dipping my fingers into the holy water, reciting the silent prayer as I make the sign of the cross.

  “Kate.” Father Jesse approaches me and takes both my hands in his.

  “Good morning, Father.”

  “I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would. But I’m a man of great faith.” He squeezes my fingers firmly before letting go. “I hope you’re planning on joining us for lunch.”

  I wasn’t sure if I would stay. My plan had been to scope out the situation, and decide after Mass. But I don’t have anywhere else to go, and it will be hard to leave without mak
ing up a lie. I don’t want to lie to a priest while standing in a church—not even a small fib to spare his feelings. If God doesn’t punish me for that, surely Karma will. “I would love to stay for lunch and meet some of the parishioners. If it’s still okay?”

  His features soften. “More than okay.” The processional hymn begins, filling the church with joyful sounds. “That’s my cue.” He winks, that charming quirky wink, and smiles. He has an easy boyish smile that bathes his features in a sweet innocence, and he’s not shy about using it. “We’ll talk more after Mass.” Father Jesse motions for me to go inside and waits until I’m situated before proceeding up the grand aisle.

  The liturgy is achingly familiar. When I close my eyes, I could be back in Boston, sitting in a pew at St. Claire’s. The ritual of Catholic Mass is predictable, rarely deviating from the traditional, always providing comfort and a sense of grounding.

  The church has always been my anchor, even when I strayed from its teachings. I feel protected inside the hallowed walls—physically, emotionally, and spiritually safe. I guess you could say it’s coded into my DNA. Or perhaps it’s the love and affection that Father Tierney showed me growing up. The times he babysat when no one else wanted the chore, snuck me Kit Kats and Hershey Kisses, or let me choose one item from the collection of donated clothes. I spent a great deal of time with him as a child. There was much solitude, but also much joy there. And it was safe. A kind of safe that I rarely felt growing up. Something beyond physical safety.

  When it’s time for communion, I hesitate. At St. Claire’s, congregants are welcome to participate in communion, even if they haven’t received the Sacrament of Reconciliation, or Confession as it is still sometimes called, as long as they are in a state of grace. Father Tierney interpreted grace broadly, but I’m unsure about the custom here, so I remain in the pew, kneeling while Father Jesse administers Communion. Once or twice, I’m sure he glances at me, although it might just be my conscience needling. It’s been a long time since I’ve confessed my sins to a priest.

  After the final blessing, Father Jesse makes his way down the aisle, and waits at the top of the landing outside, chatting amicably and inviting congregants to lunch. From his expression, I imagine that some of the conversations are more serious than others. He touches many of the people he talks with, gently—a hand on a shoulder, or on an arm, perhaps giving support or consoling. He’s genuine and kind, and his way makes it feel like this is a place I want to return to.

  “So, what did you think?” Father Jesse sneaks up behind me while I’m preoccupied with the intricate scrolls of the iron handrail. “Did the sermon bore you to tears? Is that why we can’t entice anyone under forty to leave their warm bed and attend Sunday Mass?”

  I smile broadly. There is something about him that catches me by surprise because it feels so ordinary. As though he’s just another guy. Maybe it’s because he’s young. My experience is mainly with older clergy. “I enjoyed the sermon. It was fresh and filled with hope.”

  “Really?”

  I nod and smile.

  “Let me change, and I’ll give you a tour of the grounds while we walk over to lunch. You can tell me what you enjoyed about my ramblings.” He grins. “I’ll be quick. It’ll give you a few minutes to think of something polite to say.” He squeezes my elbow in a friendly gesture, and he’s gone.

  I stand in the center of the church captivated by the sunlight streaming in through the stained glass, the diffuse light bathing the face of Jesus hanging on the cross. Like everything else, it’s a magnificent rendition of the crucifixion. It’s difficult to imagine that a church so poorly attended can manage the upkeep of a building this size.

  “Let’s go out this way,” Father Jesse calls from the front. “It’s a short cut.”

  “The church is stunning. I can’t believe the craftsmanship that went into building it.”

  “It’s a replica of a European Cathedral, or rather a collection of ideas that a generous benefactor brought back with him from his travels through Europe. He had the church constructed, and left his fortune to St. Maggie’s in the form of an endowment that we still use to sustain the property.”

  “Wow. That is generous. Did he have a connection to St. Magdalene?”

  He chuckles. “Apparently, he had a fondness for whores—that’s the story, anyway. But I don’t believe it. Magdalene has had a complex history with the church—but during that particular man’s lifetime, she wasn’t believed to be a whore. That came much later.”

  I’ve never heard a priest use the word whore so freely. While I’m deciding how I feel about it, we approach a building with a tall tower behind the church. “There are a couple small houses on the property,” Father Jesse tells me, pointing down a small unpaved lane. “The church secretary and her son live in one, and Silas, the groundskeeper, in the other. Be mindful around him.”

  “Why is that?” I ask when he doesn’t explain.

  “He spent time in prison for rape. It was a long time ago. That’s all I can say. This building holds the rectory,” he continues, “the church office, and the common space. It’s where I live.”

  “The turret is spectacular.” So spectacular that I forget all about Silas. “It reminds me of something out of a fairy tale—a tower where princesses would hide away.” As soon as the foolishness is out of my mouth, I feel ridiculous.

  He smiles. “Ah. So you’re a fan of fairy tales.”

  My face is warm, and I’m happy we’re walking so he doesn’t see the flush across my cheeks. “Not really. But occasionally I do indulge my inner girl.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. But I’m afraid there’s never been royalty to speak of on Albert’s Island. It’s unlikely princesses were ever jailed here—sinners perhaps. Although we can’t know for sure who’s been hidden away in the turret as a sacrifice to God. Or during war and rebellion,” he adds quickly.

  “It was used as a prison?”

  “I was joking.” He shrugs. “But who knows. The tower is the only reinforced area in the rectory. It’s where priests safely counted money from the Sunday collection plate, back when the pews were full. Although I think the idea of keeping sinners locked there is much more interesting, and princesses more interesting still.”

  I smile. “Are there historical records?”

  “Fire destroyed much of the early history. There’s little left, but you’re welcome to comb through it if you’re interested. Let’s go inside so that lunch can get started. They refuse to eat until I arrive.”

  He opens the door for me and I follow behind to a large hall where some people are seated, and others mill around. There is a buffet table set up against the sidewall, across from a bank of windows, laden with more food than this group could eat in a week. It makes me a little sad, imagining women old enough to be my grandmother waking up at the crack of dawn to prepare food no one will eat.

  “Let me introduce you to Virginia, the church secretary. She’s not much older than you, and I think you’ll like her.” Father Jesse beckons Virginia over. “Virginia Bennett, meet Kate McKenna. She’s new to Charleston, and I persuaded her to make the trip over by bribing her with lunch.”

  She holds out a small hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kate.” But I’m not sure it is. Her face is tense and her smile forced. Before I can say anything, Father Jesse is pulled away by a man wearing suspenders, and Virginia and I are left alone. After we chat for a few minutes, I realize she thinks I’m from the women’s shelter.

  “I don’t live at the shelter. I work with women from the shelter, at the library.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she says, her brow unfurling. “There was a time when I was pregnant with Petey, that I could have used that kind of help. God bless you.”

  Working with the homeless women is my opportunity to do some research on Warren King. It’s not as altruistic as she made it out to be, and I’m embarrassed enough to set her straight. “I’m happy to be working with women from the shelter, but I’m
actually a journalist, in town to do a little research.”

  “That’s interesting. What about, dear?” It’s odd to hear her call me dear. She’s probably only a few years older than I am, although she seems older. “The Charleston societies.” Virginia freezes with a look on her face like she’s sucking on a lemon. Clearly another Charleston native who believes it’s impolite to dig into local business. “Nothing too intrusive,” I assure her.

  “Maybe you can help us with our newsletter—you being a journalist and all. I keep telling Father Jesse we need to spruce it up, maybe put it online if we’re ever going to attract young people. But he doesn’t have the time.”

  That was so random. She’s nervous—I say random things when I’m nervous too.

  A young man wanders over to us, and hands Virginia his tie without saying a word. “This is my son, Petey. Petey this is Miss Kate. She works at the library.”

  “I love the library,” he says in a childlike voice. “We get books there. You have pretty hair.” He grabs a fistful of my hair. “It’s red like the devil.”

  “Petey!” Virginia admonishes. He lets go of my hair immediately. “Do not touch anyone’s hair. You need to apologize to Miss Kate. Right now. Jesus is watching.” There’s something harsh about the way she chides him. It’s not so much about what she says, but her tone.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, staring at the floor.

  Petey is clearly mentally disabled in some way, and I don’t want him to feel the shame of having disappointed his mother, or me, or Jesus for that matter. “It’s okay, Petey. People like to touch my hair because of the color. There aren’t too many redheads around, so they like to see if my hair feels different than their hair. It doesn’t feel different though, does it?”

  He shakes his head. “Can I touch it again?”

  “Petey! No, you may not touch her hair again.”

  Virginia speaks in a raised voice that brings Father Jesse over. He peers at her, until she explains. “Petey’s taken with Kate’s red hair. He touched her.” She lowers her head, much the way Petey did.