Page 15 of Nightshade
Lifting my eyes to the ceiling, I willed myself to breathe through my nose and, for fucks sake, not to look at that barbed spine again.
Unfortunately, Hines asked, “Any thoughts on this? The metal thing on her hands? The barbs? The way it’s kind of lodged in her flesh there?”
A hard swallow was all I could do to tamp down the acid determined to splash on the floor any minute.
“Ravenshaw?” At the sound of Detective Hines’s voice, I choked it all back and turned my attention back to him. “’You okay? You look a little pale.”
“Fine. Um. The barbs, of course, might have some reference to Jesus and the crown of thorns, but …” I swallowed again, flinching at the burn. It’d be a wonder if my throat didn’t have holes afterward. “The chain at her hands seems to be some kind of cilice belt.”
“What is that?”
“A chain belt with prongs designed to irritate the skin. It’s a means to atone for sin.”
“Interesting.” Shaking his head, Hines huffed. “At any rate, the marking I wanted to show you was found in the undercroft.”
He slid yet another picture from the folder, and a cold rush of shock washed over me.
The brick wall. The one from my dream. The Nightshade symbol written in black, exactly as I’d seen it.
Mouth gaping, I froze. Paralyzed. Scarcely daring to breathe, for fear it might arrive as a whimper.
“A couple weeks ago, two other nuns were reported missing here.”
Forcing my lips together, I swallowed past the dryness in my throat. “Do …. Do you … think they might’ve … been murdered, as well?”
To my horror, he slid yet another picture from the folder.
The brick wall had been demolished, revealing two nuns tethered by their necks.
With a trembling hand, I covered my mouth and willed myself not to scream. Dizziness shot to my head, and I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself. The pounding of blood in my ears drowned the sound of Hines’s voice.
“Are you all right, Miss Ravenshaw?”
“What’s that?” I couldn’t take my eyes off the image. A perfect replica of my nightmare.
“Are you all right?”
Ignoring his question, I cleared my throat. “This cathedral … is there a… a statue out front, by chance?” I broke my staring at the nuns in the image to think back on what the hell it was in my dream. “Felix of … Prae-something.”
“I don’t recall a particular statue off hand. Why do you ask?”
“I just … was just curious. Testing my knowledge of saints,” I said on a nervous laugh.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m afraid … I need to … I’m not feeling good. If we could maybe … meet later?”
The tapping of his finger on the table caught my attention, because it’d grown louder, more apparent in the quiet that lingered like rot in the air. “What are you hiding, Miss Ravenshaw?” His question shot a bullet of anxiety into my chest that exploded in alarm.
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“You think I’m foolish, don’t you? That I don’t know when someone is lying to my face? You found something. Give it to me.” Animosity flashed over his face, and he pushed to his feet until standing over me, making those alarms blare louder. “I know you have it.”
The feather?
“Where. Is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
