by Leanna Ellis
The man clapped him on his bruised shoulder. “Good to see you, Samuel.”
“Father Hellman?” He faltered and blinked. “Is it really you?”
“It’s been a while.” Roberto Hellman gave a toothy grin, the white collar at his throat brighter than his teeth. “But once you go through life and death with someone, it’s not like either will ever forget, eh?”
Samuel nodded, swallowing hard, and tried to get his bearings. He leaned against the railing, felt the deep ache in his side and the skin on his shoulder scraped raw.
“You hurt?” The priest’s gaze settled on the arm Samuel cradled.
“Nah. I’m okay. I think.” Samuel released his arm, wincing, as it relaxed and hung loosely at his side. He flexed and fisted his hand a couple of times, testing and stretching the muscles. Nothing seemed broken, but he suspected he’d have a few bruises by tomorrow. “I’m fine. But what are you doing here?”
Three men emerged, one by one, from the hole and joined two others on the porch. They had serious faces, wary gazes. A couple had dark skin, the others varying degrees of light; some stood tall, others shorter; all had thick muscles, shaved heads, and wore plain blue jeans and black T-shirts. He had no doubt these men might have killed him if not for the priest’s intervention. They circled around Samuel, keeping a distance and yet stayed close enough—too close for Samuel’s comfort.
“Shawn”—the priest nodded toward someone behind Samuel—“go get Roc.”
The sound of his friend’s name brought relief. The young blond who looked even younger than Samuel jogged off. Roberto waved at the hole in the porch, and two of the men looped a thin rope behind the trapdoor and raised it up until it clicked into place.
“Nice trick,” Samuel said.
“Isn’t it?” Roberto beamed. “Guess you’re wondering what’s going on here, who we all are. Think of these as my own personal monks.”
“Monks?” one very burly man protested.
“I’ll let Roc explain,” the priest said. “But in answer to your previous question, Samuel, I’m here helping Roc.”
“Helping him?”
One of the men cleared his throat.
“Yes, of course,” Roberto responded to the prompt. “We’re all here helping Roc. You all get back to work now. I’ll hook up with you soon. Don’t worry about this fellow.” He settled a hand on Samuel’s shoulder. “He’s the one that shot Akiva.”
Those words stabbed Samuel with guilt, but the gazes staring at him shifted from suspicion to guarded respect. Instantly, Samuel hated each one of them.
Following the priest’s orders, the group backed away. A couple leaped over the porch railing, and the others jogged down the front steps. They fell into step with one another, walking side by side, two by two, like soldiers, and hooked a right at the corner of the house. One glanced back and received a reassuring nod from Roberto.
“They look more militaristic than religious.”
The priest laughed. “They do indeed. I call them a hit squad.”
The comment surprised Samuel. What was going on here? But before he could ask any more questions, the front door to the house opened and Samuel turned, unsure what might pop out at him next.
Rachel stepped out on the porch. With a relaxed smile, she greeted Samuel, carefully stepping around the trapdoor. She wore her hair pulled back, but she no longer wore Amish clothes. Instead, she wore a long skirt and loose sweater. “How are you, Samuel?”
He brushed the dirt off his trousers and jacket. “Okay. I guess.”
She looked toward the yard. “Did you walk here?”
He shook his head, which felt like it was spinning from all the surprises. “No, I…um…rode. My motorcycle.”
“Roc will want to take it for a spin if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Yes. Of course.”
She moved toward the railing beside Father Roberto. “Where did you park?”
“I came a different route.”
She quirked a brow. “Levi’s path?”
“I guess you could call it that.”
“He believes in precautions,” Father Roberto said.
“I’ll have Roc give you better directions for next time.” Her easy smile and calm demeanor helped him start to relax.
She watched him, her brow crinkling. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He nodded too enthusiastically, burning off nervous energy. “Fine.”
“You weren’t hurt by…” She eyed the place in the porch where the planks could give way.
“He’s tough,” Father Roberto testified.
“Be careful where you step,” she warned. “There are other traps around.”
“Now don’t go telling all our secrets.” The priest grinned.
Samuel struggled to find something to say. The aftermath of Jacob’s death had been so intense that it made the mundane awkward. The weight of so much loss—Jacob and Rachel’s first husband, Josef—settled on Samuel’s chest. Too many had died. And for what? What was the purpose? Was there some connection in all this hurt?
He rubbed a hand over his face to erase the dark thoughts and tried to focus on things more suitable for conversation. “How is…uh, David?”
Rachel smiled, her eyes twinkling at the mention of her six-month-old son. “He’s growing like a weed. You’ll see him later when he wakes from his nap. Would you like to come in? I have a cinnamon crumb cake fresh out of the—”
A dark blur dropped from the roof and landed with a thud on the porch, jarring the planks. Every muscle in Samuel’s body clenched tight. Rachel gave a shriek. Father Roberto dropped into a defensive posture and aimed a wooden stake he yanked from his jacket at the blur, which solidified into a black-clad Roc.
“What’s going on here?” Samuel asked, bewildered by all the crazy antics—floors dropping away and roof jumpers descending. What was next?
Rachel batted Roc’s shoulder. “You scared the daylights out of me. Samuel too.”
“Sorry, darlin’.” Roc Girouard hooked an arm around his wife’s waist and kissed her on the cheek, making her flush with either pleasure or exasperation. Turning solid brown eyes on Samuel, Roc grinned, the planes of his cheeks creasing with ease. “Thanks for dropping in, Samuel. Good to see you.”
“What’s with all the…” Speechless, Samuel stared up at the roof, searching for the right word. Two more shaved heads peered down at him.
Roc clasped Samuel’s shoulder and moved him into the house. “Just a few things we’re testing.”
“Roc likes to keep us on our toes.” Rachel trailed behind her husband, Samuel, and Father Roberto.
“How’s Levi feeling?” Roc asked, the door closing behind them.
“Good. Well, not so good. It will take some time. Falling off the roof…” Glances shifted between the others and made Samuel’s voice trail off. “What’s the matter? Did I say something?”
“Not at all.” Roc indicated a chair at the table and seated himself at the head. “How are your folks?”
“The same.” It was a careful answer, one he figured Roc would understand.
“And your girl? Andi?” Roc had met her when he was staying at Samuel’s parents’ home in Ohio. He’d interrupted them in the barn late one night.
At the memory, Samuel felt heat burn its way up his neck. He shrugged in answer to Roc’s question, not knowing what to say or frankly where she was at the moment. He hadn’t spoken to her since he’d left Ohio.
“Who would like some coffee and cinnamon crumb cake?” Rachel asked.
The men agreed. While Rachel served the dessert along with cups of hot, black coffee, Roc went to check on the baby and came back carrying David, who had deep blue eyes like his mother. Samuel was introduced to the little tyke, and then Roc placed the baby in a high chair between Roc and Rachel. They alternately fed b
its of cut-up grapes and buttered bread to their little boy, who babbled and cooed.
After what all four of them had experienced back in Ohio, it felt odd to be sitting here, enjoying a normal, carefree moment. Rachel kept the conversation going with questions about Hannah’s babies, and Samuel tried to answer as best he could.
“I’ll send some fresh baked bread home with you. With so many more mouths to feed, it’ll come in handy.”
Samuel nodded, not bothering to explain how he’d have to climb that ravine to get to his motorcycle and then there wouldn’t be much of a place to put the bread. But he’d make do. He finished the crumb cake and pushed the plate away. “So what’s going on here, Roc?”
“I think the best way to explain would be to show you.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” the priest asked.
Roc leaned toward Samuel. “Did you bring your motorcycle?”
“You wanna ride?”
Roc grinned. “Absolutely.”
Chapter Twenty
Smoke rose from the candles like prayers, the flames wavering like his faith had over the years, until his had been completely snuffed out, the last red glowing ember cooling and turning black. But the tiny wicks and flickering flames around the church mocked him.
Years ago, Brydon lit a candle for his father, his mother holding his hand and guiding the flame to touch match to wick. The glow held his gaze until his eyes burned with unshed tears. His mother’s eyes filled and spilled over, her mouth quivering from a fresh round of grief.
It had been years since he was five years old. His mother had been gone since the year he graduated high school, but he had never lit a candle in her honor—never stepped over the threshold of a church until today.
Memories of his previous life in New Orleans wisped about him, thin as smoke, but they could not hold or bind him. He felt isolated, with no place to run, no one to turn to, no one to lean on. He hadn’t dared return to his hometown. They, whoever those vamps were, would know where he lived. They hadn’t been after Andi. They’d wanted him. And the reason couldn’t be good.
So he’d been forced into hiding. New York City seemed as good a place as any, where one could get sufficiently lost. The spires of St. Patrick’s drew him to the sanctuary as if the church could protect him, as if it had the answers he sought, and he’d run through the door, like a child throwing himself into his mother’s open arms.
His thoughts ran to the past, searching for answers and comfort. Yet it became more difficult to dredge up memories. Ryan Wynne had the late shift at the docks. He came in each morning, just as his wife left to drive Brody to school. He’d always carried a sack lunch in those days—ham and cheese sandwich, Little Debbie dessert. Then she went to her job at the hospital, helping sick folks. But that fateful winter morning, Brody heard the knock on the door. His mother was still applying her makeup and hollered, “Let your daddy in. He must have forgotten his keys again.”
But they never left for school that morning. His lunch box sat on the counter for days afterward. A policeman stood at the door. He’d had a stern face, but his throat had jerked upward at the sight of Brody, and he’d rearranged his features. The officer had knelt, his black leather belt and holster creaking. “Hey, buddy. Your momma home?”
There’d been a wreck. Years later, when Brody became a police officer, mostly because of that tall cop who’d shown some heart that day, he’d looked up the official paperwork on his father’s wreck. Ryan Wynne fell asleep at the wheel, rammed his Buick LeSabre straight into the grill of an eighteen-wheeler. DOA. Even the toxicology and autopsy reports couldn’t fully explain how a little boy lost his daddy.
Somehow, that incident had snuffed out Brody’s emotions. His heart atrophied over the years and felt dead. Maybe it was. Maybe that’s what allowed him to do the acts he now committed on a regular basis, acts he once would have considered hideous, vile, and obscene, but which now gave him life.
Unsure why or what for, he stood from the seat in the pew, which he’d occupied half the day, and walked as if in a trance to the table of candles. With a steady hand, he lit one candle when he should have lit a thousand. He breathed in the smoke and let it sear his lungs.
Covered in the breath of prayers, he once more took a seat, weary of the chase and the burden of loneliness. He had no prayers to offer. Who would he pray to anyway? He sat alone, not bothering to look at the tourists taking a tour of the cathedral, not even searching for the faces of those chasing him. Let them come. Let them take him right here. In this holy place. In an unholy act.
The day waned as he remained in one spot, waiting…waiting for what he didn’t even know. To be found? To receive an answer? An answer to his questions or his unspoken prayers? He wasn’t even sure.
A clearing of a throat garnered his attention. Brydon blinked. A darkly clad young man bent toward him. He wore a white collar and an apologetic expression. “The cathedral will be closing, sir, in a few minutes.”
Brydon rose, feeling stiff and hollow. He walked the long aisle toward the door and then disappeared into the evening crowds.
Chapter Twenty-One
Thunk.
Levi plunked the book onto the wooden bench. Samuel set down the broken tool he’d been trying to fix for the last half hour. The book cover looked familiar, one he’d checked out from the Cincinnati library. A book on occultist rituals. Last night, Samuel had read about the sanctity of blood and its many uses in spells and potions.
“What do you need, Levi?”
His oldest brother’s face held no tolerance. “Hannah found this in your bedroom.”
“What was she doing—?”
“It’s my house, Samuel. She was cleaning, not snooping. But it has her very upset.”
Samuel leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. He felt defensive, and he wasn’t sure why. “You too obviously.”
“Yes, me too. You don’t understand what you’re fooling with here.”
“It’s a book. Nothing more or less. I’m trying to understand what has happened in our lives to our brother.”
Levi took a calming breath and leaned heavily on a cane. “I understand, Samuel, more than you think I do. But what you don’t understand is that reading stuff like this is what took Jacob on the wrong path. Finally, brethren,” Levi took on a solemn tone as he quoted from the scriptures, “whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”
“Is that why you keep Jacob’s book in the barn?”
“I keep it there because it reminds my wife of difficult days.”
Samuel sniffed dismissively. “So you’re saying I should just think of roses and lilies and sunshine, ja? I shouldn’t try to understand how my brother went from being like you and me to dying at my own hand? How’d that happen, Levi?” Pressure built in his chest. “How did we get from there to here?”
Tears welled in Levi’s eyes. He looked older. Maybe it was the beard. Maybe it was simply the travails of life. He settled a hand on Samuel’s shoulder. “I wish I understood it all but I don’t. I never will. There are some things we’re not meant to understand. For some reason, Jacob was lured by all this evil. Hannah too was drawn to this darkness. Maybe we all are. Maybe it’s our pride, like in the Garden of Eden. Maybe we all want to be like God. But we aren’t God. And we can’t handle the temptation…or this evil. It will destroy us. Even looking at this”—he indicated the book—“turns my stomach. Why would Jacob continue on that path? Why didn’t he turn back?”
“Maybe he did,” Samuel said. “He came home. Remember?”
“But maybe it was too late. There are doors that should never be opened. There are consequences for our actions.”
“And what ha
ve we opened here?” Samuel asked, his voice cracking. What was going on here and at Roc’s? Why were there still secrets? “What are you doing, Levi?”
“I’m trying to stay on the side of God. I’m battling evil.”
“But what exactly is evil, Levi? Some say religion and faith in God has led to more destruction than any other source. Religion started many wars and atrocities.”
“You know that’s not our beliefs, Samuel. Our God is true. Our God is a god of love, not destruction. But our God is also holy and demands holiness. And there is the devil. The Father of lies. He is God’s enemy. Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.”
Samuel shrugged, uncomfortable sitting on the proverbial fence where he found himself. “I know the differences between faiths, between what we believe and what other faiths claim, but aren’t you doing the same as those who have done harm in the name of God? Don’t you feel led by God to make this so-called stand?”
“What’s right and wrong?” Levi spluttered out the words. His face darkened. “Samuel, I don’t decide. You don’t decide. God decides what’s right and wrong. I simply live by His laws. When you put yourself in God’s shoes and try to determine right and wrong for yourself, then you are in serious trouble and are further down that path than you want to be.”
Samuel stood and met Levi squarely, eye to eye. “Who are you to say what’s right and what’s wrong when you are the one lying to your family and neighbors? You weren’t raised this way, Levi. Does Pop know how you broke a rib? I sure don’t, but I don’t think it was feeding the chickens. Who else are you lying to? Hannah?”
“She knows,” Levi said, his voice soft but firm.
But Samuel wasn’t finished. “Is this the life you want to live, Levi? Are you so right that you can’t see the wrong in what you are doing?”
