Page 66 of Sweet Surrender
“Whatever you need,” Knight said, squeezing his bicep again. “What’s your request?”
Knight stood at the altar to the church, taking in the aftermath of his attack. What seemed like the entirety of the village had gathered here. Some of them were crying, sitting in the pews. Most of them looked stoic. The bodies still lay around them; some of them were literally sitting in spilled blood.
The pastor was giving a sermon, walking up and down the nave. Knight sneered.
“Take it in,” he was saying, his head held high, a Bible clutched in his hand. “This is the evidence of our village’s decay, of oursin. This is our divine punishment for letting our very own children go astray.”
Apart from the few whose sobbing increased, the congregation didn’t otherwise react.
“Bring her,” the pastor said.
Knight turned toward one of the side entrances between the altar and the front pews, where the pastor had pointed.
Where two men were leading Saint’s mother in, her wrists wrapped tightly in ropes. Knight stiffened.
Saint’s mother had been crying, her eyes red and swollen, but they were dry now, her chin held up high. No doubt she thought whatever Pastor Zeke was about to do to her was her just dessert.
No more.
Knight stepped off the altar and began to make his way down the nave.
He didn’t know how, but the pastor spotted him a moment before he pressed the tips of his claws to his throat.
One hand flew to his chest, searching for something underneath his robes, the other hand going for his pockets, his eyes wide with alarm. “You—”
Knight violently slashed his hand sideways, sending blood spraying. For a moment, there was shocked silence, the congregation staring like this wasn’t happening.
Then, teleporting back to the altar, Knight let himself appear.
The screaming began. Some of the folks began to flee, hightailing it out of the church like the hounds of Hell were at their heels. Some fainted. Some dropped to their knees in the pews, wailing and praying frantically.
Just like Saint had requested, Knight was in what he’d like to refer to as his “angel” form. His skin, hair, and eyes were in shades of brown, but his robes and wings were white. His horns and tail were hidden.
“As you can see,” Knight said, making sure his voice was heard not just in the church, but all through the village, “there is no God here.Beware of false prophets,” he quoted, making the unnatural white of his wings and robes glow,“which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravening wolves.”
The more lucid members—the ones Knight hoped were victims, just like Saint—were turning their heads toward their dead leader with realisation.
That last quote had been the only thing Saint could think of to give the true victimssomepiece of mind. A little nudge to help them heal and move on. And for the others who had planned on following in this man’s footsteps, perhaps this would make them rethink their choices. Hopefully, it would be enough.
Clutching his chest, holding his breath, Knight disappeared.
Back in Saint’s abode, Knight dropped to his knees.
“Knight!” Saint gasped, flying off the bed and rushing to his side.
The bonds in his chest were gone. The contracts were gone. Immediately, he felt all his energy sapping.
“What is it? What’s happening?”
“Contracts,” Knight forced out. He reached out and grabbed Saint’s hand. It was now or never. His heart thundered. “Saint. I-I can’t offer you anything. I’m not—”
Saint sobbed out a laugh, pulling his hand from Knight’s so he could cup his face in his hands, press their foreheads together. “I want you.Justyou.” Knight was flying. He was soaring. He wanted Saint to say those words again and again.
Saint pulled back again, eyes hard and desperate. “I want to make a deal.”
Struggling to take in air, it took two tries for Knight to make the circle using his rapidly draining hold on the aether. He could feel himself flickering between the Veil, between Hell and the mortal realm. Saint’s hold on him never wavered.
“Tell me.”
