The Incense of Lies
The air in the cathedral was a physical weight, musky and thick with the taste of intense incense that was trying too hard to cover up the scent of decay underneath. It was the smell of obviously fake salvation, a cloying sweetness that coated the back of my throat like cheap syrup and made me want to vomit before I’d even made it past the third pew. I kept my head bowed, a picture of pious submission, as the choir’s practiced holiness swelled to a crescendo that felt less like a blessing and more like a threat designed to rattle the stained glass. I ensured my shoulders trembled just enough to look fragile, a calculated weakness because while my lean body already gave the assumption of a waif easily broken by the world, it never hurts to add an extra layer of assurance when you’re playing the part of a victim in a room full of predators who prefer their meals passive.
It was a masterpiece of pathetic, I thought, watching through my lashes as the “faithful” beside me sobbed, their hands reaching out desperately for the light Father Elias radiated from the pulpit high above us. They were drawn to him like moths to a flame, completely oblivious to the fact that the fire was destined to char their wings to ash before the night was over. Up there, draped in white gold that caught the candelabra light, he looked every bit the avenging angel they wanted him to be. But to me, with senses sharpened by years of trafficking in the underworld, he didn’t smell holy. He smelled like burning meat, just a raw, coppery tang that sat heavy in the air and mixed with pure, unadulterated fucking ego that was so potent it practically had its own gravitational pull.
Keep crying, you idiots. He’s not blessing you; he’s marking you for a slaughter you’re too blind to see coming because you’re too busy looking for a savior instead of looking at the exit signs.
A sudden drop in temperature hit the back of my neck. It was a presence that felt cold as always and was becoming far too constant for my liking, fucking Gabe. He wasn’t supposed to be here. The sheer audacity of an ancient vampire standing in a sanctuary filled with silver-tipped guards and consecrated ground made my pulse spike and adrenaline go crazy. If Elias’s dogs caught him, they’d turn him into dust before he could even blink those pretty, dead eyes, and cleaning up that mess was not in my contract.
“Calm down, Kismet,” Gabe whispered. His voice was a soft hum that slipped past the chanting, his breath a cold touch near my ear that made me shiver. It wasn’t fear, but a memory I wanted to forget. “You’re trembling too much, even for someone so affected by the spirit.”
I didn’t bother to turn, keeping my gaze fixed stubbornly on the altar. “Go away, Gabe. I’m working, and your total lack of a heartbeat is ruining my concentration.”
“You’re dying to turn around,” he corrected, and I could hear the arrogant smirk in his voice without even looking at his face. “Besides, you might want to save that concentration. Julian is watching you from the wings. And he doesn’t look like he wants to save your soul, Kismet; he looks like he wants to own it, body and ghost.”
I shifted my focus just a fraction, catching Julian’s imposing silhouette near the sacristy door where he stood his hand resting heavily on the hilt of a silver sword, the intense, unblinking stare of a man who was Elias’s favorite pit bull but possessed a dark side that was currently looking at me like I was his next meal.
The stakes didn’t just double; they hit the vaulted ceiling. I had an ancient, exiled Fae Prince breathing ice down my neck, a death-filled Paladin counting my heartbeats from the shadows, and a psychopath with a god-complex ten feet away preaching the gospel to people who didn’t realize they were already dead.
“Perfect,” I breathed, realizing the trap was set and I was standing dead in the center of it. “Someone’s going to bleed tonight, and I’ve already decided it ain’t me.”
The light from the massive rose window shifted, casting a blood-red hue over the pulpit as Elias raised his hands for the final blessing. His gaze snapped away from the crowd and found mine with unerring accuracy, his lips curling into a terrifying, knowing smile. He wasn’t just preaching to the sheep anymore, no, he was looking right at the wolf in their midst, and for the first time all night, I wondered if I was the hunter, or if I had just walked into the slaughterhouse. Good thing the wolf is hungry.
