For almost two days, I'd been a ghost haunting unfamiliar roads and streets. The wound in my side from where I'd scraped against something sharp in the river wouldn't stop bleeding, a slow seep that left me dizzy and weak.
I'd tried to treat it in a gas station bathroom with paper towels and hand soap, but infection was setting in despite my pathetic attempts at healing magic.
Sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt my older sisters—Morgana and Lilith, their magic reaching through the city like searching fingers.
Only my concealment spell kept them from tracking my scent, but maintaining it was like trying to fill a bucket with a thimble. Each hour drained me further, eating away at reserves I didn't have.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
The coven had always said I was too weak to matter, too pathetic to contribute anything meaningful to our bloodline. But apparently I mattered enough to die for.
My worthless blood was suddenly precious when it served their genocidal ritual.
I stumbled down another unfamiliar street as evening fog rolled in from the harbor, mixing with rain that had been falling steadily since dawn. Every step sent fresh fire through my side, and I could taste copper in my mouth, knowing I had maybe an hour before it collapsed entirely.
That's when I saw it—the massive Gothic cathedral dominating the skyline, its twin spires piercing the gray sky like stone prayers. Something pulled me toward it, a magnetism I couldn't explain.
Churches meant nothing to witches. We had no gods except power, no sanctuaries except what we carved out with blood and magic. But my feet carried me forward anyway, up the steep hill toward the Cathedral of St. Crispin.
The rain intensified as I climbed the stone steps, each drop hitting like tiny bullets against skin already raw from cold and exhaustion.
Through the haze of pain and fatigue, I registered the statues flanking the entrance—saints holding swords, their carved faces serene and terrible. They seemed to watch me approach with stone eyes that saw too much.
The heavy wooden doors were locked, but I pressed my palm against the old iron mechanism and whispered what might have been my last spell. The concealment magic guttered and died as power flowed from me into the lock. Tumblers clicked with metallic sighs, and the door swung open on silent hinges.
I slipped inside and immediately collapsed in the vestibule.
The cathedral was vast and silent, filled with shadows that moved like living things in the candlelight. Stained glass windows caught what little light remained from outside, casting jeweled colors across stone floors worn smooth by centuries of faithful feet.
For one impossible moment, I felt something I hadn't experienced in years: peace.
Not safety, I was too smart to believe in that, but a quietness that seemed to settle into my bones. As if the very stones were offering sanctuary to whatever stumbled through their doors.
Then footsteps echoed through the nave, measured and careful, when a figure emerged from the shadows near the altar. My first thought was that the church had sent an avenging angel to finish what my family had started.
Would be nice, perhaps. Better, at least.
He was tall, well over six feet, with shoulders broad enough to block out the world. In the dim light, his black clothing made him look like death given form—tailored slacks and a shirt with a white collar that marked him as clergy.
When he spoke, his voice was impossibly gentle. "You're hurt."
Not a question. Not an accusation. Just a quiet concern that made something crack open in my chest. He moved toward me without hesitation, kneeling beside where I'd crumpled against the carved wooden doors.
Up close, I could see his face—strong jaw, straight nose, dark hair that was slightly disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it. But it was his eyes that caught me.
Warm brown and earnest. Looking at me like I was something that mattered instead of something broken. "I..."
My voice came out as barely a whisper. The lie formed itself without conscious thought, shaped by years of survival and desperation.
"I'm sorry… I know I shouldn't be here. I was running from my ex-boyfriend. He... he hurt me, and I didn't know where else to go. I saw the church and thought maybe... maybe it would be a sanctuary."
Something flickered in his expression—a sharpness behind the kindness, protective and fierce. His hands hovered near my injuries, careful not to touch without permission.
"You don't need to apologize," he said firmly. "No one will hurt you in God's house. I promise you that."
The conviction in his voice was absolute, and I nearly laughed at the irony.
If he knew what I was, he'd throw me back into the streets himself.
"My name is Father Rios. Mikael Rios. Can you tell me your name?"
I almost said Rowan. The truth was right there on my tongue, dangerous and desperate to be spoken. I caught myself just in time. "Wren," I whispered. "My name is Wren."
"Wren." He repeated it like he was committing it to memory, rolling the syllables around like something precious. "That's a beautiful name. Very fitting."
He helped me to my feet with infinite care, one hand steady at my elbow while the other hovered protectively near my back. I was hyperaware of everything about him—the breadth of his shoulders, the gentleness of his grip, the way he angled his body as if to shield me from unseen threats.
No one had ever touched me with such careful reverence.
"Let me take you to the infirmary," he said, guiding me deeper into the cathedral. "We need to get those wounds cleaned and bandaged properly."
The infirmary was a small room attached to the rectory, clean and well-organized with supplies arranged with military precision. Mikael settled me on a narrow cot and began gathering what he needed with practiced efficiency.
"This might sting," he warned before cleaning the wound on my side.
His touch was impossibly gentle, but I still hissed as antiseptic met torn flesh.
"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "I know it hurts. You're being very brave."
Brave. When was the last time anyone had called me that?
I studied his profile as he worked, noting everything with the automatic cataloging. Late twenties, probably. Dark hair that wanted to curl but was kept ruthlessly short. Big warm hands that moved with surprising skill—he'd clearly done this before.
"Are you a doctor?" I asked.
"No, just someone who's had training in basic medical care. Part of seminary education." He glanced up, catching me staring. "We serve a community that doesn't always have easy access to healthcare."
His eyes were what caught me most. Warm brown, earnest, but with something watchful lurking beneath the surface. I couldn’t stop my gaze from getting over his face—a strong jaw, a straight nose, and a full mouth that…
No priest should be this beautiful.
But I shoved the dangerous observation away.
"There," he said, securing the bandage with gentle precision. "That should hold until we can get you proper medical attention if needed. Are you hurt anywhere else?"
I shook my head, not trusting my voice.
"Good. We have a women's shelter attached to the cathedral—Sister Agnes runs it, and she's wonderful. She'll take care of you, make sure you have everything you need. You can stay as long as you want."
"I can't pay for anything," I said quickly. "I don't have money for…"
"You don't have to pay anything." His eyes met mine, and something in my chest twisted uncomfortably—not pain, but something infinitely more dangerous. "This is a house of God, Wren. We help people. It's what we're here for."
I should have felt guilty for lying to him. Should have felt sick about exploiting his kindness, using his faith against him like a weapon. I also felt something infinitely worse: the first stirring of hope I'd experienced in years.
Hope that maybe I could stay hidden here. Hope that someone might actually want to protect me instead of using me.
Hope was dangerous. It made you careless, or got you killed.
But as Mikael guided me to a small, clean room with a narrow bed and promised that Sister Agnes would check on me in the morning, I couldn't quite crush the treacherous warmth spreading through my chest.
I stared at the crucifix mounted on the wall after he left, and felt my witch-mark pulse faintly against my hip bone beneath my clothes. The silver spiral that marked me as other, as monster, as something these good people would despise if they knew the truth.
I was hiding in plain sight—a creature of darkness sheltered by saints.
The irony would have been funny if it weren't so desperately, impossibly perfect.