The Book Eaters(78)

Devon bit the inside of her cheek. Adam and Eve had nothing on Killock and Cai. Apples were for amateurs. Sons eating fathers: that was a truly forbidden feast.

Bits of the Ravenscar puzzle clicked into place, weaving together threads of commonality between these siblings and herself. The complexity of it, unfolding into understanding of the Families that had crushed them, the shared trauma that bound them—her to Cai, Hester to Killock—and the unspeakable crimes that had finally, at such bitter cost, set them all free.

She picked her words carefully. “I can’t pretend to know what you experience. If you call it communion, I won’t contradict. Only you can know what that felt like.”

“Quite.” Killock twitched violently, shoulders hitching in repetition.

“What of me and Cai?” she asked, when he said nothing further. “How do you feel about us remaining?”

Another shudder. Then he shook his head, relaxed, and said, “Saints are we both, your son and I, and as one saint to another I say—he is welcome in this house, whether he takes Redemption, or takes communion. Though I hope, in time, he will embrace his nature, as I have learned to.”

“I see.” Devon shifted in her seat. Take communion and embrace his nature? Like fuck. Not if she could help it. “And if he ever leaves? What if he grows to adulthood and wants to choose another path entirely?”

Killock folded into a seat in the nearest library chair, fingers white with the tension of holding himself still. “Redemption is what saves us from sin. God gives Redemption to the faithful. No one else may have salvation.” His grin came and went like a shark at sea. “There is no going or leaving, now that you know the location of our home. What if you went running back to the knights, eh? No, your son will have to stay.”

And there it was, she thought; the hard line that lay beneath his flowery words and overcooked politeness. Killock kept everyone bound closely to him. His siblings, through a mix of love, loyalty, shared oppression, and their need of his drug. Her and Cai, through veiled threats.

She’d never had a choice anyway, not really; staying wasn’t an option. But Killock’s attitude made it a little easier on her conscience.

Devon held up her palms, as if surrendering. “It’s no sacrifice at all to live among you. Far better than living with Matley.”

“Good, good, I am glad to hear it,” Killock said. “Do not think of Matley as being dead, by the way. Your husband lives on in your son, as my father lives on in me. Once you invite the Holy Spirit in—”

A bell began ringing from elsewhere in the house, startling all of them out of that moment.

“Is that an alarm?” Devon swiveled in her seat, deeply relieved for the distraction.

“Not at all!” Killock said, almost shouting. “Merely the signal for our Christmas service to begin.”

“Christmas service? Like a church one?” She had so far assumed that his religious terminology was an affectation, not something literal. “Do you subscribe to human religions?” There was nothing in human beliefs about book eaters, and she could not fathom adopting that system herself.

“Come and see. Come and see!” His expression was inviting and polite, but as ever, his forceful tone underscored the words. This was a command, not a choice.

“Very kind.” She glanced at Hester. The other woman was already standing, face hidden by a fall of curling hair. “What about my son?”

“We’ll bring him along. It’s a Family affair.” He offered another absurd little bow. “Follow me, please. It would not do to be late for my own Christmas service.”





23

REMEMBER THE SABBATH





PRESENT DAY


Father forgive me, for all my sins. For what I have done to you in the name of freedom and rightness, what I have done for love and brotherhood.

I hear you arguing with me as I try to sleep at night, the voice of you remaining in my head long after your life slipped away. How you hated me, still hate me, want me to die for what I am, but you don’t understand that this is what must be done it is done IT IS FINISHED—

—Killock Ravenscar, private journal

The chapel had been beautiful once.

Devon craned her neck up, inspecting the smoke stains on the ceiling. Remnants of polished wooden pews and embroidered prayer cushions were piled toward the back of the room. Cheap folding chairs occupied that space, plastic ones with rusted hinge joints. A cracked altar, likely once worth a small fortune, lingered on miserably at the front, its white marbled surface plastered with melted candlesticks.

Next to the altar rested a large crate, covered in a once-white cloth to form a makeshift table. A Bible lay propped atop the covered crate, its pages stained and spattered with something unrecognizable.

Devon had eaten enough thrillers and horror novels over the years to recognize a bad setup when she saw one.

“What happened?” she whispered to Hester. “Was there a fire?”

“When we first moved in, yes. This building is ancient, and has been in poor repair for twenty years,” Hester said. “Killock’s been conducting work but it’s slow going and things are still fragile. We don’t use candles anymore, not worth the risk.”

“Um. Sounds safe, I guess.”

“Tell me about it, the whole building is practically dry kindling,” Hester said, then dropped her voice to a lower volume. “Listen, we need to talk, if that’s all right with you.”