Kindling the Moon (Arcadia Bell #1)(17)

True.

“So, enough about me,” I said. “Were you upset when you got kicked out of the seminary? How long ago was that, by the way?”

His face twisted up in mock surprise. “Are you trying to find out my age?”

“What? No.” I glanced out the window. “But now that you mention it, how old are you?”

“Forty-two. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five? Jesus, I was older than that when my son was born.”

“You have a son? I guess that chastity vow didn’t take, huh?”

He laughed, and for the first time, it was pleasant. All the meanness was gone. “I didn’t take a chastity vow. I never really intended to become a priest,” he explained. “And yes, I have a son. He’s thirteen. Closer to your age than I am.”

Thirteen? Christ.

“Is your wife an Earthbound?”

“I’m divorced, and yes.”

“Oh … I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He looked at me intently, and I found my hand nervously moving up to cover the side of my neck, as if it were exposed. It took some effort to force my arm back down to my side.

“Do you see your son often?” I asked.

“He lives with me. I have full custody.”

“Oh, good.” Good? That was a silly response. My cheeks flushed as he absently scratched the hair behind one ear. He had really striking green eyes when they weren’t narrowed into defensive slits.

“So why did you join the seminary if you didn’t want to become a priest?”

“I wanted to get my hands on a few of their books.”

“Aha! So you did steal those goetias that Father Carrow talked about! I can’t say that I’m very religious myself, but even I think that’s pretty low.”

“Why don’t most magicians believe in God?” he mused. “They witness more miracles than the average person.”

I bristled. Most of the people in my order believe in some sort of creator. Maybe not a Abrahamic one, but they share many of the same ideals and moral codes: protect your family, accept responsibility for your actions—that sort of thing.

“I believe in a God,” I argued. “Just not ghosts.”

He chuckled, and after casually crossing his legs, ankle on knee, he slumped lower down into the cushions. “Just because I didn’t intend to become a priest doesn’t mean I don’t believe in God. Maybe not with the conviction that Father Carrow has …” A gentle smile curled the corners of his mouth. “But you’re right. Stealing from the church was stupid. I was only nineteen, if that counts for anything. Though, in the end, it was worth it. The books I took were … invaluable.”

He took a long drag off his cigarette and observed me. I was starting to feel lightheaded. Almost buzzed. I turned the cherry end of my cigarette toward my face and sniffed it suspiciously. “There’s only valrivia in these, right?”

He draped his arm over the back cushion and leaned closer, ignoring my question. “Why do you want to find the albino demon?”

“Please don’t ask me. I really can’t tell you. You wouldn’t understand anyway.”

“You’d be surprised. Try me,” he coaxed, his face softening. “Besides, I won’t help unless you’re honest. What other choice do you have?”

Not once in seven long years had I ever once told anyone the truth about my family. I’d never even been tempted to open the vault and spill my guts. Not even to Kar Yee, and she was the longest-running friend I’d had since this whole mess started. Sometimes I came close to telling Father Carrow. He was easy to open up to, and understood what it was like to be an outsider who didn’t fit human or demon expectations. But no matter how convinced I was that he’d be somewhat understanding and keep my secrets, I just never allowed myself that luxury.

So why was I considering it now? I didn’t even know this man.

I don’t know if it was the stress of what was going on with my parents, or the physical exhaustion from staying up worried the night before, but suddenly I wanted to tell him everything. Not just because he was forcing my hand, and not just because I was desperate for him to help me—which I was. I think I just wanted to confess.

“Can you offer me absolution if I tell you?” I asked with a weak smile.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m the last person in the world to offer that.” His voice was soft and sympathetic, and when I met his gaze, the fortifying wall I’d carefully built around my stronghold crumbled. My heart hammered as an unexpected spike of exhilaration ran through me.

“My parents are Enola and Alexander Duval.” The words raced out of my mouth, eager to be free after years of captivity.

His face drew up as if he was confused, or trying to place the names. Then his eyes widened. In shock? Terror? Certainly not pity.

“They didn’t do it—the killings. They were f-framed,” I stammered.

“You’re … the teenage daughter?”

“Not anymore. It’s been seven years.”

“How—” he started, then hesitated. “Your parents are alive, too … on the news.”

“Yes, they’re back in hiding again, I guess, who knows where? They won’t tell me,” I admitted. “We separated after they were accused.”