The Last Harvest(62)

“I’m sorry … for everything,” I say, placing my hand on her cheek.

“I’m not.” She leans into my touch. “It brought you back to me.”

The warmth from her skin radiates up my arm, through my body, where it seems to get lodged in my throat.

And in that moment, standing at the altar, it’s more than our past, present, and future drawing me in. More than need or attraction. It feels like the hand of God is pushing me toward her.

I take her face in my hands and kiss her. Really kiss her. The kind of kiss you dream about your whole life.

“The chapel is closed,” a nun says sternly from the doorway.

Ali and I take a step away from each other and a tiny revolt goes off inside my body. “The door was open,” I reply, an embarrassed flush spreading across my cheeks.

“If you’re here to look at the church for your wedding, you’ll have to go through premarital screening with Father Mercer first.”

Ali smiles up at me.

I clear my throat. “I was here the other day. My little sister Noodle … er, Natalie Tate, she’s enrolled for next year. She came for a tour.”

“I know. Did you forget something?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I actually came to see about the priests I met that day. An archbishop and a cardinal?”

She purses her lips tight. “We haven’t had a visit from the archbishop in ages and certainly never a cardinal.”

“But I was here … with Miss Granger.”

“Poor soul.” She makes the sign of the cross. “She’s very devout. A good Catholic, but her mind is addled. Those afflicted with maladies of the brain, we must pray for them.”

“The priests,” I whisper to Ali. “What if it never happened? What if it was all in my head?”

“Come on, Clay.” Ali takes my hand, pulling me toward the exit.

I feel the nun’s eyes digging into me as I pass. Judging me.

As soon as we get outside, I lean over, bracing my hands against my knees. “If the priests weren’t real … if I’m seeing things in that much detail, I must be crazy … just like Miss Granger.”

“We’re going to figure this out. I promise,” Ali says, rubbing my back. “You have me now. I can tell you what’s real.”

I try to take a few deep breaths, but it feels like my lungs are already full to capacity. “I feel like I might pass out,” I manage to say.

“You’re okay. Just breathe.” Ali leans me up against a statue. “Just stay here. Let me get the car,” she says, as she runs into the parking lot.

I hear the jingling of keys behind me and turn to see the nun locking up the chapel.

I remember there were other people around that day. Witnesses. I know I’m grasping, but there’s a lot at stake here. Maybe she doesn’t know about the priests’ visit because the meeting was a secret.

“The nuns I met the other day … a Sister Agnes … Sister Grace,” I say as I straighten up, trying to act normal. “Is there any way I can talk to them?”

“I’m afraid that’s quite impossible,” she says, her grim mouth stretching into a pleasant line.

“Why?”

“Because they cut out their own tongues right after you left. And do you know what they said before they put blade to flesh? Ego causam civitatium sanguine.”

“I plead the blood,” I whisper.

She smiles. “Very good, Clay.”

“How … how do you know my name?” I murmur as I back away from her.

She watches me and I swear her eyes are pure black. I clench my eyes shut and when I open them again, the nun is gone. Vanished.

I stagger back into the parking lot, into screeching tires as I hit the hood of Ali’s car.

“Clay!” Ali jumps out of the car.

“I’m fine … I’m fine,” I say as I get into the passenger seat. “Let’s just get out of here.”

As we pull away, I stare at the church. I’m not sure what I’m looking for … if what happened was even real. But Miss Granger said there was a disturbance at the church. Something that made the priests not trust me anymore. Could I have made the nuns do it … cut out their own tongues?

Maybe I’m the evil one and I just don’t know it.





43

I TRY not to look at the wheat as I pull in the drive. I should’ve finished the harvest days ago, but I haven’t made much headway. It doesn’t even seem to matter how much time I spend out there, I just keep going over the same patterns, again and again. And ever since that dream about the bull, when I woke up on the combine while it was still moving, I’ve been afraid of the wheat … or the combine … or maybe I’m just afraid of myself.

Ali thinks I just need sleep. Maybe she’s right. I hope to God she’s right, because the alternative is too awful to think about.

I look at myself in the rearview mirror and slap my cheeks before I head in the house. I might be mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted, but I’m not about to let Noodle see that.

As soon as I open the front door, Noodle comes crashing into me.

I feel her stomach grumble against my leg. “Hungry?”

Noodle nods, but doesn’t let go of my leg.