After a three-hour nap blissfully free of nightmares, I found myself back in the car again, running an errand for my grandmother. It was well after lunch, and the sky had cleared. Everything—the trees, the grass, the pavement—was still wet and sparkled in the sunshine. The rain had washed a layer of gray off the world and left behind extra-bright, super-saturated colors.
The happy, almost cartoony feel of the landscape convinced me I’d dreamed most of my morning excursion—at least the scary forest bits. I had taken the car out and returned it safely. My grandfather reported there was a fallen tree blocking the road to Speybridge. I was glad I wasn’t completely crazy. And that I couldn’t attempt another trip to the library even if I’d wanted to. But delivering muffins to a church down the street for their bake sale—that, I could handle.
I swung left onto the unmarked road just past the barn with the red, rusted roof my grandfather had described. A small stone church that looked at least five hundred years old emerged from the shore of a glistening blue lake ringed by heather-covered mountains. Sunlight illuminated the steeple and the large, stained glass rose window beneath it, making it seem like I’d just driven into a postcard. A cracked, green wooden sign on the gravel driveway spelled out “St. Mary & St. Finnan” in gold lettering. I wondered which Mary the church was named for, although I’d never heard of St. Finnan.
A statue was perched in an alcove high up on the smooth front face of the church. I thought it might be Finnan, but as I got closer, I saw the sculpture had angel wings and a sword, and a serpent coiled around his feet. Much more dramatic and creepy than churches back home, I decided. I liked it, though. I found it hard to get inspired in rooms that looked like a modern-day coffee shop with plush theater seats. This building—with its textured turrets and gables, ornamented cornices, and a different stone cross atop every peak—stirred me up inside and made me feel like anything was possible.
I walked around the church, wondering if the doors would be unlocked. I’d learned in history class—or maybe it was a Disney movie—that churches in Europe didn’t even have locks on their doors. They were always open to provide a safe place where the oppressed could find shelter—from bad weather, bad people, bad governments. Anyone could run in, say the word “sanctuary,” and be given refuge in the church for as long as they needed. I couldn’t think of a single building in America that didn’t have locks.
I yanked on the heavy, arched wooden door. As it gave way, I noted that the doorframe was smooth and completely without a lock, or even a latch. So it was true. Just for good measure, I whispered “sanctuary” under my breath as I crossed the threshold.
A middle-aged man wearing brown monks’ robes was just leaving the rectangular foyer.
“Hello?” I called out to his back.
He spun around. “I’ll be right with you. Please have a seat in the church. I’m just wrapping up my previous appointment.” Before I could say I didn’t need an appointment, that I was only dropping off muffins, he was gone. I stood in the empty room for a minute, contemplating just dropping the basket and taking off. But then how would my grandmother get credit for her baking? I could leave a note, I thought, but decided that would only leave written evidence that my grandmother had a rude delivery girl. I sighed and headed for the double doors.
Inside, the nave was as still as a graveyard—empty, dark, and a little cold. I shivered, and shrank deeper into my jacket. The walls were lined with the same natural stones inside as out. The floor was covered in unstained wooden planks. I couldn’t help but count the dark, circular knots as I stepped on them.
About three rows from the front, I slid sideways into a buffed wooden pew and sat down.
“Hey!” a voice under my butt shouted. I jumped up a split second after I felt someone’s shoe in my bottom.
A girl my age sat up next to me. “Watch it!” she said, a little late.
“Sorry,” I answered. “Were you . . . lying down?”
“Yes, I was,” she replied, pulling tiny speakers from her ears. “I guess you couldn’t have seen me when you entered then, eh?” She gave me a half smile.
I was glad, since I had no desire to get in a fight inside a church. “Do you, um, usually lay down here?” I smiled back.
She shrugged. “I do lie on the pews whenever I can, rather than sit on them. Gives you a much better view, I think. But I’ve never been here before. I’m only visiting. What about you? I’m guessing you’re not a regular parishioner, since you don’t have a Scottish accent either.” Her accent was slightly higher pitched, although it was definitely still British.
“No, I’m from America,” I said. “I’m just visiting too . . . Well, I guess I do live here now, but I’ve never been in here before. I was just delivering these for my grandmother.” I held up the basket.
She jumped to her feet and thrust out her hand.
“I’m Hunter,” she said, pumping my hand up and down while rattling off her personal information as quickly as all the other British girls I’d met. I wondered what made them all talk so fast. “I’m from Brixton, it’s near London, or I was from Brixton anyway, before my parents passed. Now I’m in Westminster, at the Catholic Children’s Society. Only for three hundred forty-two more days, though, since I turned seventeen last month.”
“Both your parents are dead too?” I didn’t mean to blurt it out, but I’d never met another orphan. I kind of thought they only existed in Dickens novels and my own unlucky life.
“Aye, they died in a car crash three years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I stuttered.
“No worries. Not your fault,” she answered, pushing her champagne-colored bangs out of her eyes. They fell right back.
“I’m Maren,” I said. “My mom just died recently. That’s why I’m in Scotland now . . .” I faltered, not wanting to talk about my mom, fearing if I picked at that scab, I might lose it. I had to change the subject. “So, how long are you here?”
“Just today,” she answered. “The Mother Superior had to come speak with the pastor about some new adoption laws that just passed Parliament.”
“So, you work at a children’s society?” I asked.
“No, I live there. It’s an orphanage. Although we all know no one’s going to adopt me now. That’s why I’m counting down until I’m eighteen. Then I get my pass, get some tin money, and off I go.” The look in Hunter’s eyes was weary, as if she’d seen too much. But it couldn’t hide her prettiness.
“Where will you go?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet. Maybe the Abbey.”
“You want to be a nun?” I asked. Somehow, Hunter didn’t strike me as the no-talking type.
“No,” she explained. “Not an abbey like a convent. The Abbey, like where our parents worked.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “What do you mean, our parents?” I asked.
“Oh, sorry, I just assumed you knew . . . because of your necklace . . .” She motioned at my throat.
“What about my necklace?” I asked. I immediately put my hand over the dangling flower and rubbed the petals under my thumb.
She crinkled her forehead. “Where’d you get it?” she asked suspiciously.
“It was my mom’s. I found it in a box of her stuff.”
Hunter looked relieved. “That’s what I figured. My mom had one too. See?” She opened her sweater a bit at the neck to reveal she was wearing the exact same necklace. “It’s the Tudor rose, the symbol of the Abbey. Girls get the necklace; guys get cufflinks. They used to get tattoos, but that’s too hard to hide if you’re captured.” She sat down matter-of-factly, as if she’d just told me her favorite ice cream flavor, and picked at a piece of fuzz on her skirt.
“Captured?” I said. “What are you talking about? My parents didn’t work for a place called the Abbey. The necklace is just a coincidence.”
Hunter stared at me, suddenly very serious. “There’s no such thing as coincidence,” she said. “And there’s only one way to get these necklaces, and that’s by working at the Abbey.”
I wasn’t convinced. “What’s so special about them?” I asked. “How do you know my mom didn’t buy it on the Internet?”
“The rose is an ancient symbol of secrecy, and I know because they don’t sell it on the Internet,” she answered. “They don’t sell it anywhere. You have to earn it.”
“By doing what? What’s the Abbey?”
“You really don’t know?” Hunter seemed worried for me. “Where do you think your mom worked?”
“She worked for a foreign company called T.A., Inc.” I answered, confidently. More confidently than I felt since discovering her journal.
“T.A. . . . The Abbey . . .” Hunter rolled her hands as she said the words, as if she might somehow fan understanding into my brain.
I shook my head. “Coinci . . .” I stopped myself. “She was a systems analyst.”
“So was my mom,” Hunter answered. “What about your dad?”
“He died before I was born—well, the day I was born, actually. I never met him.”
“But where did he meet your mom?” she countered.
I knew the answer, but for some reason, I didn’t want to tell her. It fit too easily into her insane story. “They met at work,” I said slowly. “They both worked at the same company . . .”
“Mine too,” she answered. “That’s pretty typical, since they spend so much time away on missions together; although the Abbey strongly discourages couples from having kids. Clearly, that doesn’t always work out.” She motioned at both of us.
“Missions?” I said. “Are you serious? So what is the Abbey, exactly? Like the CIA?”
“Sort of,” she answered. “Except it’s not political or tied to a certain country.” She looked around nervously, like she wasn’t supposed to be telling me if I didn’t already know. She lowered her voice. “It’s a secret organization that helps fight evil forces around the world.”
“Like terrorists?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She shrugged. I could tell this wasn’t the entire truth.
“I’m pretty sure my mom wasn’t involved in anything like that,” I said, although at this point, I wasn’t. I wasn’t sure about anything that had to do with my mom anymore.
“Really?” She raised her eyebrows at me. “You didn’t find anything in her belongings that was unusual? Or encrypted?”
“Nope,” I lied. I hoped she couldn’t read the truth on my face.
“Well, if you find anything weird, be careful,” she said. “You don’t want Abbey information falling into the wrong hands. And they’ll come after you if they think you have anything. Remember, there’s no such thing as an accident.”
Who was this crazy girl practically quoting my mother’s warning message to me? And she didn’t believe in coincidence or accidents? Of course there were accidents. My mom . . . Hunter’s parents . . .
“But I thought you said your parents died in a car accident?” I prodded.
“No, I didn’t. I said car crash. It wasn’t an accident.”
A bolt of heat shot through my chest. My father had died in a car crash while driving my mom to the hospital when she was in labor with me. The other driver came out of nowhere, plowed into them, and then disappeared. We never made it to the hospital: my dad was pronounced dead at the scene, and my mom delivered me by the side of the road. I didn’t like hearing that car crashes weren’t accidents—that they were somehow preordained . . . or planned.
A side door opened with a scrape, and I jumped. A priest and a nun walked in.
“Hunter,” the nun called. “We need to check in at the Priory for the night.”
“A priory, like full of monks?” I whispered as Hunter stood up. I suddenly did not want her to go. Crazy or not, I felt comfortable with her, like she had more in common with me than anyone I’d ever met.
“No, the Priory Hotel,” she answered. “It’s great. Nice, comfy beds.” She told them she was coming, and then turned back to me. “Remember, churches and temples are always safe. Any house of God. They can’t follow you in.”
To my dismay, she started walking away. I stood up. “Who? Who can’t follow you in?”
“Demons,” she hissed.
I got a chill down my back. I didn’t believe in werewolves or vampires, but demons were another story entirely. The idea of evil personified wasn’t too hard to swallow, especially if you ever watched the evening news.
“Demons? Like evil spirits?” I asked.
“No, like hairy beasts with claws and wings. They only look like that right before a kill, though. The rest of the time, they look like humans. Well, super good-looking guys, actually.” She looked over her shoulder. The priest and nun were heading back out the door.
“Why do they look like normal guys?”
“Not normal—hot, gorgeous guys,” she corrected me. “It’s how they gain trust, recruit humans to help them, and move around undetected. Listen, you probably don’t have anything to worry about. It’s not like they’re everywhere. They tend to stay in big cities where their crimes blend in. I have to go. Here.” She pulled a pen and scrap of paper out of her purse and scribbled on them. “It’s my number. Call me anytime and I can tell you more. Especially if you find something from your mom.”
Then she turned and dashed out the door to catch her ride.
As soon as Hunter left, the church filled with such an emptiness, it made my ears buzz. I still had to deliver the muffin basket, so I turned sideways and swung my feet up onto the bench so I could see more of the church while I waited. As I scanned the outline of benches, I was startled to see I wasn’t alone. A boy about thirteen years old with messy, dark blond curls was sitting in the very last row.
“Hello?” I called out.
He stared straight ahead as if he didn’t see me. It was actually hard to see him. He was covered in a light mist that seemed to emanate from his skin. As I squinted to get a better look, he disappeared, slowly fading away in his seat. I rubbed my eyes. He was gone. Great, another hallucination. At least this one wasn’t being murdered by wild dogs in front of me.
I slunk down to lay across the pew like Hunter had, hoping the new position would shield my obviously overwrought brain from any more imaginary sightings. It felt weird at first, and then strangely comfortable.
I stared straight up at the wooden ceiling and tried not to think about demons, but it was impossible. My mind whirled with images of hairy beasts, my mom fighting them, her “accident” . . . I shook my head. I couldn’t go there. Not yet. It was still too raw.
I have never been able to shut my brain off, especially when it’s in overdrive, and I was miserable at meditating, but I had to do something. I could feel pent-up emotions—grief, fear, rage—straining to be let out of the box I had locked them in. I remembered reading once that a simple form of meditation was studying an object in front of you. I gazed at the heavy iron and glass lamp hanging directly over my head. I followed the curves with my eyes, tried to stay focused on the rippled panes, but instead found myself wondering if it would kill me instantly if it fell, or if I would survive.
What is wrong with me? I’m trying to clear my head, and all I can think about is my brains splattered on the pew? I must be seriously damaged.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and decided to try again. I opened my eyes and stared upward. Suddenly, the lamp started swaying. I jolted upright like I’d been electrocuted. The priest was standing in front of me.
My heart was pounding, but I quickly determined that the lantern wasn’t falling, that the wind probably blew in when the priest opened the door, and that it wasn’t a sin to lie down on a pew.
“Sorry to startle you,” the priest said. Why did people keep saying that to me? I thought. And why am I so easily startled?
“No, no, it’s . . . I . . .” I had no idea what to say.
“It’s fine. We encourage people to use St. Mary and St. Finnan however they like,” he said. “I see you’re practicing Hunter’s ‘holy nap.’”
“I wasn’t trying to sleep!” I protested.
He smiled. “Och, I know, Maren. I was only joking with you. I’m not sure if you’re used to our humor in Scotland yet, but it’s a wee bit dry. Quite unlike our weather.”
“You know who I am?” I asked.
“Hunter told me your name was Maren, and from your American accent and your lack of a tourist’s camera, I can only surmise that you are Maren Hamilton,” he answered.
“Small town,” I said.
“Quite,” he answered. “But that’s exactly the way we like it. In any case, I’m very pleased you’ve come.”
“I’m not here for services or anything,” I explained. “I’m just dropping off muffins from my grandmother.” I handed him the basket.
“That’s wonderful. Please thank her for me. And you’re welcome here anytime, for Mass or not. We’re happy to offer sanctuary to anyone seeking peace.”
Sanctuary. How weird that he used that word.
“Can I ask you a Latin question?” I said. I might not be able to get to the library, but maybe the priest could translate the title of my mother’s journal. Hunter’s warnings were freaking me out.
“Of course.” He nodded.
“What does ‘Arcēs Daemonium’ mean?”
“Well, arx is a stronghold or a fortress. And daemonium means demon,” he said. “So it would be ‘demon strongholds.’ Why?”
Demons. My stomach dropped.
“Do you believe in demons?” I asked back. “Are they real?”
“I’m afraid so.”
I expected that answer from a priest, so I decided to push him a bit. “Have you ever seen one?”
Before he could answer, the peal of church bells echoed against the walls. He seemed relieved, and wasted no time in making his exit.
“Would you look at that? Late again! It was a pleasure meeting you, young Maren, and I do hope you’ll forgive me, but I have to run.”
And he practically did.
I was left with the sudden revelation that I had not only seen a demon . . . I had a crush on one.