The Virgin

“Anything. You name it.”

Elle narrowed her eyes at Kyrie.

“Anything is a dangerous word where I come from,” Elle said.

Kyrie didn’t look the least intimidated.

“I trust you. Is it a deal?”

“Not a deal. Definitely not a deal. I haven’t written anything since college. And you really shouldn’t trust me. For a lot of reasons.”

“Too late. I already do.”

Elle rolled her eyes.

“Fine,” she said at last. “But only if I get a perfect idea for the story. Otherwise I’m not going to waste my time trying to fix a three-thousand-year-old myth that’s doing fine without me.”

“It’s got a terrible ending. It needs you.”

“If, and only if, I get a perfect idea. Then I’ll write it. And if I write, then you can do something nice for me. Maybe sneak me extra dessert or something.”

“I can do that.”

Kyrie stood in the darkened doorway of the library. This girl...this crazy girl...what on earth was she doing letting this crazy girl into her life? Not just a girl. A nun. An intelligent, weird, wonderful, breathtakingly beautiful nun...

“Have a good night,” Kyrie said. “I’ll say a prayer God hits you with a good idea.”

“Gotta be perfect. Not good. Perfect. Otherwise I’m not writing it.”

“God can handle perfect. That’s His strong suit.”

Kyrie gave her one last smile, turned around and on her naked feet disappeared into the darkness.

Elle exhaled. In that exhale she realized she’d been tense for the past half hour. Tense? Why? Kyrie, of course. She liked her. Liked her much too much. And the last thing Elle needed was a friend in this place. Especially a very pretty friend under a very serious vow of chastity. She’d come here to get away from people, get away from the world, get away from love and sex and men and complications.

Kyrie had the potential to be a serious complication.

For the first time in years, Elle had begun to feel completely safe someplace. She was safe in the abbey, far away from her old life where every day carried with it the risk that Søren would get caught, she would get hurt, or Kingsley would get killed. Here at the convent she had nothing to fear. She had a roof over her head, three meals a day, a small warm bed and a library full of books—boring books. And even worse, she’d read them all by now.

But still...this was what she needed now. Safety. Peace. Quiet. Complications were the last thing she needed. She’d had enough of those for a lifetime. She’d back away from Kyrie. Far far away from her. She’d get away from Kyrie if she had to turn herself into a tree to do it. And tonight would mark the first and the last of their late-night fireplace conversations. No more of those. Never. No. Not a chance.

Elle returned the copy of Bulfinch’s Mythology to the shelf. She went to bed and slept and when she woke up she was still thinking about Kyrie. About Kyrie and her sister the writer, who’d died, and Kyrie’s demand that Elle write her a romance novel.

Sweet girl. Very pretty. Totally delusional.

Outside the window in the light of dawn, she saw a blur in the distance. Elle pulled on a sweater and squinted into the new morning. It was a woman out jogging in winter running clothes. Jogging. That was all. The abbey had neighbors, normal people who lived out in the country. Sometimes Elle saw them driving or walking. Nothing special about a woman jogging in the morning.

Or was there?

In the back of Elle’s mind she saw something.

Not something...someone. A girl.

And the girl was running for her life. Elle closed her eyes, let the picture come into focus. It was a teenage girl who was running. Long stick-thin legs, arms pumping, feet pounding the fresh green earth under her feet and trees racing past her with every step. She ran because someone chased her. A man. A beautiful man who was beauty and music and reason personified.

“Don’t run...” Elle whispered to the girl. “He’s the only one you shouldn’t run away from.”

Elle’s eyes opened, but the vision remained.

“Fuck...” Elle sat down on her bed with a groan.

Kyrie’s prayer had been answered.

Elle had the most perfect idea.

16

Haiti

BY DAWN THE next morning, Kingsley had returned to his beach hut. He’d only slept an hour or so the night before. He hadn’t wanted to waste a single moment he had with Juliette sleeping. When she wouldn’t talk to him, he’d fucked her again. And again. He’d spent most of the night inside one part of her body or another. They’d had so much sex he could hardly move this morning. And he didn’t want to move, didn’t want to think. But when he closed his eyes all he could hear was Juliette’s voice speaking her perfect French.

“Mort,” she’d said when he asked her what he could give her.

Death.

She wanted to die. And she wanted him to kill her. But he’d kill himself first before he killed her.

Madness. She’d refused to say anything more to him about last night. She’d only kissed him until he forgot everything. But this morning, he remembered.

Rolling out of his bed hurt but he did it anyway. He found his cell phone and dialed home. Calliope answered on the third ring.

“Yes, Mr. King?”

“Report?”

“It’s too quiet here,” she said. “The dogs are napping. The house is closed up like you asked. Are you coming home soon?”