Eve of Darkness - By S. J. Day Page 0,27
only. I’ll be quick.”
He set off at a lope down the center aisle. She watched in fascination, absently noting that the severity of his black garb did nothing to detract from the grace with which he moved.
“Go,” she ordered herself.
Eve retreated toward the door. She figured if she made it to the parking lot before he came back, her escape was meant to be.
There was a padlocked tithing box on the wall near the exit. She dropped his business card into the slot and reached for the door handle.
Her hand had barely made contact with the cool metal when Riesgo reappeared at the end of the aisle with a dark red bag in his hand. Her often lamentable curiosity kicked in with a vengeance. The priest looked both excited and impassioned, making it impossible for her to turn away.
He reached her in no time and began to speak in a rush. “Last week, I was compelled to buy this—” he reached into the bag and withdrew a book “—although I didn’t know why. My sister owns a Bible that’s been passed down in my family for generations and my mother is no longer with us.”
Eve accepted the proffered Bible with tentative hands. It was covered in satin-soft burgundy leather and trimmed with ornate, feminine embroidery of floral vines and colorful butterflies. Such craftsmanship was costly. She stared at it in confusion.
“It’s yours,” he said.
Her stunned gaze lifted to meet his. “I can’t accept this!”
“I bought it for you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes,” his eyes twinkled, “I did.”
“You’re nuts.”
“I believe in miracles.”
She thrust it at him. “Take it back.”
“No.”
“I’m going to drop it,” she threatened.
“I don’t think you can.”
“Watch me.”
“Borrow it,” he suggested.
“Huh?”
“You need a Bible. I have one. Borrow it. When you’re done, bring it back.”
Her nose wrinkled.
His arms crossed, making it clear he wasn’t budging.
“You’re wrong about me,” she said. “I’m not a lost soul looking to be found.”
She’d already been found. That was the problem.
“Fine,” he countered easily. “Do your research and bring it back. The Good Book should get some use, not sit in a bag in a desk drawer.”
When Eve stepped out of the church a few minutes later, she couldn’t believe she had the Bible in her hand. Frustrated by the bizarre twists that were marring the once steady course of her life, she paused on the sidewalk at the edge of the parking lot and groaned.
“I don’t like this,” she said aloud, figuring the proximity to the church couldn’t hurt her chances of being heard by someone upstairs.
A drop of water hit her cheek. Then another splattered on the end of her nose. Frowning, she looked up at the cloudless blue sky. A droplet hit her smack in the eye and stung.
“Ow! Damn it.”
High pitched chortling turned her gaze back to the church. She rubbed her eyes and searched for the source. Just as her vision cleared, a stream of liquid hit her dead center on the forehead.
Eve jumped back and swiped the back of her hand across her face. Her gaze lifted to the archway above her.
“Ha-ha!” cried a gleeful voice.
Her eyes widened when she found the source, then narrowed defensively when she realized the water spraying her was urine.
Gargoyle urine.
The little cement beast was about the size of a gallon of milk. He sported tiny wings and a broad grin. Dancing with joy, he hopped from foot to foot in a frenetic circle that should have toppled him to the ground.
“Joey marked the Mark! Joey marked the Mark!” he chanted, pissing all the while.
“Holy shit,” she breathed, pinching herself.
A sharp whack to the back of her head knocked the bag from her hands and confirmed that she wasn’t having a nightmare.
“Shame on you!”
Clutching her skull, Eve turned to face her attacker—a stooped el der ly woman brandishing a very heavy handbag.
“It’s not what you think,” Eve complained, rubbing at a rapidly swelling knot.
“Whack her again, Granny,” suggested the angelic-looking heathen at her side.
“Beat it!” the woman ordered with a menacing shake of her bag.
Eve debated the merits of laughing . . . or bawling. “Give me a break, lady.”
“Sinner,” the heathen child said.
“I am not a sinner! This is not my fault.”
A large, warm hand touched Eve’s shoulder, then the dropped bag came into her line of vision. “Here.”
Father Riesgo. The voice was unmistakable.
Eve glanced at the archway behind them. The gargoyle was gone. The Gothic creature had been out of place on the modern exterior of the church.
“Father,” the purse-wielding woman greeted sweetly.
“I