Dead Man Walking (The Fallen Men #6) - Giana Darling Page 0,158

what they were. Criminals and animals.”

I ground my teeth to keep from gnashing at her, trying to remember that the context of Tabby’s life was so much narrower than my own. She judged because she was afraid of the unknown, and The Fallen were impossible to predict.

“Let’s talk about the finer details of crime and sin when we get out of here, okay?” I recommended, already moving toward the entrance to examine the chains looped through the cut-out crosses on either side of the double doors. “I think this wood is flimsy enough to break down. If you help me with that light, I think we could use it to…”

I trailed off as the chains started to rattle, backing away slowly as they slid with an ominous hiss through the carved wood and disappeared into the darkness on the other side.

Then nothing.

I waited, breath suspended, heart stuttering in my chest.

But nothing happened.

I looked over my shoulder at Tabby who was still on her knees, hands held aloft as if in prayer, terror transforming her face into something grotesque.

Tentatively, I took a step closer to peer out the black cross-shaped wedge of space in the greying oak door, but only darkness met my gaze. I pressed my shaking right hand to the wood and started to press it open.

Crack.

The doors exploded inward, the panel hitting me square in the forehead, sending me careening backward. My ankle twisted as I tried to catch my footing so I went down badly, head crashing into the back of the church bench.

Black spots riddled my vision as I blinked through the pain and the rush of sudden tears, desperate to see who stood in the open doorway looming over me.

“Beatrice Lafayette,” a cold voice intoned from above. “You are not going anywhere until you atone for your myriad of sins.”

Tabby scrambled forward and knelt beside me to help me into a seated position. The scent of her sugary perfume was a comfort as I fought through my disorientation. There was no doubt I had a concussion, my second in three months, and it was hard to focus through the dizzying pain.

I blinked hard, then looked up at the man who’d caused so much pain. He wore all black with a deep hood pulled up over his head, concealing his features.

For one dark, terrifying moment, he looked exactly like Priest. Elation and sickness surged through me because I knew it wasn’t my psychopath who came to save me even though he cut the same reassuring figure. It was on purpose, I was sure. This man was a psychopath who enjoyed playing games. He had a different collection of traits from the psychopathy metre than my Priest. They shared the same lack of empathy, desensitization to violence and death, and the shocking ability to fit with the norm when it suited them, but this man was also clearly self-aggrandizing, dramatic, and narcissistic. He thought he was cleverer than everyone else, more powerful, a total authoritarian.

I needed to remember that when dealing with him if I wanted to get Tabby out of this alive. I wasn’t naïve enough to think the same hope existed for me.

“Please, let Tabitha go,” I beseeched him, trembling voice and wide, terrified eyes so he would believe I was properly cowed instead of outrageously angry. “She’s a good wife, a pious Christian. Whatever sins she might have committed are nothing in the face of her love for the Lord.”

Tabby made a little noise beside me, pressing closer in comfort. Her hand stroked over my hair in a gesture that was so familiar it made my heart burn. I wrapped my arms around her, tucking her head beneath my chin to shield her and comfort her in equal measure. She was older than me, but Tabby had always been soft. Age had nothing to do with the fact I was the stronger of the two of us, and it was up to me to protect her.

The man was silent as he hovered over us, clearly enjoying the headiness of his physical superiority and the power of his silence.

Finally, he crouched, careful to maintain enough distance so I couldn’t see into the shadowy recess of his hooded face.

“She is a good wife,” he agreed in a chilling monotone. “Not good enough for the Prophet, but she does try.”

Tabby whimpered, clutching at me with sharp nails.

“She was never as good as you,” he continued, cocking his head in a faint mimicry of Priest. “The moment I