The rustle of its shredded clothes reached her ears a moment before the thing hit her, knocking her to the floor. She was on her back. Its hands were on her shoulders, holding her down. She felt the rush of its hot, putrid-sweet breath on her face. She choked on the rotted air as she thrust the dagger up with both arms, using every ounce of strength she could muster.
The dagger hit its mark, tearing flesh and crunching through bone. The thing’s gargling screech became a whine. Its body jerked and then went still, all its weight dropping against her.
Ember shoved the creature’s limp form off and rolled over onto her hands and feet. She gasped, gulping air as if there would never be enough of it. Then she began to sob. Her muscles trembled as she tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t support her.
Another groan reached her ears. Ember bowed her head, closing her eyes, waiting for the creature to overpower her. But no other sound followed. No scuffling. No wheezing.
She looked up and saw light where there had been none. A river of sunshine poured down a straight, narrow staircase different from the spiraling steps by which she’d entered the cellar. Fighting for control of her trembling limbs, she crawled to the base of the stairs.
SIX
EMBER HALF RAN, half climbed up the stone steps. Her hands were shaking, but she refused to let go of the dagger as she pulled herself forward. The creature’s blood painted her pale skin crimson, warm red liquid sliding from her fingers to her wrists.
She staggered through the doorway at the top of the stairs. Warmth and light surrounded her, pressing back the nightmare of the cellar. She whirled, raising the dagger to strike, when she heard the door shut and lock.
A figure in a cowled brown robe raised his hands. “Peace, Lady Morrow. You’re safe now.”
Ember recognized the weathered-face priest from the ceremony.
“God bless you, my child,” Father Michael said. He touched her forehead, making the shape of the cross. Water dripped down her brow. “You have completed your ordeal.”
“Father.” Ember fell to her knees, her voice rasping. She finally unclenched her fingers from the dagger, which clattered onto the stone floor. “That thing . . . I don’t understand what happened.”
Father Michael bent down, retrieving the weapon and depositing it beneath the folds of his robe. “We see but a poor reflection as in a mirror, but we shall see face-to-face. Where you have known in part, now you shall know fully.” The priest reached out, helping her to her feet. Ember recognized his words as scripture but could make no sense of their meaning.
He took her arm, leading her away from the closed door and the horror it hid. As shock loosened its grip on her senses, Ember lifted her face to the light that streamed in through tall windows. The stained glass transformed sunbeams, washing the dark wood of the walls in gem-like tones. Father Michael guided her from the small antechamber into a long, narrow room filled with rows of wooden benches. At the far end of the room, an altar was stationed beneath another stained glass window, this one large and round. Suspended within the bright colors was an angel, his face proud and unyielding, his hands bearing fiery swords.
“My namesake,” the priest said, looking up at the window with a brief smile. “The archangel Michael who cast Lucifer out of heaven.”
Ember simply nodded as they passed from the chapel into another, smaller space that held a table and chairs and a simple wooden pallet.
“My humble quarters.” Father Michael gestured for her to sit. A cup of steaming liquid sat on the table and the priest pushed it in front of Ember when she settled into her chair.
“A simple herbal tonic,” he said. “It will calm your nerves and your spirit.”
Ember took the cup in her hands, sniffing before she took a sip. She recognized chamomile, lavender, and mint. When she drank, the tonic chased lingering chills from her body.
“Where are the other initiates?” she asked. “Didn’t they have trials?”
He smiled kindly. “Yes. A trial awaited each of the pledges. But you alone chose the office of war, which requires a more dangerous and frightening ordeal than that of knowledge or craft. I’m here because I wanted to offer you assurance that such a trial was necessary and to be certain that, having faced the darkness, you are still fixed upon this path.”
Ember didn’t know what to say, so she settled for drinking more of the tonic.
“You have many more questions, I’m sure,” Father Michael said. “And I will now do my best to answer them.”
He seemed prepared to speak to her fears, so Ember waited and listened.
“What happened in the cellar was the means by which you will know the purpose of Conatus,” he said. “And the tasks of the Guard in particular.”
He crossed the room, hands clasped at his back. “We seek to emulate Michael’s work. To drive evil from the earth.”
Ember took another draught of the tonic. “That creature in the cellar. It was evil . . . unnatural.”
He nodded.
“What was it?” she asked.
“A revenant,” the priest told her. “The foul pet of a necromancer.”
“One who raises the dead?” Ember asked. “Can someone truly wield such power?”
Father Michael sighed. “While it is often creatures of darkness you will face, in truth it is their masters we must thwart: those who draw evil into our world to feed their hunger for power.”
“Who are they?” Ember’s mind reeled. She knew of witches’ curses and mischievous spirits but only in the way that children fear what hides in shadow.
“They have many names, none of which I suspect are true: wizards, witches, sorcerers, magicians. There are few who find a way to draw the dark, but enough to manifest evils that harm many,” he said. “Our work here is to seek them out and quell their evildoing.”
“How do you find them?” she asked.
“Sadly, it is often following in the wake of violence left by their minions.” Father Michael bowed his head. “We are hunters chasing a trail of blood. By the grace of God, I would we had the means to set snares and stop them before they wreak havoc on innocents.”
Ember sat quietly, letting his words sink in.
Father Michael watched her. “Now a choice belongs to you, Lady Morrow.”
“And what is my choice?” she asked.
“We ask none to serve against his or her will,” the priest said. “Our work, continuing the war waged by Michael and God’s army against the rising darkness, is too dangerous and too vital to be done with doubt or hesitation. If you give your life to the Conatus Guard, you forsake all else. The comforts of family and the flesh will be denied you. Your body, your will, and your spirit shall belong to us and to this fight. But the war is not only waged by sword. You saw the other rooms, but chose war. I ask you now to affirm your choice, lest in doubt you balk in your service, putting our cause at risk.”