The Virgin Mary appeared before shepherd children in Portugal during World War I,as Ginger said. as She was said to be as bright as the sun.
But we were losing sun. I hitched my backpack higher up on my shoulder, laced my fingers in Horaceas's reins. He twitched an ear and shied to the side.
I glanced to our right. I thought I saw movement between the trees.
Itas's just a deer, I told myself. This is holy ground.
Unless itas's been defiled. Unless the Darkness has been let in.
Who runs this place?as I asked. as Who maintains it?
Oblivious, Ginger walked several paces behind, soaking in the memory. as Nuns. Beyond the chapel are dormitories.
Horace pawed. The sound of his hooves on the brick caused both Ginger and Alex to turn. I heard the hiss of Gingeras's indrawn breath. The moon broke free of the tangle of tree branches, shining down on us.
I saw something out of the corner of my eye, on the left side of the path, flitting between the trees. Something dark. My skin crawled.
Run,as I whispered.
CHAPTER TEN
Horace needed no urging. My fingers were wrapped in his reins, and he dragged me forward. I cried out as my sore hand struggled to cling to him.
More dark figures moved between the trees, like rotten leaves. I glanced to the cavelike mouth of the Fatima grotto. Shadows slipped out of it, dark as ink, not bright like the apparition of the Virgin Mary. I saw pale faces and hands, framed in robes of black.
"The nuns . . ." Ginger paused. "The sisters are . . ." I could read the shock on her face.
"Run!" Alex insisted. He was ten steps behind me, ten paces ahead of her.
And that was all it took.
The sisters swarmed Ginger. I snatched a stake from Horace's pack, disentangled myself from the reins, and ran back.
"Ginger!"
Alex had turned, and I saw silver flashing in his fist. He slashed at one of the black shadows. It reeled back, hissing.
But one of the blackbird nuns fell upon Ginger. She dropped to the pavement, shrieking, clawing on the mossy brick. Alex skidded to a halt over her, slashing at the bloodthirsty nun. I thrust my stake ahead of me. It pierced the shadow, and I heard the wet slap of black blood on the brick. White claws grappled around my weapon. I kicked back, shoving the body from the stake like a piece of meat from a stick.
Alex pulled Ginger to her feet and we ran to the chapel. I fumbled in my pocket for my Himmelsbrief, stumbling backwards, holding it out at arm's length. The preternaturally pale faces of the nuns hissed at me. Most of them were old women, but I saw the smooth face of a young one, barely older than I was.
"Come to the Lord, little sheep," she whispered.
"The blood is the life."
"You will die, and rise again like Jesus in the Resurrection."
I backed up the steps of the chapel. I heard Alex behind me. The doors crashed open, and Horace's hooves banged on stone. I ducked into the chapel, hoping that I was not walking into deeper Darkness.
The doors slammed shut, blotting out the night. I heard scratching on the door, plaintive cries . . .
. . . but the door held fast against them.
"It's still holy," I whispered, turning to face the inside of the sanctuary. It felt like a miracle that this place was safe. "How?"
"Maybe it's an island . . . like your barn protected by a hex sign when your larger community had been defiled." Alex's voice was disembodied, distracted.
I saw red and blue patches of light on the floor, cast from the moonlight moving through the stained-glass windows. Depicted in one was Mary, appearing in a cloud before a young woman. I wondered if this was one of the women who'd seen her at Fatima or Lourdes.
"We need light." I heard Alex scrabbling around. There were clicking sounds, and one by one, cylindrical glass votives were illuminated. They must have been battery powered, with metal flames flickering inside. The glass was red, and the light cast was wan. But it was light.
I followed his lead, punching buttons on the top of the votives. There were hundreds. I mashed the buttons, seeing them light up, greedy for the light.
I noticed a metal box beside them with a small sign that read $2.00 DONATION.
"For each candle. For a prayer." Ginger was unsteady on her feet, leaning against the back of a pew. I slipped my arm beneath her, cried out when it came away with warm blood.
Something thumped against the door and giggled. "The blood is the life."
Horace clomped on the slate floor, blowing at the door.
"Take her up front," Alex ordered.
I supported Ginger down the aisle, our footsteps ringing loudly on the slate. Alex charged ahead of us, to the altar, which was surrounded by hundreds more of the lights in their iron holders. He slapped them on, illuminating a fabric-draped altar with gold ornaments and an intricately painted statue of Jesus looking benignly over us.
I helped Ginger lie down on a pew, tugged her coat off. There was blood on her shirt collar, trickling down her sleeve. I unbuttoned her shirt, apologizing as I did so, to examine her shoulder. I couldn't see what had happened-there was too much blood.
I dug through our packs for one of the T-shirts taken from the Animal Farm. I wiped away at the wound, saw that there was a tear in her skin. She cried out when I touched it.
I ran to a stone bowl full of water at the front of the church. I soaked the T-shirt with it and grabbed the small yellow sponge at the bottom. I did my best to wash the wound. Alex hovered over the back of the pew. He and I traded glances in the flickering light.
"Is it a claw mark?" Ginger asked. "Tell me that it's just a claw mark."
If it was a claw mark, she would live. Alex had told us that much, from his time on the Outside before he'd come to us. It was a bite that we had to be fearful of, a bite that would transmit the infection.
I hesitated. It was a surface wound, one that a person would easily survive . . . if it had not been a bite.
"It's a bite," I said quietly.
Alex swore and turned away. Ginger began to sob.
The only thing I could do was hold her as she shook.
***
"How long?"
I couldn't help but ask.
Alex and I stood at the back of the church. I'd bound Ginger's shoulder up as best I could with bits of robes that I'd found in a closet. She was kneeling before the altar, praying. She had been there for hours, still as the statue hanging above her. I had crept halfway up the aisle twice to check the rise and fall of her shoulder, to make sure that she was still breathing. I had seen the glitter of dampness on her cheek.