The Dark Divine

Katharine--

We are betrayed!

I fear my Alexius is killed.

Our guides led us deep into the woods, and when it was close to nightfall, they took our horses and my twenty marks and left is stranded. Alexius was frightened when the howling encircled us. I do not know that has become of him. I do not recall how I made it back to my tent. My cloak is torn and bloody.

I fear I have been bitten. Something writhes inside of me. I must fight it. I must find the answers before the wolf devours my soul. Before it comes for thee, my most beloved

Even though Daniel was a monster, even though he could infect me, I still loved him. I wanted him to be i

But Dad had given me this book when I told him about that love.

He told me to find the answers for myself.

But is this what he wanted me to know? That Daniel was drawn to kill me like this man to his sister? Did he want me to realize that loving Daniel was impossible?

That any idea of our ever being together was completely hopeless?

Because if that was his plan ... it had worked.

WEDNESDAY EVENING

Semester finals hit with a vengeance. I never did catch up with my studies in time. I struggled to push Daniel, Death Dogs, moonstones, and Jessica Day out of my mind. But in my religion and history classes, all I could think of was the Crusades. During my chem final, I wondered if Katharine's brother was ever able to find a moonstone for a necklace. It was nearly impossible to work calculus problems while wondering if Jessica was living or dead. And it wasn't possible for me to paint anything knowing Daniel was watching me from the back of the art room. So not only was my love life in shambles, my chances for college--for Trenton-- seemed just as hopeless as I turned in my jumbled English essay test on transcendental poetry.

At least it was the last day of school before Christmas vacation, and i'd have three weeks to recover before I had to face my parents with my report card. The dance was tomorrow, but tonight everyone was headed to the hockey game to blow off steam. As much as I wanted to be at the ice rink eating candied almonds with April, cheering for Pete, I couldn't bring myself to celebrate like everyone else.

I'd told Pete I was too tired to go out when he invited me to the after-party at Brett Johnson's. He looked so disappointed that I added, "Have to rest up for the dance, you know." He smiled and told me that I "owed him one." But even though I said I'd he spending the night in bed, I couldn't stay home, either. I guess that's how I ended up helping my father with his Wednesday night Bible-study class at the parish. I figured it would be the place I was least likely to run into Daniel. I should have known better.

I helped Dad pass out study guides and extra Bibles and then busied myself in the parish kitchen. I arranged Mom's fudge brownies on a silver tray and placed a mini candy cane in each individual mug of hot chocolate. The brownies were for later, but I passed out the cocoa to the cherry-nosed guests as they listened to my father's melodic voice reading from the Bible. His voice sounded like a lullaby, and Don Mooney's eyes looked heavy as I handed him the last steaming mug.

"Thank you, Miss Grace." He blinked, and took a sip.

I sat in the empty chair next to him. I was surprised Dad wasn't reading the story of Christ's birth the way he usually did this close to Christmas. Instead of mangers, and shepherds, and angels, he was reading the different parables of Christ. I found my own eyes getting a bit heavy, too, until I heard the outside doors to the parish creak open. Footsteps came down the hall, and I regretted not making a couple of extra mugs of hot chocolate.

"Let us move on to the prodigal son," my father said.

I flipped the pages of my Bible to Luke 15, and right on cue, the door opened and Daniel slipped inside the classroom. He breathed on his hands as he looked around for a place to sit, and noticed me watching him. I looked down at the open Bible in my lap.

Dad's voice went on without pausing. He read the parable of the father who had two sons. One son was good and steady and hardworking; the other took his father's money and squandered it on whores and riotous living. The latter son's life sank so low he decided to return to his father to beg for help. My dad read on about how the father rejoiced when his prodigal son returned, fed and clothed him, and called their friends together for a celebration. But the good son, who had stayed faithful to his father's teachings, was angry and jealous of his brother, and refused to welcome him home.

When Dad finished the last verse, he asked, "Why was it so hard for the good son to forgive his brother?"

His change of tone startled the audience. A few people looked around, probably wondering if the question was supposed to be rhetorical.

"Mrs. Ludwig," Dad said to the elderly woman in the front row, "when your son stole and wrecked your car last winter, why was it so hard to forgive him?"

Mrs. Ludwig colored slightly. "Because he didn't deserve it. He didn't even say he was sorry. But the Bible"--she tapped her worn, monogrammed copy-- "says that we must forgive."

"Exactly," Dad said. "We don't forgive people because they deserve it. We forgive them because they need it--because we need it. I'm sure you felt much better after forgiving your son."

Mrs. Ludwig pursed her lips and nodded.

My neck felt hot. I knew without looking, Daniel was staring at me.

"But why is it so hard to forgive?" Mrs. Co

Don blinked and snorted, snoring.

"Pride," Dad said. "This person has already wronged you in some way, and now you are the one who has to swallow your pride, give something up, in order to forgive him. In fact, the scriptures say that if you remain in your pride and choose not to forgive someone, then you are the one committing the greater sin. The good son in this story is actually in much graver danger than his prodigal brother."

"So should the prodigal be loved no matter what?" Daniel asked from his corner.

I shot up out of my chair. This was all just too much.

Dad gave me a quizzical glance. "Brownies," I said.

There was a collective "mmmmmm" from the audience as I left the room. Dad's lesson was probably cut short when I came back with refreshments, but I didn't really care. I wanted to go home. I cleaned up the napkins and gathered the empty mugs while the others milled around, talking about jolly things like presents and carols. Once the room was tidied enough, I went to my father and asked if I could take off early.

"I don't feel well," I said. "I'd like to get to bed."

"Finals burnout?" Dad chuckled. "You deserve a good night's rest." He leaned over and traced the cross on my forehead. "I promised to drive a couple of the ladies back to Oak Park, so I can't send you with the car. I don't want you walking home alone, though." Dad looked to the back of the room. "Daniel," he called.

"No, Dad. That's stupid." I felt a surge of anger against my father. The cross he traced on my forehead seemed to burn my skin. Why was he making this so hard on me? "It's not even that far."

"You are not walking alone in the dark." Dad turned to Daniel as he came up to us. "Will you be so kind as to walk my daughter home?"

"Yes, Pastor."

It wasn't worth protesting, so I let Daniel walk me into the hall. As the classroom door clicked shut, I stepped away from his side. "That's far enough. I can make it the rest of the way myself."