Devious - Lisa Jackson [147]
It was chilling, really.
St. Marguerite’s was suddenly thrust into the limelight, and it was uncomfortable. Vans from television stations were parked outside the gates as reporters stood, holding microphones, backdropped by the commanding edifice that was St. Marguerite’s, retelling the story of the two dead nuns, bringing the horrifying murders of Sister Camille and Sister Asteria to the fore, reminding the residents of Louisiana of the terror that stalked the historic hallways of St. Marguerite’s Convent.
The church had seen an influx of parishioners who actually attended Mass out of morbid curiosity, as well as a swelling in the amount of pedestrians and cars that passed by the cathedral and surrounding grounds.
The police cars that cruised by the gates at all hours weren’t much comfort, nor were the added locks on some of the doors. Because, Lucia knew, the evil was from within. She felt it as surely as if she could see dark, crouching beasts with glowing eyes, snarling lips, and long fangs dripping with blood.
Even in the sanctity of the chapel, while on her knees, her hands clasped as she prayed, the whisper of evil remained, breathing hot against the back of her neck, causing her heart to pound in terror, keeping at bay sleep and the feeling of peace that usually overcame her as she prayed.
Was she the reason the evil oozed through the hallways of the convent? Was her shaken faith the cause of two horrible deaths already?
No! Of course not! That was crazy thinking.
But hadn’t she been sought by the evil one?
Hadn’t she been the only person to hear its vile hiss? Listen to its malevolent voice? Follow its depraved instructions as it urged her to find not one, but two dying women? She’d been the chosen one, picked by Satan himself.
The only way to ensure that no one else was harmed was to leave this safe haven, the home she’d run to for all the wrong reasons.
If she needed any other proof that she was supposed to leave, something more tangible than the voice she heard in the night, it was the glaring fact that Cruz Montoya had found her here, then sought her out.
Her reaction to him had been all wrong.
So physical. So mental. So . . . sexual. Just being near him again was a vow-breaking experience. Hadn’t their one shared kiss, a meeting of the lips that had brought back a rush of memory and a torrent of desire, been evidence enough? Cruz Montoya was temptation.
Danger.
The word she’d whispered to him so long ago.
On the first night she’d heard the beast’s horrid, hissing voice and smelled his dank, nauseating breath.
“So . . . it’s imperative that we follow our hearts and our vows, our dedication,” Sister Charity was saying, and she was staring straight at Lucia as she walked back and forth in the front of the room, in front of the whiteboard, like a teacher trying to get through to a disinterested class of thickheaded students.
Lucia tried her best to appear rapt; she couldn’t allow the reverend mother to know her true intentions.
“We need to go on with our lives as usual. That’s what Sister Camille and Sister Asteria would have wanted, and it’s what the heavenly Father wants as well. That doesn’t mean that we’ll forget them or that they won’t be heavy on our minds; it just means that we keep moving forward, giving praise to God, doing his work here on earth. Sister Asteria and Camille are with the blessed Virgin Mary and Jesus now.”
At this point, Father Paul nodded. He and Father Frank stepped forward to join her at the front of the room. All eyes were upon them, and it seemed Sister Louise’s face was nearly radiant when she looked at the younger priest. They all noticed it; Sister Devota cast a glance at Lucia and shook her head.
Still, Sister Louise