Days of toil did not cleanse the despair from Verna’s mind. She fell to each task mute and lifeless. Her eyes were vacant, her mind a whirl of loss and an absolute void of emotion, a dull acceptance of her coming fate. If anyone had cared enough to see her hands rubbed raw, the soap water stained with the blood peeled from her flesh as she drove into polishing the floor, they may have pitied her. But they did not care.

  Verna abandoned any hope of reprieve, of even a kind face or passing hand. Her fate was secret, but all knew she was lost. Whispers hissed behind her back were only to reaffirm what her brothers and sisters had already long believed.

  “She is not one of us.”

  As the night of the festival grew closer, the temple was a flurry of activity. Heads once bowed in piety now were carried by hurried feet in excitement to string banners outside the temple halls, to carry out tables and chairs for esteemed guests for the night ahead. As the world around Verna buzzed with happiness and glee, she was alone. Had it not been for the stranger who crashed into her a few days prior, and the hasty questioning done by the temple guards, Verna could have considered herself obsolete.

  “He was...polite.”

  The guards looked at her strangely, but it was all she could say. She hadn’t seen his face. At least by telling the guards she knew nothing of the man and only heard his voice for but a moment, at least she could pretend to have helped. Even if only for a moment.

  As the night of the festival lay only hours ahead, all her former family seemed to glow, her brothers and sisters in pure white robes, a beacon of holiness in contrast to her worn sheets. Her retreat to the attic of the Antiquities Room was that of a ghost. Should she never come back down, perhaps there would only remain a rumor of her existence, her memory lost amongst the dust of forgotten things.

  Pulling open the creaking door, she was greeted by dust and disorganization. Officially, the space was a memorial. Rectangular in shape, it was divided into a hallway with podiums lining each side from the door to the rear of the room. Each wooden dais held once esteemed artifacts donated by dying patrons in a last gesture of faith to the Goddess. The practice, however, quickly outgrew the physical space of the attic, and for every grand painting or ancestral sword displayed with a plaque, more bags of mixed items lay piled alongside the walls of the room.

  The song of bells rang out in the altar beneath her. She took her to her knees, as the Evening Prayer began. She bowed, touching her fingers to her brow and opening her heart to the goddess, if not out of habit but perhaps desperation. The practiced words fell easily from her lips. They had worn away paths across her tongue after so many years, and even now it would be impossible not to say them.

  Would this be the last time? Will I hear Her words ever again? Or will it fade with me?

  The thought weighed heavily on her heart, and it was only at the bland curiosity of the hopeless that she bothered to stand and examine her final task as curator of the antiquities.

  Walking down the attic, she passed a crown fit for a child, a golden chalice, and a crumpled parchment that must have been important a long time ago. At the end of the hall, beneath the only window in the attic, sat a large glass case. Leaning over it, she peered out the dust-coated window. Several dozen feet beneath her, the gardens were laid out in clean and precise rows.

  Beyond them and over the cliff’s edge, the sun sank into the Endless Sea, painting the sky a brilliant pink. Soon, the festivities would begin. Guests would bring food and games from distant lands. Music would be played. Then, as the stars rose, the Goddess would banish the darkness with a whirl of rippling colors, only seen once a year. And Verna would be present for none of it.

  But perhaps I will feel Her presence. Desperation ached in her chest. On Her night of all nights, perhaps if I fulfill my task, She will see me. Perhaps. Should anyone come to view an artifact, it was her duty to assist them. Maybe my last duty. My last chance to earn Her love. Verna let her head fall, gaze shifting to the glass case.

  A pale skeleton lay within. Vaguely human, dark blue robes covered a thin metal chest plate. His arms were crossed, and the weathered bone was covered in scars and cracks, almost like symbols drawn by hammer and blade.

  “Ouch,” Verna whispered, touching her still sore cheek. “What did you do to deserve that?”

  Verna pulled back, wiping the dust off a plaque. The letters were faint and faded. All that remained was Cy..c...Tra.t.r. “Traitor? Who did you betray, Cyc? And why?”

  As she leaned in, a shimmer caught her eye. A metallic ring sat on his skeletal finger. It was truly beautiful. Carved like a branch of leaves wrapping around a thin band, each stem was crafted to the most minuscule perfection. The ore was different...strange. Unlike any she had ever seen. Unlike the purity of silver and gold, the metal was covered in black and white splotches as if it had been carved from fire and ash.

  Verna felt drawn to it, dragged close by some intrinsic gravity. “Beautiful,” she whispered.

  It shimmered again. An emerald glow so faint she could have sworn it was a trick of the light. “How long have you been trapped up here, Cyc? Were you banished, too? Or have I soured your peace with my presence?”

  Verna poked the sealed glass lid holding the case tight. It could have been a hundred years, or a thousand. Wiping the layers of dust from the side, Verna murmured. “Might be a little while longer still. But if you do not oppose, I’d like to keep you company.” Receiving no response from the skeleton, Verna turned back to wait out the night.

  Music rang out and fire glinted in the distance as the Night of Lights began. The sounds that had once lifted her heart now plucked at an empty shell. “If I may remain a use of Her Order for but a night longer, I may as well serve Her antiquities well.”

  Gathering the tossed aside treasures of times long past, Verna picked through the piles carefully, even uncovering a few semi-legible texts. Many were deeds and last rites, kept secure to be honored if ever called into question. A few were novels. Passing tales or semi-autobiographical adventures that never reached the hands of a curious reader. However, one of which, 50 Shades of Greyson, told of a rather steamy scandal between the Charming Duke Rhyland and the beautiful Lady Fraye. It was when lost in an intimately detailed and flexible affair that a knock sounded at the door.

  Verna leapt to her feet, throwing the book aside. She straightened her robes and headdress, face burning with embarrassment. “Yes? Please, come in.”

  The door opened to reveal a young Hellkin man with crimson skin. He was clad in a yellow and black servants' garb that covered him up to the neck and puffed in an unfortunate resemblance to a bumblebee. Verna would have laughed had it not been for his face.

  Goddess, he’s handsome.

  He had a sharp jaw with lips curled into a smile. A horn jutted from his forehead, dark as onyx, and twisting into long slicked-back hair. His left side held only a broken stump of a horn, a curious imperfection on a beautifully carved face. His eyes were covered with a thin decorative mask, but his pupils could not be hidden. They were yellow and bright as a blazing sunrise.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “Oh? Hello there, I didn’t expect to see anyone up here.” His voice was smooth and sharp, like nails on silk sheets, and curiously familiar.

  “Yes, I am... I mean.” Verna cleared her throat. “How can I help you?”

  The man stared at her, his yellow eyes soaking in the sight. “Shouldn’t you be down at the party with the rest of your order?”

  “Normally, yes.” Verna felt shame bubble in her gut. “But tonight, I am to keep watch and tend to the Antiquities. In case anyone, such as yourself, needs me...to help, I mean.” Where is my mind? She threw a glance at the romance book guiltily.

  “To help...of course.” He smiled devilishly. “Well, I won’t tell if you won’t. Go and see the festivities. I’ll be just fine up here.”

  Verna shook her head politely. “I am quite content helping you, sir. Thank you.”

  His jaw tightened for only a moment. “Suit yourself. I am always happy for the company of a beautiful woman on a gorgeous night.” He winked, driving heat to Verna’s cheeks.

  He stepped into the room, examining the boxes and piles strewn about. He was a head taller than her, with muscular, corded arms, and... scarred hands? Faded lines crossed his crimson flesh in thin cuts.

  “Was there something I could assist you with, sir?”

  “I am looking for some jewelry.” He stepped forward, the smirk returning to his lips. “Is that something you can help me with?”

  “Yes. Cliffside Temple holds quite a large collection. All donated in Our Lady’s honor. What manner of jewelry is your master looking for?”

  He whipped around, his voice tight, tense. “Master?”

  “Your lord?” Verna said uncertainly. “Is he not the one who sent you up here?”

  “Yes, of course.” The man feigned a smile, but Verna saw through the quiver of fear in his eyes.

  He peered into an open box, a poor attempt to appear casual. “My Lord wants a ring.”

  “A ring?”

  “Black and white.” He cocked his head curiously. “Seen it?”

  “Black and white.” Verna felt herself glance back at the coffin. Why does this not feel right? She examined him again, something tugging at her gut, a warning. “I’m afraid I don’t recall any ring like that.”

  “No?” The man laughed. “You are a terrible liar. Though I can’t expect much from a nun.”

  Liar? She shifted gingerly between him and the coffin. “Who did you say you serve again?

  His body went stiff as stone. “I didn’t.”

  Verna stepped back nervously. “Perhaps tomorrow a brother more familiar with the collection could assist you?”

  “Perhaps.” He looked at her, the smile fading from his eyes. “Or maybe I oughta just take a look around myself.” He stepped closer. “Just in case.”

  “Sir, I really must insist.”

  He was only a stride away. “I think I’ll stay.” He leaned in. “Sorry, darling.”

  “Darling?” Verna gasped, the word ringing like a bell. That voice! The beggar from the other day! “You!”

  He smiled viciously, his fa?ade melting away. “Me. And I definitely remember you.”

  “No! You are a thief! Go away! Before I-”

  “Do what?” He raised his arms. “Scream? Party is going on, no one will hear you.”

  Verna leapt back, grabbing the golden chalice off the podium. “I’ll-”

  “Swing? Come on, darling, we both know what good that’ll do you. Put the cup down, and I promise I won’t hurt you.”

  Verna’s heart pounded like a drum, the chalice slipping in her clammy hands. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. She stepped back, closer to the glass case.

  The thief sighed, looking around. “What’s your name?”

  She paused. “My name?”

  “Yes, your name. Surely someone gave you one.”

  “Verna.”

  “Verna?” He smiled at her. “That is a pretty name, Verna. I’m guessing the ring is in that box behind you, ain’t it?”

  The glass was cool against her skin. “Who are you?”

  “I’m not important,” he said softly. “Verna, just step aside. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” Her voice shook.

  Regret flashed across his face. “Hells, no. Give the ring to me, and I’m gone. I’ll leave you alone.” His eyes matched hers. “I promise.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Just a job. Nothing personal.”

  He’ll take the ring and go, Verna thought. No one will know.

  He stepped forward expectantly.

  But She will know! I will have disappointed Her again! I can’t betray Her! Even now! Verna’s heart pounded, a plan forming in her mind. “All you want is the ring?”

  The thief nodded slowly.

  “And you’ll leave?” She asked unsteadily.

  “Like I was never here, darling.”

  Slowly, she let down the chalice and stepped aside. He watched her carefully, then quickly moved to the coffin. He took a long draw of a dagger against the coffin’s edge, separating the glass seal with a hiss.

  He groaned, waving the air with his free hand. “Hells below that is rank!”

  He has his back to me, reaching in to grab the ring.

  “Damn thing is stuck. How old is this case?”

  It was crazy, but maybe they’d forgive me.

  He wrapped his hand around the finger bone, the joint creaking against the strain.

  Maybe they’d welcome me back. Maybe...

  “Ah, finally!” He held his prize aloft, the ring a glimmer atop the white finger bone. “Bastard didn’t know when to quit.”

  A loud pop sounded outside, followed by a sparkling of lights. The thief smiled. “That’s my cue.” He turned just as Verna hurled the chalice at his head.

  His eyes went wide as the heavy gold flew past him, clipping his ear, shattering the western window, sending glass flying out to the pop of another dazzle of lights. “What the hells?”

  With a scream, she charged him. Arms open and ready to tackle him down. The shock on his face grew. Too late to react, she slammed into him, driving the air from his belly and sending a thudding ache up her shoulder. The finger bone fell to the floor between them with a rattle.

  They both leapt forward for it, their hands batting away at the other’s. In a moment, the ring was warm in Verna’s grip, then in another, it was his, only for her to knock it free from him and down onto the floor again. They slammed into the boxes around them, their destruction deafened by the explosion of lights popping outside. Verna threw herself forward in an effort to headbutt him, but he just took it, and she bounced back.

  “Hells, that was a bad idea.” He rubbed the stump painfully.

  Verna felt blood drip from her forehead down her cheek. “You can’t have the ring, thief!” She wiped away the blood, flicking it to the dusty wood floorboards.

  “I thought we had a deal!” He said, irritated as he rose to his feet. “You lied to me! I didn’t know you were allowed to do that!”

  She matched him, standing with her hands out, ready to grab at the finger bone still on the floor. “You lied to me first!” Technically, she had still sinned, but he did not have to know that.

  He cocked a smug, crooked, stupid, charming smile at her. “You got some fight in you. They teach you how to tackle a man in between bouts of worship, darling?”

  Verna’s blood curdled. “Don’t call me that!”

  The thief just kept smiling at her like he knew something she didn’t. In an instant, he leapt at her. She raised her hands, ready to shove him back, but he grasped her wrists. One second, she was standing, and the next her feet were flying through the air. Her back slammed into the ground, leaving the world spinning.

  “Sorry,” he said, standing above her. “I will be taking this, though.”

  She tried to reach out to him, but her body ached and refused to rise. He twirled the bone in his hand, the ring shining lightly. “You really made a mess of this place.” He pointed with the bone around the room.

  Verna tilted her head up and cringed. Boxes around them had been smashed, glass lay scattered about the floor, the coffin was pushed over, its top broken and shattered.

  He stepped past her as she groaned. Lights popped and shimmered out of the broken window. Yellows and blues lit across his crimson skin, casting shadows back into the room behind him. “Why are you up here tonight?” He pulled his collar loose, revealing a red rope around his neck. “What short straw did you draw to get stuck guarding old shit nobody cares about?”

  Verna groaned and pulled herself to her feet, rubbing her back. “What do you care?”

  He watched her movements warily. “You just don’t seem like the other preachers I’ve met.”

  “I’m not a preacher. I am a Sister of…” She groaned despite herself, her body sore and mind exhausted. “Was a Sister of Malina. I...I am being punished.”

  The thief chuckled. “You tackling everyone you meet then? And here I thought we had something special.”

  She let a small laugh slip. “No, you are the only one thus far.” She straightened her spine; bruises were already forming across her body and crying out for attention.

  “Well, for both our sakes, I hope it stays that way.” He smirked and leaned out the window. The finger was nestled in his belt, the ring a dull green against his disheveled black and yellow clothes. He pulled a long rope from his jacket. “Out of curiosity, what did you do?”

  “I failed Her.” Wait, why am I telling him this? He’s a thief! “What do you care? You attacked me!” Her voice was angry and tired.

  He stared at her, the outburst echoing in the silence of the trashed attic. “Just curious.”

  He slammed a hook into the floorboards and then let the rope fall out into the open air. “I’ll catch you around, darling.” He bowed dramatically, stepped back, and leaned out the window, hanging high above the gardens below.

  A brief insanity overtook her. A primal outrage or sense of justice that willed her on. Before she knew it, her body was leaping at him. The look that flashed across his face, the pure panic and shock, made her insanity almost worth it. At least until she slammed into him, and they tumbled into the open air, dozens of feet up.