Chapter 3

Jordan's POV

I couldn't get my mind off what happened last night; the morning light felt wrong after the tunnels. I stood in the chapter house with the others for the bishop’s address, my cassock freshly pressed, but my mind was still down there in the dark with Caterina’s body pressed against mine and Agnes’s voice echoing off stone.

Bishop Augustus Hale looked smaller today. The years had carved deep lines into his face, and his hands trembled slightly as he gripped the lectern. Yet his eyes were sharp and calculating and swept over us like he could read every hidden thought.

“Tragic news," he began, voice steady despite his frailty. “Sister Perpetua passed peacefully in the night. Her body has already been prepared for burial in the consecrated ground, as is our custom. Let us pray for her soul."

A murmur rippled through the assembled priests and nuns. Peacefully. Prepared. The lies slid so easily from his tongue. I glanced across the room at Caterina. She kept her gaze lowered, veil back in place, but her hands were clenched in her lap. She felt it too.

After the address, the bishop motioned me over. “Walk with me, Father Brick."

We moved through the main cloister. The sky had cleared somewhat, but heavy clouds still hung low, threatening more rain. Puddles reflected the arched colonnade like broken mirrors.

“You’ve settled in well,” the bishop said. “The brothers speak highly of your counsel, especially young Thomas."

I kept my tone neutral. “I try to listen, Your Excellency. People carry heavy burdens here."

He stopped near a statue of the patron saint, the one supposedly buried beneath us. “Burdens are part of our calling. But curiosity… that can become a sin if unchecked.” His eyes met mine directly. “I understand you were with Perpetua at the end."

“Yes.” I didn’t elaborate.

The bishop nodded slowly. “Her mind wandered in her final hours. Old age brings confusion. Pay it no mind."

“Was there confusion in moving her body so quickly?” I asked. The words came out before I could soften them.

I noticed a flicker of something … irritation? fear? crossed his face. “Procedures exist for a reason, Father. The Church has survived far worse than one old woman’s delirium.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, the grip firmer than his age suggested. “Focus on your flock, guidance, and absolution, Rev. That is your role here."

He walked away, robes whispering across the wet stone. I watched him go, the weight of his words settling like another layer of earth above those tunnels.

The rest of the morning blurred. I heard confessions again, but my thoughts kept drifting. A merchant confessed to usury and adultery. A novice admitted to stealing extra bread from the kitchens. Just ordinary sins; none of them mentioned lights in the tunnels or missing bodies.

After the midday meal, I found Caterina in the scriptorium. She was copying texts, the quill moving steadily across parchment. The room smelled of ink and old vellum, lit by high windows that cast dusty beams across the long tables. Only a few others worked in silence at the far end.

She looked up as I approached. The memory of her in the tunnel, legs around me, gasping my name, flashed hot through my mind. I pushed it down.

“Walk with me in the garden?” I asked quietly. “Fresh air might clear the head."

She set the quill down.

The convent gardens were enclosed by high walls, overgrown in places where maintenance had slipped. Roses climbed trellises gone wild. We walked the gravel path side by side, maintaining proper distance for anyone watching from the windows.

"Agnes and Vittorio", she said under her breath. “They took her. I’m sure of it now."

“I heard them too,” I replied. “They called me disposable."

Caterina’s expression hardened. “We need to get into the restricted archives. Perpetua worked there for years. There must be records about the founding saint and about what’s really buried down there."

I stopped near a stone bench. The air carried the scent of wet soil and blooming jasmine. “It’s too dangerous right now. The bishop warned me off this morning. Indirectly."

Her hand brushed mine behind the bench, hidden from view. The touch was brief but electric. “Dangerous for both of us,” she whispered. “But I can’t pretend anymore, Jordan, not about the monastery, not about…” She looked at me, eyes dark with everything we weren’t saying.

I wanted to pull her behind the hedges and lose myself in her again. Instead, I said, “Meet me tonight, not in the tunnels. The abandoned chapel in the east wing. After Compline."

She nodded once.

The afternoon dragged. I taught a class on moral theology to the younger seminarians, but my words felt hollow. Brother Thomas approached me afterwards, looking pale.

“Father, I saw lights again last night near the old crypt entrance. And… I think someone was crying."

I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Stay out of the tunnels for now. I’ll look into it."

He didn’t look convinced, but he left.

As evening approached, rain returned. It drummed steadily on the roof tiles and turned the cloisters into glistening channels. I performed the evening rites on autopilot, my mind already in the abandoned chapel.

Compline ended. The community retired. I waited in my cell until the monastery grew quiet, then slipped through the corridors. The east wing was rarely used — dust coated the floors, and tapestries hung faded on the walls. The chapel door creaked when I pushed it open.

Caterina was already there, lighting a single candle on the altar. Moonlight filtered through a cracked stained-glass window, painting her in fragments of blue and red.

We didn’t speak at first. She came to me, and I wrapped my arms around her. The kiss was immediately fierce. Weeks of tension poured out between us. I lifted her onto the old wooden altar, habit sliding up as I knelt between her thighs.

My mouth found her centre — gummy, slick, tasting of salt and sin. She gripped my hair, hips rocking against my tongue as I licked and sucked, savouring every quiet moan she tried to hold back. When she came, it was with a shuddering gasp, thighs tightening around my head.

I rose and entered her in one thrust, the altar creaking beneath us. I could notice the holy sculptures shaking as if they were against what they could see. We moved together hard and fast, her legs locked around my waist. Rain pounded the roof above; her nails raked down my back. I buried my face in her neck as I drove deeper, losing myself in the heat and friction until we both broke apart, trembling.

Afterwards, we sat on the floor against the altar steps, her head on my shoulder.

“I found something today,” she whispered. “In a forgotten ledger while copying texts. A note in Perpetua’s handwriting. It mentioned ‘the archive of true confessions’ and a name — Hale."

The bishop’s surname.

Before I could respond, a new sound cut through the rain. I heard multiple footsteps in the corridor outside.

We scrambled up, adjusting our clothing. I blew out the candle. We hid behind a collapsed pew as the chapel door opened.

Flashlight beams swept the room. Sister Agnes’s voice drifted through the dark. “Search

thoroughly. If Brick or the girl has been here, we’ll know."

My blood ran cold. They were hunting us already.

Caterina’s hand met mine in the darkness and squeezed.