The Rip
He picked up the bottle, cracked the wax with a thumbnail, and the sweet-clean smell of old holy water threaded the room.
“Before you say it,” he added, busy. “No, this is not magic. You can’t make God do tricks. But when enough people believe in a rope, it holds.”
Gabe grunted, not quite a laugh.
Frank blessed the circle in Latin that sounded like chisels—clean, bright, with the rhythm of a tradesman saying the same curse under his breath for thirty years. Then he leaned over the idol and spoke, not as a priest so much as a man addressing a dog at the fence: firm, unafraid.
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