The Bound Angel (Sacrilege Rising: Book 1)

The sun was shining as Mike walked back from class. Economics with Professor Anders was worse than usual. He almost fell asleep when they moved from unemployment rates to government spending. But a warm breeze blowing between buildings perked him up.

In the city, college life wasn’t so different from high school. He had his own place, which was nice even if he squirmed a little on the first of each month. And he was in a slightly different part of Baltimore, though not that far from home. It was still same city he’d spent his whole life in. The same streets, the same hustle and bustle.

His mood lightened when he saw a familiar hat round the corner just ahead. It was wide with a poofy black flower and black ribbon, and its slightly floppy brim was perfect for the bright sun. It was altogether too fancy for a stroll through Baltimore’s streets, but this was Emma, and he wasn’t the least bit surprised.

“Hello,” she said in her elegant accent, placing her hand on Mike’s arm like he was her royal escort.

“Hey,” he answered and fell into step like they had a hundred times before. He grew up here, and she liked having him as a guide, and he enjoyed her hand on his arm. They’d been friends for years, ever since Emma moved from England to the States for college. As they walked through UBalt’s campus, Mike couldn’t help but steal sidelong glances at his best friend.

Her auburn hair fluttered in the afternoon breeze. Layers of rich brown matched her eyes and made him think of autumn. Her white sundress had a black floral pattern that was suspiciously similar to her hat. It was tied around the back of her neck, leaving her shoulders and back bare, and showed off plenty of smooth skin.

Mike silently thanked whatever genius had invented the sundress for the thousandth time. It simultaneously clung to her body while flowing in the breeze, somehow pulling off both alluring and classy. Her wide-brimmed hat cast her face in gentle shade.

He asked, “How was class? Entrepreneurship as interesting as it sounds?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Hardly. Entirely too much math. But graduation is close. What is it you Americans say? Keep your eyes on the prize?”

“I hear that,” Mike agreed as he guided them around a puddle.

“And Econ? Was Anders his usual lively self?”

Mike snorted. “Exactly as lively as usual.”

They shared a familiar smile. Their mutual disdain for being in the classroom was well-trodden ground by now. Emma was interested in fashion, and Mike had accompanied her to a few events. He couldn’t help but smile at the way her eyes lit up when she was pouring over fabrics and stitching. Just like they were now, glittering in the sun and blocking out the rest of the world. Wailing car horns and screeching tires faded into the background as they walked.

Emma was smart enough to get a full scholarship, which made it possible to attend college here in the first place. And she was brave enough to start a new life in a new country without knowing anyone. But she was also kind, and funny, and articulate. The way her mouth moved as she spoke, just slightly off because of her accent, distracted Mike to the point he missed when she asked him a question.

“What do you think?” Her voice was smooth and controlled. Tapered. The Queen’s English.

“Sorry, what was that?” Mike asked.

“Are you free tomorrow after class?” He loved the way she said that word, with a dip, clahhs. Like Emma herself, her accent was so very pretty.

Tomorrow was Thursday. He had plans, but he could cancel them. Which was what he always did whenever Emma wanted to hang out. Wait, what did she say before that?

“Yep, I’m free. What did you have in mind?” His mouth answered before his brain could catch up.

“That’s lovely. Just lovely.” She smiled again and squeezed his arm. “Grammy will be chuffed. She’s been complaining about that shabby old church for years. I’ve tried to get her to go to a different one, but she won’t have it. And you’re sure it’s not a problem to have it finished before Sunday service? I know this is last minute.”

There was her accent again. Lahhst.

Grammy. Church. Sunday service. His brain lurched back into gear. Emma knew he was painting on the side to help pay for school and had asked him to do the church for her grandmother. By Sunday. He could back out, but Emma was adorable when she got excited and he didn’t want to disappoint her. “No problem. By Sunday.” Mike scratched his head. “How big is the church again?”

When she smiled it was like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. “Wonderful, I’ll let the pastor know you’ll stop by tomorrow after class to pick up the key. Umm, I’m not quite sure. I haven’t been in a bit, if I’m honest, but it’s just a few rooms. I’ll ring you with the address.”

Great. He wouldn’t know for sure until he saw the place, but he could imagine how big a church was. It would probably take up most of the next two nights and all day Saturday.

Mike felt weird about it being a church, too. He hadn’t set foot inside one since he was a kid, despite Mom’s protests. They gave him the creeps. All the gothic imagery and stained glass. The guilt that crawled under your skin the minute you stepped inside. At least he’d make some extra cash.

***

The next night, Mike was alone in the church, working by the light of the pale moon. It cast the hallway in bleak illumination, muting the already sparse color in shades of milky frost. It was downright creepy. Movies set in future dystopias came to mind, and their flickering light bulbs that seemed to always be present in abandoned hospitals or schools.

Pinpricks of light on black velvet shone through his window. It was a clear night, and the only unstained glass in the building. The walls near the other windows were covered in fractured splotches of color, but Mike’s was clear, allowing soft white light to guide his way.

It was quiet. Not true-quiet, but city-quiet. Even at this hour a siren wailed in the distance. A car door slammed shut outside, the muffled thud passing through the stone walls of the old church. Somewhere, a dog woofed. It was never true-quiet in the city. But that didn’t bother him. It barely even registered. He was used to setting background noise aside.

The gentle swishing of his brush joined in, adding another texture to the collection of faded sounds. Painting in the dark was a bad idea, but he couldn’t find the light switch. So he worked by the moon and hoped there wouldn’t be too many mistakes to fix in the morning.

Mike wondered what real silence would be like. True, blanketing silence. When you went your whole life with something by your side, its sudden absence was noticed. The gap, the lack, was as heavy and real as the thing ever was. Like swimming in a pool at night and not being able to see the bottom.

What would it be like without the constant murmur of conversation or the swooshing of tires on asphalt? Just… nothing. Mike shivered. The thought was creepier than the creak of old wood as the church’s floorboards settled, and the rattle of a loose window shutter on the stone walls outside. Even the wind whistling through gaps in the doors were better than true silence.

He couldn’t deny that there was something nice about working in this environment though. He was used to painting businesses or homes with the owners breathing down his neck. To be alone here, in this eerily haunting place, was like stepping back in time. The church sat in the city’s oldest district and could be as old as Baltimore itself. The hand-carved woodwork was gorgeous. The original hardwood floors had a timeless quality that couldn’t be matched by newer, cheaper stuff. There was a beautiful building hiding beneath years of scuff marks, stains, and neglect, just waiting to show off.

Mike imagined people filling the pews as they waited for service to begin. He pictured them murmuring in polite conversation, shaking hands and exchanging smiles. Warm morning sunlight would pour through the tall windows, gleaming on polished collection trays while teens bustled about in white robes.

The shutter banged again, snapping him back into the present. For a second, it felt like he was there in the church on Sunday morning. Instead, his paint brush was frozen in the middle of a stroke, bristles still folded against the wall. Mike shivered. This was why churches made his skin crawl. As soon as he thought he was growing to like it, something creepy always happened.

The moonlight in his hallway dimmed, then disappeared completely. Clouds were rolling in, and it was now too dark to see where his last strokes left off. Mike shook his head and sighed. Then, careful not to bump the paint can and tray, he set off in search of a light switch.

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