possessed. That’s why they executed her.”
It reminded me a lot of the Salem witch trials. “How?”
“She was hanged, then drawn and quartered. When her body parts didn’t die, they were rumored to have supernatural powers. Her hands and feet were auctioned off to the magic community and profits from the sale made the greedy clergy rich. Geraldine’s head stayed with the church, but the Vyantara sniffed it out. It’s been in their possession ever since.”
I found it curious that the saint had lived during the First Crusade. The Order of the Hatchet—the female knights my mother and I were descended from—was created because of this holy war. The order was founded by the Count of Barcelona as his way of honoring the women who took up arms to protect the town of Tortosa against a Moor attack. With all the men off to war, someone had to defend the families left behind. Who better than the wives? Made perfect sense to me.
Elmo also told me some trivia about Denver’s Cathedral Basilica. I never would have guessed that Buffalo Bill Cody had been baptized there, and the legendary Molly Brown was once a parishioner. I’d have to be wary of tourists. Only I didn’t think any tourists would be milling around at six-thirty in the morning.
“Thanks for your help, Elmo,” I told the elf before leaving. “I’m sure I’ll see you again.”
Then I set out to find my way to the cathedral and the legendary Saint Geraldine.
seven
A BRISK FALL WIND BLEW AROUND ME AND I enjoyed the tangy fragrance of spent leaves in the air. I’d been told there was less oxygen in the mile-high city, but I couldn’t tell. I inhaled deeply and ignored the faint scent of exhaust fumes from a distant highway that rumbled with traffic. In spite of the conflicting odors, today smelled like freedom. As fleeting as the moment was, I wanted to enjoy the experience of what my future might be like if things went my way. Then my tattoo began to throb, reminding me not to delude myself. Damn Shui. And damn Gavin for forcing me into bondage with a monster.
I rounded the corner onto Logan Street, and there it was. The cathedral, rising like a great, white dragon from the concrete and asphalt. My background in art history helped me appreciate the French Gothic architecture and I recognized the Cathedral of Chartres as this building’s source of inspiration. Two-hundred-foot spires pierced the sky, the anthus stonework an impressive accent. And there was so much stained glass! Brilliant colors, all the more vibrant when a break in the clouds passed a streak of sunlight over the windows. It looked almost choreographed, a purposeful show for my benefit. I stood transfixed on the sidewalk.
I willed my feet to move and crossed the street like a zombie. When I stubbed my toe on the curb, it startled me back to life. I had to find a way inside.
The bronze doors at the front were locked tight, so I went to the back of the church to find another entrance. Cars sputtered by in white plumes of exhaust, their drivers more intent on getting to work than checking out what I was up to. Those who commuted on foot didn’t spare me a glance. It was like hiding in plain sight.
Once I found the rear door, I slid my lock picks from the little leather case I carried with me everywhere, and got to work. I was inside within seconds. And if the outside of this place wasn’t mesmerizing enough, the inside took my breath away.
Out came the earplugs, the nose filters and the contact lenses. I wanted to experience this wonder with my bare senses. Eyes closed, I concentrated on a sound that was like a melodic hum that sent calmness through me like water in a stream. The scent of humanity was overwhelming, but there was also a unique sort of sweetness, a fragrance unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It lifted my spirits and brought an involuntary smile to my lips. I’d burgled dozens of churches all over the world, and there had always been an intangible sense
It reminded me a lot of the Salem witch trials. “How?”
“She was hanged, then drawn and quartered. When her body parts didn’t die, they were rumored to have supernatural powers. Her hands and feet were auctioned off to the magic community and profits from the sale made the greedy clergy rich. Geraldine’s head stayed with the church, but the Vyantara sniffed it out. It’s been in their possession ever since.”
I found it curious that the saint had lived during the First Crusade. The Order of the Hatchet—the female knights my mother and I were descended from—was created because of this holy war. The order was founded by the Count of Barcelona as his way of honoring the women who took up arms to protect the town of Tortosa against a Moor attack. With all the men off to war, someone had to defend the families left behind. Who better than the wives? Made perfect sense to me.
Elmo also told me some trivia about Denver’s Cathedral Basilica. I never would have guessed that Buffalo Bill Cody had been baptized there, and the legendary Molly Brown was once a parishioner. I’d have to be wary of tourists. Only I didn’t think any tourists would be milling around at six-thirty in the morning.
“Thanks for your help, Elmo,” I told the elf before leaving. “I’m sure I’ll see you again.”
Then I set out to find my way to the cathedral and the legendary Saint Geraldine.
seven
A BRISK FALL WIND BLEW AROUND ME AND I enjoyed the tangy fragrance of spent leaves in the air. I’d been told there was less oxygen in the mile-high city, but I couldn’t tell. I inhaled deeply and ignored the faint scent of exhaust fumes from a distant highway that rumbled with traffic. In spite of the conflicting odors, today smelled like freedom. As fleeting as the moment was, I wanted to enjoy the experience of what my future might be like if things went my way. Then my tattoo began to throb, reminding me not to delude myself. Damn Shui. And damn Gavin for forcing me into bondage with a monster.
I rounded the corner onto Logan Street, and there it was. The cathedral, rising like a great, white dragon from the concrete and asphalt. My background in art history helped me appreciate the French Gothic architecture and I recognized the Cathedral of Chartres as this building’s source of inspiration. Two-hundred-foot spires pierced the sky, the anthus stonework an impressive accent. And there was so much stained glass! Brilliant colors, all the more vibrant when a break in the clouds passed a streak of sunlight over the windows. It looked almost choreographed, a purposeful show for my benefit. I stood transfixed on the sidewalk.
I willed my feet to move and crossed the street like a zombie. When I stubbed my toe on the curb, it startled me back to life. I had to find a way inside.
The bronze doors at the front were locked tight, so I went to the back of the church to find another entrance. Cars sputtered by in white plumes of exhaust, their drivers more intent on getting to work than checking out what I was up to. Those who commuted on foot didn’t spare me a glance. It was like hiding in plain sight.
Once I found the rear door, I slid my lock picks from the little leather case I carried with me everywhere, and got to work. I was inside within seconds. And if the outside of this place wasn’t mesmerizing enough, the inside took my breath away.
Out came the earplugs, the nose filters and the contact lenses. I wanted to experience this wonder with my bare senses. Eyes closed, I concentrated on a sound that was like a melodic hum that sent calmness through me like water in a stream. The scent of humanity was overwhelming, but there was also a unique sort of sweetness, a fragrance unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It lifted my spirits and brought an involuntary smile to my lips. I’d burgled dozens of churches all over the world, and there had always been an intangible sense
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