Chapter ThirteenEven though weeks had passed since the Floreston fire, the ruins still reeked of ash, scorched flesh, and a hint of sulfur. Heavy cloud cover turned morning to dusk. Gavin scanned the wreckage, unconsciously reaching for Annabelle's hand. She grasped his, her fingers cool and dry.
“I don't like it here,” she admitted. “This place has a bad feeling about it.”
“I agree,” Gavin replied. “So much fear, so much death. I don't think the stench of it will ever fade. When do you suppose Father Vincent will arrive? He said nine in the morning, and it's almost ten already.”
“He must have been delayed,” Annabelle said, and the desperate hope in her voice matched his emotions perfectly. “He'll come.”
“I hope nothing happened to him during the night,” Gavin said grimly. “It was awfu
