The torchlight shook against the convent walls, turning the ruined saints into leering shadows.
Catalina’s breath came shallow. Gabriel clung to her even tighter, his small fingers digging into her gown.
Lucien’s gun didn’t waver, but his hand trembled, just barely.
“Camilla,” he growled. “What is this?”
The nun’s smile widened. Her habit was no longer white—it was ash and soot, the hem soaked in mud. Around her neck hung not a cross but a shard of black stone, glistening as if wet.
“What you always feared,” she whispered. “And what she was always meant to find.”
Her eyes locked on Catalina.
—
“Stay behind me,” Lucien said low, not taking his gaze off Camilla.
But Catalina stepped forward, her voice raw. “You—you were supposed to protect me. You gave me warnings, dreams, you prete
