ELITE by Maclaw

Chapter 9

**A day ago**

The burial of Fraya Thornton was a subdued affair, the grand chapel filled with the murmurs of the mourners. Maeve and Emilie stood at the back, watching the proceedings with a mix of curiosity and disdain.

The brochure handed out to attendees described Fraya’s death as a suicide, a lie Maeve saw through immediately. She leaned closer to Emilie, whispering, “They’re hiding the truth from the public.”

Emilie’s lips curled into a smirk. “It’s a very Thornton thing to do. Some people just get tossed aside like trash. At least the b***h got a burial.”

“Emilie, some respect, please. She’s dead,” Maeve chided.

“Oh, sorry. The DEAD b***h. Better now?” Emilie replied with a mock bow.

Maeve sighed in exasperation. “Whatever.”

As the crowd began to lay flowers and pay their respects, Maeve’s attention turned to Hector and Lucas, who were standing off to one side. “What’s up with Hector and Lucas? They’ve been eyeing each other for ages,” Maeve asked, her voice low.

Emilie leaned in to whisper. “I hear they had a thing.”

“A thing? The three of them?” Maeve’s eyes widened.

“A full-grown thing,” Emilie confirmed.

“It must be so hard for them, acting like they don’t know each other to keep their relationship intact,” Maeve observed.

“Oh, please. They’d f**k and forget about her,” Emilie said dismissively.

“Emilie, God,” Maeve whispered, shaking her head.

In a quieter corner of the chapel, Hector moved away from the throng of people, his face etched with concern. Lucas followed him, and they disappeared from view, away from prying eyes.

Hector grabbed Lucas’s hand, his eyes burning with urgency. “I think I know who did this,” he started, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lucas, his face a mask of calm, pulled Hector aside, away from the prying eyes of the mourners. “Hector, listen—”

“No, you listen!” Hector interrupted, his grip tightening. “I need to tell you something. You think I’m making things up, that I’m mad. You don’t want to hear me out. Fraya did something, Lucas. The church—”

“Hector,” Lucas cut him off, his tone soft but firm. “I don’t want to hear it. Not now. We need to mourn, to let go. It’s hard for me, and it’s even harder for us.”

“There is no us!” Hector’s voice cracked, a mix of anger and heartbreak. “There is no us, Lucas. I loved Fraya, and she loved you. This—this madness—is tearing me apart. There’s no triangle here. There’s no us.”

Lucas’s eyes grew cold, a steely resolve settling in. “Hector, you’re upset. You’re letting your anger cloud your judgment.”

“f**k! Would you just listen?” Hector’s voice rose in desperation. “She did something, Fraya did something. The church—they did this to her!”

Lucas’s calm demeanor remained unchanged, but his voice took on a somber edge. “Listen to yourself, Hector. You’re not making any sense.”

Hector’s face contorted in a mix of confusion and anger. “You think I’m lying? You think I’m mad?”

“I didn’t say that,” Lucas said quietly. “But—”

“My father was right,” Hector spat, his voice trembling with rage. “You Thorntons, you only care about yourselves. f**k you, Lucas. I’ll do this on my own.”

Lucas stood there, a storm of emotions brewing within him. He wanted to retaliate, but he held his tongue, letting his pride keep him silent.

Hector walked away, leaving Lucas behind, their tangled emotions and unresolved issues hanging heavy in the air.

———-

**current day **

-St. Michael’s Basilica-

The church **

Jeremiah sat in the nursery, the stench of death thick in the air, mingling with the muted cries of the desperate. Bodies of victims poisoned by the tainted waters lay strewn about—some still breathing, others already cold and lifeless. The sight of the dying—innocent men, women, and children—clung to his spirit like a stain he couldn’t scrub away. His hands, usually so steady, felt heavy. He’d helped as many as he could, but he knew it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

The soft shuffle of feet behind him stirred his thoughts. Tobi, his constant shadow, tried to offer comfort. "You did what you could, Jerry. You can't save everyone."

Jeremiah clenched his jaw, his eyes scanning the room. The prayers whispered in corners sounded like empty pleas, especially from those who knelt with no hope left, their words barely reaching their lips, let alone the heavens. He noticed a man, eyes red and swollen, on his knees before the body of a young boy. His tears fell steadily, soaking into the lifeless child's shirt.

“That’s Victor,” Tobi said, his voice hushed. “The last of his line. The only child of his late parents. It’s sad… knowing their lineage ends here.”

Jeremiah shook his head, swallowing the bitterness rising in his throat. "What is he praying for?" he muttered under his breath. "His boy is already dead."

Tobi sighed, unable to answer the unanswerable.

The door creaked open behind them, drawing Jeremiah’s attention. A reverend entered, his posture stiff, his expression somber but unreadable. "You have been summoned," he said, his voice as dry as the atmosphere of the room.

Before Jeremiah could leave, the reverend approached, draping a black cloak over him. "We don’t want the locals seeing your skin," he explained in a low tone. "Respectfully."

Jeremiah nodded, though the cloak felt more like a shroud than a courtesy. He followed the reverend down a narrow hallway, their footsteps echoing in the silence, until they reached a large, ornate door. The reverend opened it, gesturing for him to step inside. The door shut behind him with a solid thud, sealing him into a different world—one of opulence and power.

The room was filled with luxury: plush furniture, thick carpets, and fine art. But it was the towering gold cross that caught Jeremiah’s eye. It stretched from floor to ceiling, glowing with an unnatural light in the dimness of the room. He stared at it, the grandeur both unsettling and mesmerizing.

“Mesmerizing, isn’t it?” a voice cut through the stillness, sharp and deliberate.

Jeremiah's eyes snapped to the corner, where a priest stood cloaked in deep red robes, half-hidden in shadow. His presence was like that of a predator observing prey.

“The Messiah, they call him,” the priest continued, stepping into the light. “The figure on the cross, of course.”

“What do you want from me?” Jeremiah asked, his voice steady, though tension coiled within him.

The priest moved toward a large desk, motioning for Jeremiah to sit in the chair opposite. "Have a seat," he said, his tone deceptively calm.

Jeremiah reluctantly took a seat, pulling the chair back and lowering himself into it. He kept his gaze steady on the priest. "Why did you summon me?" he asked, not bothering to hide his suspicion.

“I hear your... skills have been rather useful lately,” the priest said, his voice laced with an eerie politeness that barely concealed the intimidation beneath.

“I’m just helping people,” Jeremiah replied, his voice firm, though unease prickled at the back of his neck.

“People who do not need help,” the priest interrupted, his voice cutting like a blade. “Who permitted you to use the plants? To heal?”

“No one,” Jeremiah began, “I was only—”

“Trying to help,” the priest finished for him. His gaze locked onto Jeremiah’s, cold and unwavering. “I understand. But you must know, things are done differently here, boy. You may be smart… but your actions have consequences.”

Jeremiah tensed, feeling the weight of the priest’s words. "What is this really about?"

“The Lord is divine,” the priest said, his voice growing darker. “He heals. Not you. We don’t want the people seeing you as some kind of healer, performing miracles like some… black Jesus.”

Jeremiah felt his blood simmer beneath his skin, but he remained outwardly calm. "Your communion and your prayers won’t save them," he said, his voice steady. "Your waters did nothing but weaken them, and your anointing got them killed."

The priest’s fist slammed onto the desk, rattling the glasses sitting atop it. "Do you mock God?" he bellowed, his face contorted in fury.

Jeremiah didn’t flinch. His expression remained neutral, his calm a deliberate defiance.

After a beat, the priest composed himself, his voice dropping to an eerie calm. "Forgive me… mind my manners. Would you like a drink?" He reached for a bottle of liquor, pouring two glasses and sliding one toward Jeremiah.

“Liquor?” Jeremiah questioned, narrowing his eyes.

“The Bible says drink but do not be drunk,” the priest said with a sly smile. “There is no sin here, child.”

Jeremiah didn’t touch the glass.

“You will not heal anyone here again,” the priest said, his voice taking on a threatening tone. “The church has spoken.”

“Did you poison the communion?” Jeremiah asked, his tone authoritative.

“Obviously not. The church has its enemies,” the priest replied.

Jeremiah let out a low chuckle, his eyes narrowing. “If you didn’t poison the communion, then this is about me healing. You’re afraid of what the people will think,” he said."I knew it. The camp... you want members. People are drifting away from the church, and you need them back. You deny them medicine, the knowledge of herbs, and make them believe your waters heal their bodies while their sins weaken them. And now, a boy walks into the camp with the ability to heal? That’s bad business for you, isn’t it?”

The priest’s eyes darkened. "You’re smart, boy. Too smart. But don't let that mouth of yours get you into trouble."

Jeremiah stood up, his body stiff with anger. "This is sacred ground. Who do you think you are to command me?"

"I am Father Matthias," the priest said, his voice dripping with authority. "I rule this church in the name of God. And you… you will fear Him through me."

Jeremiah stared him down. "I’ve heard of the bishop," he said, his voice laced with defiance. "Even he does not scare me."

Father Matthias’s smirk faltered, but only for a moment. He turned toward a shelf, chuckling to himself before facing Jeremiah again. "That axe you carry… it belongs to a seedsman, doesn’t it?"

Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed. "You know about the slave camps?"

"We know everything. God sees everything."he said with a smirk “Let’s say I have something you desire ,and I need your skills to find whoever did this to the church.”

He continued , his tone a blend of command and a whisper that barely touched the air.

Jeremiah turned to leave, his patience worn thin, but Father Matthias’s next words froze him in place.

“Bethel… isn’t that her name?” the priest said, his voice taunting.

Jeremiah’s heart stuttered, a cold rage flooding through him.

“Your sister?” the priest asked, the smirk on his face widening. “If you so much as touch her…” Jeremiah’s voice trembled with barely contained fury, “I’ll make sure the next communion is with your blood.”

Father Matthias laughed softly. "Oh, you needn’t worry about me. It’s not I who will touch her… but them. They will do much more than touch."

A wave of rage and fear surged through Jeremiah, but he steadied himself, clenching his fists. "What do you want?" he asked through gritted teeth.

Father Matthias leaned back, the triumph in his eyes unmistakable. "Now that I have your attention…"

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