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ostracized. It can be very difficult. Many infants are left at orphanages or with the nuns. Or at a monastery. St. Michael’s—we had an unusually high number of abandoned babies.”
“Why?”
“The monks are among the most brilliant men in the world. Doctors. Lawyers. Theologians. Scientists. Scholars. They raise boys and send them to live all over the world.”
“You never knew your parents.” She frowned.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. It is hard to miss what you never had.”
“Is it?”
Anthony longed to know where he came from, but he’d buried those desires years ago when he tried to find his mother and came up with nothing.
“It is easier, with time,” he corrected. “What about you?”
“My parents are dead.”
She spoke so flatly, suppressing emotion that bubbled just beneath the surface.
“An accident?” he asked softly.
“My father was a U.S. forest ranger. He was hiking in Los Padres, fell off a cliff and broke his back. His radio got caught on a tree out of reach and he couldn’t call for help. He died two days later.”
“I’m so sorry.” He squeezed her hands.
She shrugged. “So what was it like growing up in a monastery?”
Changing the subject. She didn’t want to talk about her mother. He should push, but he didn’t want to scare her off. He needed her to be comfortable here, with him, for the night. But he couldn’t share everything with Skye, not yet. If he said too much, she would bolt like a rabbit.
“Father Philip, a missionary, often stayed at St. Michael’s. I’d always loved history and architecture, even as a young boy. Father Philip works with the church to renovate historic buildings. He became my mentor, my friend.” And he taught him to harness his senses, to locate demons in buildings and destroy them. He didn’t say that to Skye.
“So you became an historical architect?”
Anthony nodded. “I traveled throughout Europe, as well as Africa and parts of the Middle East working with Father Philip, before I went to college in England.”
“You said you were raised with Rafe Cooper.”
“Rafe was raised in the monastery as well.”
“He doesn’t look Italian.”
Always questioning, always suspicious. “He isn’t. He’s probably of Irish descent.”
“Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
He shook his head. “We have children from all races and cultures.”
She still seemed perplexed, but asked instead, “How many live there?”
“At any given time, fifteen monks. We have four young ones—under sixteen. When Rafe and I grew up, there were many more. At one time twenty-two of us.”
“What happened? Women start using birth control?”
Anthony frowned. The truth was, they didn’t have an answer to the diminishing chosen ones. Rafe was one of the last. There had only been six since him, and none in the last ten years.
“It was a joke. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. Look, I should go.”
“Please don’t.” He took her hand. “Do you remember the prayer?”
“Words can’t protect anyone from anything,” Skye said.
“Faith can.”
“Please, Anthony, don’t do this.” Skye ran a hand through her hair. She’d lost her clip and her hair fell in creamy blond waves, no less alluring being mussed from their earlier ordeal. “Belief in God certainly didn’t save your friends up on the mountain. And it didn’t save my mother,” she snapped.
“Your mother?”
Skye stared into Anthony’s dark eyes. Why had she said anything? She didn’t want to talk about her mother. But maybe he would leave her alone, stop talking to her about this nonsense. Trapped souls and demons…
“My mother left when I was ten. Met a guy, someone who talked all about God and salvation and dedicating your life to Jesus. And she gave him everything she owned and went away with him. Just like that. She left and never spoke to me again. Six years later a California Highway Patrol officer came knocking on the door and told us she’d
“Why?”
“The monks are among the most brilliant men in the world. Doctors. Lawyers. Theologians. Scientists. Scholars. They raise boys and send them to live all over the world.”
“You never knew your parents.” She frowned.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. It is hard to miss what you never had.”
“Is it?”
Anthony longed to know where he came from, but he’d buried those desires years ago when he tried to find his mother and came up with nothing.
“It is easier, with time,” he corrected. “What about you?”
“My parents are dead.”
She spoke so flatly, suppressing emotion that bubbled just beneath the surface.
“An accident?” he asked softly.
“My father was a U.S. forest ranger. He was hiking in Los Padres, fell off a cliff and broke his back. His radio got caught on a tree out of reach and he couldn’t call for help. He died two days later.”
“I’m so sorry.” He squeezed her hands.
She shrugged. “So what was it like growing up in a monastery?”
Changing the subject. She didn’t want to talk about her mother. He should push, but he didn’t want to scare her off. He needed her to be comfortable here, with him, for the night. But he couldn’t share everything with Skye, not yet. If he said too much, she would bolt like a rabbit.
“Father Philip, a missionary, often stayed at St. Michael’s. I’d always loved history and architecture, even as a young boy. Father Philip works with the church to renovate historic buildings. He became my mentor, my friend.” And he taught him to harness his senses, to locate demons in buildings and destroy them. He didn’t say that to Skye.
“So you became an historical architect?”
Anthony nodded. “I traveled throughout Europe, as well as Africa and parts of the Middle East working with Father Philip, before I went to college in England.”
“You said you were raised with Rafe Cooper.”
“Rafe was raised in the monastery as well.”
“He doesn’t look Italian.”
Always questioning, always suspicious. “He isn’t. He’s probably of Irish descent.”
“Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
He shook his head. “We have children from all races and cultures.”
She still seemed perplexed, but asked instead, “How many live there?”
“At any given time, fifteen monks. We have four young ones—under sixteen. When Rafe and I grew up, there were many more. At one time twenty-two of us.”
“What happened? Women start using birth control?”
Anthony frowned. The truth was, they didn’t have an answer to the diminishing chosen ones. Rafe was one of the last. There had only been six since him, and none in the last ten years.
“It was a joke. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. Look, I should go.”
“Please don’t.” He took her hand. “Do you remember the prayer?”
“Words can’t protect anyone from anything,” Skye said.
“Faith can.”
“Please, Anthony, don’t do this.” Skye ran a hand through her hair. She’d lost her clip and her hair fell in creamy blond waves, no less alluring being mussed from their earlier ordeal. “Belief in God certainly didn’t save your friends up on the mountain. And it didn’t save my mother,” she snapped.
“Your mother?”
Skye stared into Anthony’s dark eyes. Why had she said anything? She didn’t want to talk about her mother. But maybe he would leave her alone, stop talking to her about this nonsense. Trapped souls and demons…
“My mother left when I was ten. Met a guy, someone who talked all about God and salvation and dedicating your life to Jesus. And she gave him everything she owned and went away with him. Just like that. She left and never spoke to me again. Six years later a California Highway Patrol officer came knocking on the door and told us she’d
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