The afternoon sun was a blistering weight against the stained-glass windows of our living room, casting long, distorted shadows of saints across the hardwood floor. I was curled up on the sofa, trying to lose myself in a marketing textbook, but the image of the gray-eyed stranger from the cafe kept flickering behind my eyelids like a recurring fever dream.
"Ciara! Put that book down. I need you to run to the supermarket."
I groaned, looking up at Mama. She was standing in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a floral apron, her face set in that 'don't-argue-with-me' expression.
"Mama, I'm right in the middle of a chapter," I pleaded. "And the supermarket is all the way across town. Can't Alphaine go? She's just sitting on her phone."
My younger sister, Alphaine, didn't even look up from her screen. She let out a dramatic, low-pitched moan from the armchair. "I literally can't, Ciara. My cramps are so bad I feel like I'm being turned inside out. I might actually faint if I have to stand in a checkout line."
I narrowed my eyes at her. Alphaine was a master of the timely ailment. Yesterday she was doing cartwheels in the backyard; today, she was a Victorian invalid.
"She's in pain, Ciara. Don't be selfish," Mama scolded, tossing a handwritten list onto my lap. "I need fresh candles, white lilies, and a new St. Jude idol. The house cleansing is next week, and Father Miller is very particular about the altar's arrangement. Now, go. The car is out of gas, so you'll have to take the bus to the north district."
"The north district?" I stood up, frustrated. "That's nearly forty minutes away! Why can't I just go to the local bodega?"
"Because the North Market has the authentic hand-carved porcelain," Mama said, already turning back to her stove. "Go. Before the light fades."
The Neon Sanctuary
The North District was a different world. While our neighborhood was filled with colorful houses and children playing in the streets, this part of the city felt colder, grittier, and far more imposing. The supermarket was massive a sprawling labyrinth of fluorescent lights and polished linoleum.
I pushed a silver cart through the aisles, my mind ticking off the items. Candles. Lilies. Incense. Finally, I reached the aisle for religious decor and home altars. It was a quiet corner of the store, tucked away from the chaos of the produce section. The air here smelled faintly of beeswax and unrolled parchment.
I scanned the shelves, looking for the specific St.-Jude-with-the-golden-flame idol Mama insisted upon. My eyes landed on a beautiful, ivory-colored figure tucked away on the highest shelf I could reach. It was the last one.
I stood on my tiptoes, stretching my arm out. Just as my fingers reached for the cool porcelain, another hand moved into my field of vision.
It happened in slow motion.
My soft, trembling fingers brushed against a palm that felt like heated granite. The skin was rough, calloused, and radiated a terrifying amount of heat. The contrast was a shock to my system my hand felt tiny and fragile against the sheer breadth of his.
I pulled back instantly, my heart jumping into my throat.
Beside me stood the man from the church. Zade.
Up close, without a pew or a cafe table between us, he was gargantuan. He stood a full head and shoulders taller than me, his muscular frame casting a literal shadow over my body. He wasn't wearing his church clothes today. Instead, he wore a black fitted t-shirt that clung to the hard lines of his chest and biceps, and dark jeans that looked like they had seen their fair share of work. The jaw was as sharp as ever, framing a mouth that was currently set in a grim, unreadable line.
He didn't move his hand. He kept it resting on the shelf, inches from the idol I wanted.
"Are you taking this?"
His voice was a low, gravelly vibration. It wasn't a question; it was a rumble that I felt in my bones. It was the kind of voice that belonged in a dark confessional or a midnight nightmare velvet wrapped around cold steel.
I looked up at him, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe. His gray eyes weren't distant anymore. They were focused entirely on me, pinned to my face with an intensity that made me feel like I was under a microscope. There was no "pious" light in them now. They were dark, swirling with something heavy and ancient.
"I... I..." The words died in my throat. I felt like a bird staring at a cobra.
I looked at his hand again the one that had just touched mine. There was a small, jagged scar across his knuckles. This wasn't the hand of a man who only held prayer books.
Panic, sharp and sudden, flared in my chest. Without answering, I pulled my hand back to my chest, clutching my purse. I didn't even look at the idol again.
"No," I whispered, though I'm not sure he even heard me.
I turned on my heel and practically ran. I didn't care about the lilies or the candles. I abandoned my cart in the middle of the aisle and bolted toward the exit, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I could feel his eyes on my back the entire way a physical weight that didn't let up until I burst through the automatic glass doors into the cooling evening air.
The Silent Fever
The bus ride home was a blur. I sat by the window, my forehead pressed against the cold glass, my right hand cradled in my left. The spot where our skin had met felt like it was glowing, a localized sunburn that refused to fade.
When I finally stumbled through our front door, Mama was waiting in the hallway, arms crossed.
I didn't stop. I didn't look at her. I couldn't. If I opened my mouth, I felt like I might scream or cry, and I didn't know which.
"I forgot my wallet," I lied, my voice sounding hollow and strange even to my own ears.
"You forgot your Ciara Diaz! You are the most irresponsible girl I have ever met! Come back here!"
I ignored her, taking the stairs two at a time. I ducked into my room and slammed the door, clicking the lock into place. I leaned my back against the wood, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I ignored her, taking the stairs two at a time. I ducked into my room and slammed the door, clicking the lock into place. I leaned my back against the wood, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The room was dark, save for the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains. I held my right hand up in front of my face.
I was blushing not a shy, pink flush, but a deep, burning crimson that felt like it was consuming my entire body. My skin felt electric. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the phantom pressure of his palm against mine the hardness of his muscle, the heat of his skin, the sheer wrongness of how right it felt.
Zade Ed Clarason.
He was supposed to be a man of God. He was supposed to be the pillar of the community. But as I sat there in the dark, shivering despite the heat of my skin, I knew Mama's "cleansing" wouldn't be enough.
There was a devil in this city, and he had just touched my hand. And the worst part, the part that made me wrap my arms around myself and squeeze was that I didn't want the feeling to go away.