Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

There are a couple of doors behind the pulpit. There could be a cot in the back. Heck, there could be a California King back there, but exploring feels icky. Instead, I choose one of the hard wooden pews and stretch out as best I can. There’s something lovely about being able to lie all the way down after two weeks in a car, even if my back is going to kill me in the morning. It’s all the pampering I need.

Once I’m settled, I look up and realize the statue of Jesus is hanging directly over me. He stares down as if waiting for me to go to sleep.

“Hey.”

Like I said, he’s not much of a talker. Still, I can’t help but think about what Arcade said to me, how I needed to talk to the person in charge of my universe. I guess it couldn’t hurt.

“So, we haven’t talked in a while,” I continue.

Jesus’s eyes shine like moonbeams. He looks uncomfortable, but that could be the whole crucifixion thing he’s dealing with at the moment.

“Let me bring you up to date. You can probably tell by the state of my clothes and hair that things are kind of bad. I’m not blaming you. I made these mistakes. I know a lot of people think you get involved in our lives—you know, help people win football games and Grammy Awards—but I’ve always believed you are as surprised as anyone when a person gets hit by a bus or wins the lottery. My dad believes that you have some kind of plan for everyone. I don’t know. Maybe you do. So if that’s true, and part of your plan involves me dying in some horrible way, I’d like to offer an alternative. I could be the hero. Hear me out, ’cause this could be really exciting. First, you get me to Tempest. Second, I charge in, blow the place up, free a bunch of people, and then make an amazing escape. Sounds cool, huh? I’d pay to see that movie.”

I turn a little to work out a cramp in my leg.

“But, you know, if the script has already been written, then can I ask that my mom and dad get out and find a little place to be safe and happy, and Bex—let her grow really old and still be super hot and find someone who gets her to drop her guard? And Arcade. Get Arcade into some therapy and, well, if Fathom is really alive, then I guess they should be together, but only if she really loves him and appreciates him, because if she doesn’t, then let him find someone who will, but let that person look a little like me, so I can feel like he will never get over me. Yeah, that’s selfish. Sorry.

“I know it is probably against the rules to pray for a painful death for someone, but that Doyle guy? Can’t he choke to death on a cup of coffee?”

I know it’s just the changing angle of the moon, but Jesus looks slightly confused now.

“Yeah, I know. I sound crazy. I wonder if the Great Abyss hears Arcade’s rambling and thinks she’s lost her mind too. So, anything you can do would be awesome. I guess I should ask for world peace. You know, something selfless? World peace would be cool. Well, thanks for Lucas’s truck and this church and the bench and all.”

I can feel myself slipping into sleep.

“Please take care of everyone,” I beg.

Jesus looks noncommittal. I’m hoping it’s just the light.



I open my eyes to find another man hovering over me. Unlike the Jesus statue, he has deep brown eyes and skin, a shaved head, and a well-trimmed beard. He’s wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and a thin black tie. He smells like cocoa butter.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you are having a rough couple of days,” he says.

I sit up, feeling embarrassed and panicked.

“Don’t worry,” he continues. “I’m not going to call the police. We’d have to wait forty minutes for them to arrive from the next town. What do they call you?”

“Lyric,” I say.

“That’s lovely. Lyric, I’ve cooked some eggs. Will you have some breakfast with me?”

This is the second strange man to offer me a meal in as many days, but he has kind eyes and a smile to match. He gestures for me to follow him, and he walks to one of the doors behind the pulpit. Together we move down a long hall to a small cafeteria. There’s not much more than a big steel coffeepot, but there’s a little kitchen off to the side and a few tables made of Formica with matching plastic chairs. On one table are two plates of eggs, toast, and bacon. There are tall glasses of milk and bananas, too. My mouth waters like that of a dog eyeing a pork chop.

He pulls out a chair for me, and I take a seat.

“My name is Henry Tubbs,” he says. “I’m the preacher of this church. I come by a couple of times a week to check on it. We had some breakins a few months back, mostly desperate people from the East Coast who crossed the borders in the night. The window repair budget is in the red this month.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, sincerely.

He waves it off, then sits across from me.

“I’d leave the place unlocked if I could. It’s kind of what God wants, but the congregation is a little more practical. So, dig in.”

I look down at the food, my stomach angrily reminding me of how much I’ve neglected it lately. My mind argues back that we don’t know if we can trust Henry Tubbs. The two of them fight about it. My stomach wins. I snatch the fork, and the first bite tastes like heaven. If it’s poisoned, it’s going to be a great way to go.

“So, I can assume you are one of our neighbors to the east?” he says.

I nod.