Saint (Priest, #3)

by Sierra Simone

“I can’t believe you were never worried about the coaster still being there by the time you died,” Elijah laughs, shaking his head as he writes in his journal. “Like this whole plan depended on a wooden roller coaster still being there in sixty years or whatever.” I’m glad he can’t see my face. I reach for another beer bottle and open it, so I don’t have to answer. So I don’t have to tell him that the Aiden from before never planned on living that long.

his arms and hands are still, like he can’t bear to make any movement that might break the spell. But I’m beyond spells now, I think. I’m speaking prophecies and parables, whispering

He once again looks like a stained-glass saint, and it’s blasphemous maybe that the sight of his beauty pushes a prayer out of my soul. A prayer of pure love, pure gratitude to God that Elijah exists. That he is here and beautiful and perfect, and God has made him so. Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest is my beloved among the young men. His mouth is sweetness itself; he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, this is my friend.