The sunlight was too bright, too insistent, and far too late.
I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The digital clock on my bedside table glared at me with judgmental red numbers: 8:42 AM. Mass started in eighteen minutes.
For a Diaz, being late to Sunday service was practically a cardinal sin, especially with Mama's reputation in the parish at stake.
"Ciara! If you aren't down here in five minutes, we are leaving without you!" Mama's voice drifted up the stairs, sharp enough to cut through my morning fog.
"I'm coming!" I yelled back, scrambling out of bed.
The next few minutes were a blur of frantic motion. I splashed cold water on my face, skipped the makeup save for a swipe of tinted lip balm and pulled on the first modest dress I could find a pale cornflower blue cotton piece that hit just below my knees.
I fumbled with my brush, taming my dark curls into a halfway decent half-up-half-down style, and shoved my feet into my sensible flats.
I was breathless by the time I skidded into the hallway. My younger sister, Elena, stood by the door, looking perfectly polished and smug. "Nice of you to join the living, Ciara," she whispered as Mama ushered us out to the car.
The Last Row
We arrived just as the opening hymn was beginning to swell, the organ music vibrating through the heavy oak doors of St. Jude's.
Mama gave me a look that promised a lecture later, then gestured for us to split up to find whatever seating was left. She and Elena squeezed into a spot near the front with Mrs. Gable, but I knew better than to try and shimmy past a dozen people mid-song.
I slinked toward the very last row on the left side, the shadows of the high stone arches swallowing me up. I slipped into the pew, keeping my head down, feeling the heat of embarrassment on my neck.
Once I settled and found my breath, I reached for the hymnal, but my eyes wandered. They shouldn't have, but they did. And that's when I saw him.
He was sitting three rows ahead of me, on the aisle. Even sitting down, he loomed over the wooden back of the pew. I'd never seen him before, and in a small community like ours, a face like his was a lightning strike.
He was breathtaking. He had a profile that belonged on an ancient coin sharp, masculine, and immovable. His skin was a warm olive tone, and a perfectly groomed French beard traced the line of a jaw so defined it looked like it could cut glass. He was broad-shouldered, his muscular frame straining slightly against the fabric of a crisp, charcoal-gray dress shirt.
But it wasn't just his looks that held my gaze. It was his devotion.
While others shifted in their seats or checked their watches, he was a statue of faith. His head was bowed, his large, scarred hands clasped tightly over his knees. He didn't look left or right. He seemed locked in a private, intense conversation with the Creator. When the congregation stood to pray, he rose with a fluid, predatory grace, towering over everyone at what had to be at least 6'1".
I felt a strange, fluttering ache in my chest.
Zade.
I didn't know his name then, but I felt the weight of his presence. He looked like a man who carried the world on his shoulders and laid it at the altar every Sunday. He looked... holy.
I spent the rest of the service in a trance. I didn't hear a word of Father Miller's sermon. My eyes were fixed on the back of that dark, neat head, wondering what kind of man possessed that much discipline and that much beauty. I imagined him as a protector, a silent guardian of the faith.
Little did I know, the "faith" he practiced had nothing to do with the icons on the walls.
The Mirror Image
After the service, the humidity of the morning hit me like a wall. Mama was busy socializing on the steps, so I trailed behind her and Elena as we made our traditional Sunday walk to The Gilded Bean, a small cafe just a block away from the church.
"Did you see the new family in the fourth row?" Elena was chirping, but I was barely listening. My mind was still in the back row of that church, wondering where the tall stranger had vanished to.
The cafe was packed with the post-church crowd, the air smelling of roasted espresso and maple syrup. We managed to snag a small round table in the corner.
"Ciara, dear, you're awfully quiet," Mama said, smoothing the tablecloth.
"Are you still tired from your late-night studying?"
"Just thinking, Mama," I lied softly.
I looked up to scan the room for a waitress, but my breath caught in my throat. There sitting directly opposite our table across the narrow aisle was him.
He was alone.
He had a black coffee in front of him and a small plate of fruit he hadn't touched. Up close, without the dim light of the stained glass, he was even more intimidating.
He looked to be in his mid-twenties maybe twenty-five or twenty-six making him a lifetime away from my nineteen years.
He was sitting perfectly still, his back straight, watching the room with eyes that were a startling, icy gray. They didn't look like the eyes of a prayerful man anymore.
They looked like the eyes of a hunter.
Suddenly, those gray eyes shifted. They moved from the window, skipped over the crowd, and landed directly on me.
I should have looked away. I should have looked at my menu or started a conversation with Elena.
But I was frozen. He didn't smile. He didn't offer a polite nod of a fellow parishioner. He simply stared, his gaze heavy and dark, dissecting me where I sat.
In that moment, the warmth I'd felt in the church vanished. A cold shiver raced down my spine, a primal instinct screaming that something was wrong. The man in the church looked like a saint. The man in the cafe looked like the reason saints were needed.
He framed a mouth that looked like it hadn't smiled in years. There was a darkness behind his eyes not a sadness but a void and a hunger.
"Ciara?" Mama's voice broke the spell.
I blinked tearing my eyes away to look at her.
"Yes?"
"I asked if you wanted the avocado toast or the crepes."
"The... the crepes are fine," I stammered, my hands trembling slightly beneath the table.
When I risked another glance across the aisle, he was still watching me. He picked up his coffee cup, his knuckles white, and took a slow sip without ever breaking eye contact.
His name was Zade Ed Clarason.
And though I didn't know it yet, the "devil" I had sensed wasn't just a feeling. It was an invitation to a darkness I wasn't prepared to survive.