The Romeo Catchers (Book 2)

CHAPTER 3 Death by Mold

Breathe.

I smoothed my skirt. The metallic fabric was silky against my fingers. Even in the dark space, it gleamed, reflecting the light from the racks of melting candles. I sucked in a big breath. It didn't help. The mold-tinged air felt dank and cumbersome, too heavy for my lungs to push in and out.

Breathe, Adele.

Muted rays of sun shone through the stained-glass windows high above us, cutting through the dark room on a sharp diagonal. Even through my sunglasses, I could see all the dust and particles of God knows what else floating in the trail of light.

Father McKinley's voice droned on in the background.

Like the rest of the Ninth Ward, the church lacked electricity and was far from operational, but it was the closest one to St. Vincent's that wasn't a total hazard. I think we were still breaking a dozen different laws by occupying it, but who was going to stop us? The government hadn't officially condemned it, so that left it a free-for-all.

I imagined what the holy space had looked like with ten-plus feet of muddy river water flooded inside: The long wooden pews and the ceramic heads of religious icons bobbing between candle racks and collection boxes. Hymnbooks floating higher and higher to the heavens. A whole new meaning to the term "holy water."

A memory of Lisette Monvoisin throwing a saintly statue at Nicco whipped through my mind.

I was grateful for my sunglasses as I blinked it away, as if my eyelids were burying the memory back into my subconscious.

Everyone shifted as more latecomers squeezed into the already-crowded pews, until we were elbow to elbow. The bout of claustrophobia came back. Most of the vast church had been emptied—maybe by looters, maybe by the archdiocese—so I shouldn't have felt so trapped, but we were all crowded to one side. Tape blocked off the other half, where broken pews and dismantled confessional booths waited to be hauled off. The pile of trash glittered with the brightly colored glass that had shattered from the now-boarded frescos.

Jesus, how long is the priest going to talk? Was it absolutely necessary for this Mass to be inside given the circumstances?

Breathe.

I sat up straight and rolled my neck, flinching at the small pop.

On the next breath, I imagined thousands of microscopic mold spores flying into my nose, down my esophagus, and planting themselves inside my lungs. The seedlings germinated into cruciferous-like plants, and the bulbous vegetation grew into my throat until every bit of air was blocked from coming or going, choking my imaginary self to death.

I adjusted the collar of my black blouse, which was tied into a limp bow at my throat.

Just breathe, Adele. Stop thinking about mold.

Or death.

Death by mold.

I focused on the rack of candles next to the priest, trying to distract myself from having an anxious fit. I slowly squinted and released my eyelids, watching the flames change size. Warmth radiated from within my belly, and it took a full minute of playing with the fire to realize it wasn't just an optical illusion. The flames were actually growing taller.

A wave of panic came next, and one of the flames doubled in size. Shit.

With a quick glance that begged my father not to follow, I squeezed past him and slowly pushed through the rest of the people in the front pew. I tried to be light on my feet so as not to distract from the service, but my shoes on the marble floor made it altogether impossible. Heads turned as I hurried down the side aisle, and then a slice of light pierced the congregation as I opened the door just enough to slip outside.