The morning light that filtered through the high, narrow windows of the war room was grey and thin. It did little to warm the cold stone floors or the heavy, suffocating air that hung over the table. But Elena did not feel the cold. She was burning from the inside out.
She stood beside Caleb, her hip brushing against his thigh as they leaned over the large, oak desk. The surface was covered in maps, patrol logs, and the heavy leather bound book known as The Book of Names.
The scent of the room was a potent cocktail of old parchment, gun oil, and the distinct, dark musk of Caleb himself. It was a smell that made her head spin and her knees weak.
"Father Silas," Caleb said, his finger tapping a name on the list. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "He is the
