Chapter Text
It wasn’t often that Suzanne had the chance to take a long, hot bath.
Between establishing the Monastery as their new headquarters, finding and processing recruits to fill their barren ranks, and diffusing the squabbles that came from penning several dozen warriors and one recalcitrant priest in together, she hardly had time to think.
But today, everything had gone exactly to plan. Camila was overseeing the training of the freshest recruits, whilst Dora had volunteered to take the older girls out for some fieldwork. She hadn’t seen Vincent since he said goodnight the evening before, and Yasmine was occupied reviewing their security protocols.
In hindsight, that should have been her first warning.
It left her with exactly three hours to herself, a time she intended to use wisely. Sinking under the bubbles seemed like a wonderful first step to relaxation. And the second, third, fourth, and fifth. Before she knew it, the hours had passed, and she hadn’t moved an inch.
The tension in her shoulders had almost entirely bled away as the hot water seeped into her muscles, and Suzanne sighed, feeling perfectly and completely at peace.
That should have been her second warning.
But perhaps she really had been working too late for too many days, because it was easy to ignore the prickling of intuition that told her nothing had ever gone this smoothly since she first joined the Order, and certainly not since Adriel emerged from his tomb. No emergencies, not even a request, for three whole hours? Just a beautiful and calm silence? Something was very, very wrong.
The third and final warning was the most obvious, as it included the door slamming open to her room.
“Suzanne!” Vincent shouted, and her eyes widened.
There wasn’t time to stop him, or even to particularly regret forgetting to lock the door, before it barged open and the priest appeared.
“There you-”
He stopped. Stared.
She raised an eyebrow and he flushed a deeper red than she thought healthy, turning away so quickly she heard something pop.
Once he was facing the wall, she rose from the water, snatching her towel from the rail and wrapping it around her chest.
She suspected she should be angry with him, but she couldn’t quite muster the will. That bath really had been wonderfully relaxing, and seeing Vincent’s sheer discomfort at his trespass was an unexpected bonus.
Even his neck had turned a vibrant colour, his back ramrod straight as he stood in the doorway waiting for her to give the all-clear.
Besides, he must have urgent news, or he wouldn’t have dared.
Which meant she needed to get dressed. And, since all of her clothes were still in her bedroom… She cleared her throat, enjoying the way he startled.
“Excuse me,” she said, and he almost jumped out of her way, walking into the other room without looking at her.
“Of course,” he murmured a beat too late.
He crossed to the still open door of her bedroom, but didn’t exit, and she wondered whether something may have actually short circuited in his brain.
“Vincent?” she started. “Look at me.”
Never had she seen a man turn so slowly. If he’d been her enemy, she might have taken pity on him. As it was, she huffed a sigh, striding across the room and placing herself where he couldn’t help but see her, shutting the door beside them with a click.
It was letting a draft in, the air chill on her still wet skin.
She watched as his eyes dropped to the top edge of the towel, before he dragged them back up and, if it were possible, his cheeks grew darker.
“Vincent?” she repeated, starting to grow concerned.
But finally, he hummed an acknowledgment, and she found herself smirking at the distinctly high pitch.
“Why are you here?” she drawled after a moment passed and he didn’t offer anything beyond a blank stare.
Her words took a second to penetrate, and when they did, he blinked several times, some awareness returning.
“Oh, yes,” he muttered, frowning, and then, “Mierda!”
She jumped, grabbing the front of her towel as it threatened to come undone, but he hadn’t noticed, too busy turning the lock on the door before he darted to the windows, yanking the curtains closed despite the daylight streaming in.
“Vincent,” she said again, but this time there was no mistaking the warning in her tone, and he span to face her. “What on earth is going on?” she demanded.
“Ah,” he said, shrugging in a way she thought was meant to be boyish, but unfortunately the effects of her bath were rapidly wearing off, irritation setting in.
His next words certainly didn’t help.
“The OCS is under attack.”
She rolled her eyes.
Of course it was.
---
An hour later, she crouched in one of the underground tunnels, pistol in one hand, bloody knife in the other. She’d long since abandoned her cane, breaking it across the back of somebody foolish enough to believe they were sneakier than tactically trained nuns. One by one, they were finding out just how wrong they’d been.
“So,” Camila began, popping up from leaning around the corner to check the junction ahead was clear. “Why can't Father Vincent look you in the eye?”
“Duck,” Suzanne answered, throwing her knife into the eye of a mercenary approaching from the opposite passage. It sunk deep, and she turned to find Camila watching her, eyebrows raised.
Of all the times for her meddling…
But she could hardly blame her for her curiosity. When they eventually managed to locate the rest of the Sisters, huddled around Yasmine’s laptop as she tried to pinpoint the source of the hack, Vincent had been less than subtle, glancing at her constantly from the corner of his eye but lighting up like a beacon every time she actually looked at him.
She sighed.
Dressing had been an excruciating process, considering the inescapable presence of the man now relegated to facing the door, pistol in hand. Her skin tingled, uncomfortably aware of his every movement, and he didn’t seem much better off, looking so tense she wasn’t sure it was wise for him to be holding a firearm.
But she wasn’t daft enough to ask him to leave. Even if he didn’t outright refuse to abandon her, she’d been too worried about him finding trouble as soon as he left.
As it was, the physical assault hadn’t begun for another twenty minutes, in which time they'd managed to identify the number of their assailants and set up a comprehensive perimeter, even without the aid of their security, which was all offline thanks to Yasmine’s overhaul.
Somebody had spent a very long time planning this attack. She couldn’t wait to meet the person responsible.
In the following scramble of organised chaos, she and Vincent had been separated. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since, a fact which left her less than amenable to the Sisters gentle ribbing.
Or rather, she had been for the first comment, and even the second.
But forty minutes had passed and they’d already been pushed back to the tunnels, facing twice as much firepower as they’d expected. Communications were down and her intuition seemed to have developed air raid sirens.
“Camila,” she snapped, and the girl threw her hands in the air, rolling her eyes.
Suzanne watched as she took point, stalking down the tunnel the mercenary had emerged from.
She bent to rifle through his pockets, but they were empty, like all of the others had been. They didn’t even have a radio, leaving the nuns to wonder how they were coordinating their attack.
Finished with her search, Camila yanked the knife from his eye, offering it back to her Mother with a sweet smile.
“Grazie,” she drawled. “Now we should rendezvous with-”
A stone skittered somewhere along the tunnel, its echo reaching them in waves, and she stopped midsentence.
Silence fell.
In synchronised movements, they moved to opposite sides of the passageway, mirroring each other as they raised their weapons.
The silence continued.
When five minutes had passed, she saw Camila glance her way.
“Maybe it was-”
The penny dropped.
“Down!” she yelled, and both women hit the ground a second before gunfire sprayed the air where they’d been standing, gouging great chunks out of the stonework. The noise was incredible, reverberating through the confined space, and there was little either of them could do but cover their heads and curl up as tightly as possible.
There’d be a moment, barely more than a breath, when the bullets stopped and the air cleared enough to spot them huddled on the ground. With luck, it would take a moment more to reload.
Without it…
Suzanne readied herself to spring to her feet. She wouldn’t make it more than a few steps either way, and she wouldn’t have time to shoot more than two, if she could even find them. But if she could reach Camila, then the girl would stand a chance.
As long as her heart still beat, she refused to lose any more children.
A distinct rhythm entered the gunfire and she gripped her pistol tighter. Beneath the crook of her elbow, she saw Camila watching her, eyes wide as she realised what her Mother was going to do.
Her protégé shook her head, glancing ahead and behind, searching for a way out.
Suzanne knew there wasn’t one.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” Please, God, show me the way.
The gun jammed.
She sprang to her feet, moving on instinct devoid of doubt, and soon Camila was wrapped in her arms, Suzanne standing between her and the muffled swearing from their concealed attackers, metal clicking and the thump of something heavy hitting the ground.
A shot rang out.
Camila jumped, pushing against her hold, but she refused to let go, tightening her arms as she waited for them to be seen. Que sera, sera.
Another shot ricocheted down the tunnel, embedding in the wall half a foot from her head.
The next was further away, and the one after that didn’t reach far enough to count.
Somebody screamed, and Suzanne glanced over her shoulder where gun smoke still lingered in the air.
“Ah,” she said, shakily, watching as a tall figure emerged from the mist. “Of course.”
There he was.
Vincent walked slowly down the tunnel, favouring his right leg, gun held loosely in one hand and his shirt ripped at the shoulder.
And suddenly, she realised that it didn’t matter how deeply she tried to suppress her fear, how fervently she fought not to worry about her priest, or to accept her own death; as both terrible futures eased, they left her gasping, relief sending her to lean against the wall.
“Suzanne,” he murmured when he reached them, head bowed, blood splattered across the side of his face.
She drew breath to answer, moving to check he wasn’t hurt, but Camila took the opportunity to free herself.
“Mother!” she scolded, wrenching away from her loosened grip, scowling at the matriarch.
Vincent’s gaze dropped to the girl, now visible as she stepped out of arms reach.
“Camila?” he asked dazedly, looking between the pair, awareness slowly dawning on his face as it became clear what Suzanne had intended.
She watched as his vacant exhaustion was replaced by fear, shock negated by dread.
Opening her mouth, she searched for something to say as his eyes roved over her, searching for an injury, but nothing came out. No explanation would change what she had been prepared to do. Nor would it change that she knew he’d do the same.
Camila glanced between them, then disappeared into the smoke, and Suzanne used the moment to step closer, peering up when he wouldn’t meet her gaze.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For coming to get us.”
Before he could reply, Camila returned, a much bigger gun strapped to her shoulder.
“We should go,” she said when she reached them. “Reinforcements are on the way.”
Vincent broke their stare first, checking how many bullets were left in his mag before he turned to Camila.
“This way-” he nodded toward the side passage they’d passed, “-I left Dora and Grace to hold the kitchens.”
He continued talking as they walked, filling them in on everything he knew had happened since their communications failed.
“…and Beatrice left to collect Yasmine five minutes we spotted a group headed into the tunnels.” The group he had hurried to intercept, saving their lives in the process. “They should have made it back by now,” he finished, brow furrowed as he thought about the women left above ground.
His report had given a clear view of exactly how much trouble had found the OCS, and Suzanne shared his fears. The end was a long way off.
He fell silent, pulling ahead to scout the shadows, and it became impossible to ignore the eyes drilling into the side of her head.
“Camila,” she sighed. “What is it?”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” came the instant reply.
“Done what?” Suzanne asked, watching how Vincent’s limp worsened the further they walked. Even after three months, his knee was still fragile, and she can't imagine it appreciated the amount of hand-to-hand combat he’d been pushed to today.
His recounting had been extensive, if vague, and Suzanne worried at the effect the violence would have on him, still so early in his recovery.
No matter. As soon as the attack was repulsed, and it would be repulsed, she’d find his brace, however much he hated wearing it, and then maybe he would allow her to help him- or not. She stopped that train of thought, remembering his awkwardness after this afternoon’s incident with the bath.
Perhaps, she should go gently on him for a few days.
Camila sighed, loudly.
“Hmm?” she asked, turning to look at the girl, who rolled her eyes.
“Nothing,” she sighed again, and her Mother waited.
“You would have died,” she said quietly, and Suzanne hated how small her voice had become. Two months trapped in a convent together had given her a chance to see the Sister grow into the fearsome young woman before her, but it also meant she knew exactly how much the process had cost.
But there was no point in denying the truth.
“Whatever will be, will be,” she said with a shrug and a crooked smile, which widened as Camila scowled.
“Ecclesiastes?” she asked after a moment.
“Doris Day.”
---
Beatrice and Yasmine were nowhere to be seen, and Suzanne almost wished she could say the same of Dora and Grace.
Hidden behind a table not nearly thick enough to stop as many bullets as were flying, they exchanged pot-shots with half a dozen men, each protected by the thick stone walls of the kitchen.
From where they’d exited the tunnels, they could see both and reach neither. Any move would put them directly in the line of fire.
But looping around through the tunnels was also out.
Camila dashed up the steps, slamming the trapdoor closed behind her, shaking her head as she caught her breath.
“They’ve reached the intersection,” she panted, and Vincent moved to slide a bar through the handles.
“Then we’re trapped,” he sighed, pale beneath the blood drying on his cheek, and she resisted the urge to wipe it away, turning instead to look at their surroundings.
“Not quite.”
The pantry they were in might be small, and pinned between dangerous enemies, but it had other advantages. Such… as… this…
The back of one of the cupboards came away in her hands, revealing a shallow compartment, stocked to the brim with smoke grenades.
The stare Vincent turned on her was frankly assessing.
“And how long have these been sitting next to the food?” he enquired, eyebrow raised, while Camila moved past them both and filled her belt with explosives.
“Calma, Vincent,” she smirked. “A girl has to have some secrets.”
That had the colour returning to his cheeks.
Holding her hand out, Camila passed her a grenade, and she moved to the door, opening it just wide enough to see their enemy. She turned, checking the pair were ready, before she tugged the pin free with her teeth and rolled it through the gap, then pulled it tightly closed.
3… 2… 1…
Smoke fogged under the crack at the bottom of the door, and a vicious light filled the eyes of her companions as they listened to fading shouts and strangled coughs.
With one arm over their faces, the three of them burst out into the melee, quickly separating to cover each angle of approach.
On her right, she saw Vincent veer toward the cornered Sisters, while Camila made quick work of the leftmost man, who went down in a sweep of legs and a savage blow to the throat.
Suzanne headed straight for the centre.
Three men were bent double, clutching at their chests. The first didn’t even have time to straighten before her knife sunk under his arm and into his ribs. The second fumbled for his gun before she shot him between the eyes. Only the third actually had time to aim, but his eyes were streaming too badly, and his shot went wide. Her own nicked his carotid artery, and he gargled as he fell.
A shot sliced through the air, a body tumbling into her path, and she jumped back, but he was already dead. She looked up to see Vincent engaging the last man, gun discarded as they wrestled, until with one vicious wrench, he smashed his opponents head into the wall and watched him slump to the ground, breathing heavily.
Dora and Grace stood behind him, the younger girl holding her arm close to her chest as she leant on her Sister. Both looked exhausted, eyes dull as they looked at the carnage around them.
Suzanne was just about to cross to the pair, questions on her lips, demands for whatever scarce information they could provide on their Sister’s whereabouts and the status of their enemy, when she froze.
Listened.
There came the pounding of booted feet.
“Incoming!” Camila called, diving into an alcove.
Suzanne ducked under the hatched wall separating kitchen from dining hall, pressing her back against the solid stone.
She turned just in time to see Vincent usher Dora and Grace into the opposite storeroom, stopping to deprive one of the men of his weapons before he followed them.
Only, as he moved to close the door, he froze, watching her, and she saw the moment his eyes flicked past her, widening in horror.
“Suzanne!” he shouted, and she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end as something behind her moved.
Instinctively, she dodged, rolling away from the wall a second before she heard a spine-chilling beep.
The stone exploded.
Chunks of rubble flew across the kitchen, shrapnel pelting everything in its path. She barely had time to find cover behind the island, a fragment slicing her arm before she could pull it in after her.
Vincent, paralysed by fear as he watched her leap clear of the explosion, didn’t have any time at all.
From the corner of her eye, she caught the moment the blast caught him, sending him flying sideways, slamming into the wall.
For a second, the sheer force kept him suspended, head thrown back, before he sank to the floor, neck bent, body unmoving.
In his wake, a swathe of scarlet painted the stone.
“Vincent!” Suzanne cried, deaf to her own voice as smoke drifted across the kitchen, obscuring him from sight.
It was followed by men.
A dozen black figures streamed through the hole in the wall, gasmasks on and guns at the ready as they searched for the nuns, but if they were hoping to find them injured and defenceless, then they had another thing coming.
Her ears were still ringing as she stood, her sight blinded by the thick black fog, but she had been fighting her entire life, deaf, blind, or with searing agony anytime she moved. It would not stop her.
Rarely had she fought with such desperation as she felt now, knowing Vincent was lost, unconsciousness somewhere in the chaos, bleeding and wounded and-
All she cared about was reaching his side.
The first man fell with a strangled groan as her knife caught his windpipe, still thrashing on the floor as she stepped over him and onto the next.
She couldn’t afford to fire her pistol, not without risking the lives of the Sisters hidden somewhere in the smoke, but she didn’t need it. In the small space, the men had hemmed themselves between the rubble and their enemy, each one now within easy reach of the furious matriarch.
The third caught her first blow, but relied too heavily on his strength to overpower her, and it was simple work to send him sprawling on the ground beside his comrades, insensible to the world.
But, in the uproar, she missed one, slipping past her in the madness and aiming at her unprotected back with the butt of his gun.
The blow sent her to her knees, catching herself on a floor slick with blood, seconds before a gust of air warned her what was coming next, metal directed at her face in a vicious move she knew she couldn’t stop.
Appearing from the nowhere, Dora caught the swing, twisting his arm back, around, and sweeping his legs from under him, letting him land with a sickening pop as his shoulder was wrenched from the socket.
A sharp stamp stopped his scream.
Another loomed out of the darkness, surprising both women, but before anyone could move, a bolt lodged in his neck, and Camila joined them, loading another into her crossbow.
Seven in the hall, she signalled, and Suzanne nodded even as she tackled the closest mercenary, burying her knife under his arm as Dora fired two quick shots over her head.
The smoke was beginning to clear, and with it came the use of their artillery.
The two Sisters hastened into the hall, whilst Suzanne turned her attention to the remaining intruders in the kitchen.
Two men were across the far side of the room, heading for the storeroom where Grace was still hidden, unable to fight with her broken arm.
Her gaze strayed to where she’d seen Vincent fall. From where she stood, she could just see his legs, lying unmoving on the ground the other side of the storeroom door, just as vulnerable as the injured Sister.
Suzanne couldn’t let the men reach them.
Raising her pistol, she caught one in the chest, sending him reeling as her next bullet slipped past his body armour and out the other side of his neck, but the other was much faster, and dropped behind cover.
Crouched in the corner of the room, there was no way for her to flank him without getting shot, and the Sisters were occupied in the hall, sporadic gunfire interlaced with strangled cries. It would take only minutes for them to dispatch the rest of the reinforcements, but it was minutes Suzanne didn’t have.
She needed to act quickly, or risk him finding the pair, and finishing what the explosion had started.
But before she could move, there came the slight bounce, bounce, bounce, of metal rolling across the floor, and her eyes widened as the grenade tumbled into view.
Cursing, she dived behind the heavy wooden table in the centre of the room, curling her arms about her head as the frag detonated.
The noise drove a spike through her ears, leaving them aching as she peeked out from behind the table, straining to spot the mercenary before he could do anymore damage.
But he’d seen her first.
A chunk of wood splintered as a bullet missed her by inches, and she ducked, pushed back before she could get a clean shot.
She was pinned, just as Dora and Grace had been moments before, only her life wasn’t the one in danger.
Any second now, he’d find the girl in the cupboard, and the priest on the floor, and then…
She heard the scream though the ringing in her ears, and dove to her feet, knowing she had only seconds to save her.
Aiming at his back in the doorway, she tightened her finger, but before she could squeeze, the man span around, Grace held against his chest, forearm pressed against her throat and gun to her temple.
“Fuck this,” he spat. “I’m not getting killed over a bunch of fucking nuns.”
Grace groaned as he tightened his grip, and he waved his gun at Suzanne.
“Drop it or she fucking dies.”
He smiled then, blood coating his teeth, and Suzanne already knew she didn’t have a choice. No part of her could let him hurt one of her girls.
Lowering her pistol, she clenched her jaw as he stepped from the room, Grace struggling in his hold as he dragged her toward the exit and the rest of his allies.
Unfortunately for him, he had forgotten about the priest.
A shot fired, loud and clear, and her heart stopped, one hand flung out as she reached for Grace, whose eyes were opened so widely they nearly bulged out of their sockets.
But the girl was fine.
Her nails clawed the arm from her neck and the man went with it, sagging to the ground like a sack of meat, a single line of crimson trickling from a small, neat hole in his temple.
Stumbling forward, she gathered Grace into her arms, turning from the dead man to the almost dead man slumped against the wall a few feet away, gun still raised as his hand began to shake.
“Vincent?” she breathed.
The gun clattered to the floor as his hand went limp, and she flinched, watching as he stared blankly at his fingers, before folding them on top of his stomach.
His skin was grey, shirt clinging to his torso, soaked with blood, but still he managed to wheeze her name.
Behind her, Grace darted out of the kitchen.
“Suzanne,” he rasped, and she wrestled with her terror as she walked to his side, kneeling in a growing pool of blood.
Her fingers curled around his palm, and it was impossible to ignore how cold it was as she squeezed his hand, desperate for him to return the pressure.
But he didn’t.
His head was slack against the wall, chest heaving as he fought for breath, specks of scarlet coating his lip as he panted, eyes moving frantically as he searched for her gaze.
But even as she placed a hand on his cheek, feeling the scratch of his beard against her skin, and turned his face until he found her, she knew he couldn’t see her anymore.
Running footsteps echoed in the hall, a panicked cry calling to the others.
“Suzann’?” he whispered, and she leant closer. “’m sorry,” he slurred.
A tear rolled down her cheek.
“Don’t,” she begged. “Please don’t.”
“Suzann’,” he breathed.
He didn’t breathe again.