The Messenge (Iva and Nick) novel Chapter 388

Summary for Chapter 388: The Messenge (Iva and Nick)

The Messenger werewolf novel Iva and Nick Chapter 388, by Elle Vintea read online Free PDF

Figating Evil

Fighting Evil

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The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the dining hall. The nuns moved through their familiar routine with practiced ease, their voices a soft murmur of prayers and gentle conversation. The scent of fresh bread and herbal tea filled the air, a comforting aroma that usually brought Iva a sense of peace.

But today, there was no peace, at least in Iva’s mind.

Iva moved through the motions of the morning routine, her hands busy with the tasks that had

become second nature-arranging the bread, filling the cups, making sure everything was in order

for the meal.

But her mind was elsewhere, her senses heightened, her body coiled with a tension that made

every sound feel like a threat.

She was more alert than she had ever been.

Every creak of the floorboards, every murmur of conversation, every glance in her direction sent a

jolt of fear through her system. She scanned the room constantly, her eyes darting from face to

face, searching for any sign of the hunters who had invaded her sanctuary.

Sister Margaret noticed her unrest.

The old nun approached her, her brow furrowed with concern, her voice gentle as she spoke.

“Iva, child,” she said, her hand resting on Iva’s arm. “You seem troubled this morning. Was it the

nightmares again?”

Iva hesitated.

She wanted to tell the truth. She wanted to scream that the nightmare was not confined to her

sleep, that it was walking among them in human form, that the abbey she had trusted was

harboring hunters who would destroy her and her son if they discovered the truth.

But she couldn’t.

She couldn’t risk it. She didn’t know who she could trust, who was complicit in the hunters’ mission, who would betray her to save themselves.

She nodded, forcing a weak smile.

“Yes,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “The nightmares. They were worse than usual last night.”

Sister Margaret’s expression softened with sympathy.

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“Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry. I had hoped that facing the presence in your dreams might bring you

some peace.”

Iva’s throat tightened.

“It did,” she lied. “It just… takes time.

Sister Margaret squeezed her arm gently.

“Be patient with yourself, child. Healing is not a straight path. It has many twists and turns.”

Iva nodded, grateful for the excuse to end the conversation.

She continued her tasks, her movements mechanical, her mind racing. She kept her head down, her eyes fixed on her work, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

She looked up.

Sister Ophelia was staring at her.

The nun’s gaze was sharp, assessing, her expression unreadable. She stood near the door, her arms folded, her eyes fixed on Iva with an intensity that made Iva’s skin prickle.

Iva quickly looked away, her heart pounding.

She busied herself with arranging the cups, her hands trembling slightly. She could feel Sister Ophelia’s eyes on her, could feel the weight of her scrutiny pressing down on her like a physical

force.

Youssef was in his crib nearby, his small face peaceful, his eyes closed in sleep. Iva kept glancing at him, needing the reassurance of his presence, the reminder of why she had to stay strong.

Sister Ophelia approached the crib.

Iva’s heart jumped into her throat as the nun reached down and gently caressed Youssef’s cheek. Her touch was soft, almost tender, but Iva couldn’t help the surge of protective fear that flooded

through her.

“He’s a beautiful child,” Sister Ophelia said, her voice calm and measured.

Iva forced herself to respond.

“Thank you, Sister.”

Sister Ophelia straightened and turned to face her, her expression unreadable.

“Iva,” she said, her voice low and serious, “Can we have a word after breakfast?”

Iva’s blood ran cold.

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“Of course, Sister,” she said, her voice barely steady.

The conversation came sooner than Iva had hoped.

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Once the breakfast was cleared and the nuns had dispersed to their various duties, Sister Ophelia led Iva to a small, private room off the main corridor. The space was sparsely furnished-a wooden

table, two chairs, a crucifix on the wall.

The nun gestured for Iva to sit.

Iva complied, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her heart pounding.

Sister Ophelia sat across from her, her eyes fixed on Iva’s face.

“Iva,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “I need to ask you for your discretion regarding what you

saw last night.”

Iva’s throat tightened.

“Of course, Sister. I didn’t see anything important. I just-”

“Please,” Sister Ophelia interrupted gently. “I know that you must have questions. I know that what you saw must have been confusing and frightening. But I need you to trust me when I say that everything is under control.”

Iva nodded, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I understand, Sister. I won’t say anything to anyone.”

The nun leaned forward slightly, her gaze intense.

“We are fighting evil, Iva. There are hidden courageous men and women in this world who are doing God’s work-warding off the evil that threatens to consume us. The devil has many shapes and forms, and he does not always appear as we expect.”

She paused, letting the words sink in.

Iva’s mind raced. She knew exactly what “evil” Sister Ophelia was referring to. She had heard the hunters’ words last night-*abominations, creatures of the devil, werewolves, lycans.* They were

talking about her kind. About her son.

But she forced herself to nod, to keep her face neutral, to play the part of the grateful, trusting

young woman.

“I understand, Sister,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

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Sister Ophelia smiled, a warm, maternal expression that made Iva’s stomach churn.

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“Lknew I could count on you, Iva. I know you are not part of our order, but we consider you one of us in terms of trust. You have proven yourself to be a good, loyal soul.”

Iva nodded again, her throat aching with the effort of holding back the truth.

Just then, a commotion erupted in the yard.

Shouts. Running footsteps. The clatter of metal and the frantic cries of urgency.

Sister Ophelia’s head snapped toward the door, her body tensing. She rose quickly, her chair scraping against the stone floor, and strode toward the exit.

Iva followed, her heart pounding.

The scene that greeted her made her stomach drop.

Men were being carried on stretchers into the abbey’s courtyard, their bodies broken and bloody. Their clothes were torn, their faces pale and streaked with grime and sweat. Some of them groaned in pain, while others lay still, their eyes closed, their chests barely rising.

Iva recognized them.

They were the hunters from last night.

The massive man who had cornered her in the corridor was among them, his arm wrapped in a bloody bandage, his face twisted in pain.

Sister Ophelia rushed toward the stretchers, her face etched with concern and grief. She knelt beside one of the injured men, her hands moving swiftly to assess his wounds.

“This is the evil I was telling you about,” she said, her voice heavy with sorrow. “This is what we fight. The darkness that seeks to destroy us.”

Iva stood frozen, her hand pressed to her mouth.

She looked at the broken men, at the blood staining the stone, at the grim faces of the nuns who

moved among them.

She knew she should feel something-pity, perhaps, or fear.

But all she could think about was Youssef.

Her son.

Sleeping peacefully in his crib, unaware of the danger that surrounded them.

She had to get him out.

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She had to find a way to escape.

Before it was too late. Before they were discovered.

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