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The church turned out to be a nondescript building on the corner, three stories tall, with brick trim and a flat roof. Georgia’s skin buzzed as she approached the heavy wooden doors. She swallowed hard. Not that she put much stock in church. Church was a place people went, a story people told. Most of the time, those stories didn’t impress her much.
Faith, however, was another matter. Faith of any creed was sacred. Faith of every kind had power.
St. Jude was chock-full of faith.
Georgia took a deep breath and banged a fist on one of the doors. She stepped back, waited. A few minutes passed, then the door swung inward. A nun roughly the size of a churchmouse and approximately as old as time immemorial peered out at her. “Yes?”
Georgia cleared her throat. “I’m, um, looking for Darius deCompostela. I was told I could find him here,” she paused, then added lamely, “Sister.”
The nun took in her violet lowlights, her black leather jacket and motorcycle boots, without even a twitch of the eye. She made a sound that wasn’t quite humph and stepped back. “Come with me.”