Nina examined her, cautious. More respectful. “What makes you think that I’d even be successful?”
“Other people can hurt me. Pretty badly if they want to. My parents have, my tutor did. But they never went far enough, like they knew that keeping me alive was more of a punishment.” She fiddled with the knife blade for a second longer, handing it to Nina again. “I want someone to do me a favor, and I don’t want it to be someone who gets off on violence and guts. That’s like prostituting myself. And just so you know, I won’t hold it against you. You can have all of my belongings. Everything. I want to get the hell out of here.”
“Come on, Angela. What’s in it for me? For anyone who’s actually sane? Really?”
“Money. That’s all I’ve got.”
Nina traced a line of thread on the bedspread, as if pondering all the possibilities that could be had in murdering a blood head. Then she sighed, her shoulders rising and falling. “This is messed up. As much as the thought of being rich might tempt me, it’s not enough to murder someone. Anyone. Not even you—no offense.” She took the broken knife blade and tossed it into the trash bin next to Angela’s desk. Between the blood and the humidity, it wouldn’t take long to rust. “Looks like you’re going to have to stick it out for a while longer. I’m not too keen on my conscience torturing me, or the police locking me up for sixty years. Though it is brave of you,” she said, sliding to the edge of the bed, “to ask me in the first place. Sorry. I don’t have the stomach to kill other people or myself. I’m not that—crazy.”
Angela slumped, her head cradled by a hand. “Great. Well, thanks anyway.” She peered between her fingers. “Let me guess? We’re not friends anymore? You’re scared to death of me?”
Nina reached for the jester doll and displaced it from the shelf again. She took off its hat, jingling the bells. “I didn’t say that.”
“Were we even friends to begin with?”
“Either way, it’s too late now.” Nina picked at the doll’s hair, another cautious glaze coming over her eyes. Rain began pattering gently against the window. “So you said that angels are real.”
That’s why you came in the first place. Stephanie isn’t a complete liar after all.
Angela touched the painting again. The angel had an expression of wounded pride, his heavy-lidded eyes gazing back at her almost in contempt. Even the lines of his lips were so engrained in her by now, she barely had a thought process as she drew them. The art had become automatic. Full of life, yet ultimately lifeless. It was time for more. “Why else would I have those dreams? Sometimes I feel like they’re memories. Not necessarily mine. They have that kind of nonsensical quality to them. Always images that mean nothing in particular, like seeing the angels drink or sleep. Scenes from a movie reel I never watched.”
“Oh.”
“You’re disappointed?” Angela allowed an edge of annoyance in her voice.
“Um—” Nina paused. “No. Not like you think. I don’t see angels, and I’m not a blood head, so there’s no controlling them or summoning them myself. But—”
She paused again, clutching the jester doll.
Angela waited for her to rediscover her nerves, but soon she couldn’t help it anymore. “Not every blood head can do stuff like that. I think the prophecy is mostly crap.”
“Do you?” Nina’s voice shook a little. She was looking down at her feet, searching for something again. Maybe the sanity they’d lost tonight. Most people didn’t ask a new friend to kill them or reveal that their dreams were a step from reality. “I’ve heard voices—and seen people—for a year now. Women. Men. Children. Everyone you can imagine. Most of the time, their voices all blend together, like they’re shouting at me. And they usually talk about terrible things I don’t understand, keeping me from sleeping most of the night.” She ran a hand through her hair, tearing out some strands from her bun, as if stressing the real cause of her bloodshot eyes and frazzled appearance. “But lately, I’ve been able to hear them more clearly, and I’ve figured out that they’re waiting for someone. To let them out of wherever they’ve been locked up for so long.”
This time, Angela felt an odd shiver of fear. Death didn’t scare her, yet the dead did.
How strange.
“That’s—”
“Crazy?” Nina said. She plucked at the doll’s clothes.
“That’s why you came here to visit. Isn’t it?” Angela folded her arms, pacing toward the window. “To find out if I could hear or see the same things?”