And now you know the consequences.
Angela was a mystery, a vessel that contained Raziel’s spirit dwelling side by side with her unidentifiable soul. But she was still human, and she could not conjure Lucifel’s infamous Glaive without suffering for it. Yet, though she’d eventually emerged unscathed, the deaths that the Supernal’s treasure had brought about were almost too many to count. Among them now were the people in Luz who’d drowned, been struck by lightning, or blown over the sea cliffs and off bridges.
“Can anyone explain the symbolism found on page three hundred . . .”
The Eye’s curse seemed determined to continue, as if it had exacted hundreds of lives as the price for its use.
Free to consider the pain of those losses, Angela had taken her time to mourn Nina, and even Brendan, crying at every spare moment. But like all things, eventually her tears ran out, and she’d learned to deal with her unusual situation like she’d learned to deal with her previous one: always waiting for that next chance to escape from it.
This was her first class in a long while.
Angela spent most of her hours painting Israfel’s picture, sobbing when she couldn’t get his face right. The talent that had gotten her into the Academy was, like her dreams, a thing of the past.
She needed the real Israfel.
She’d find the real Israfel again.
“. . . or make an outline of the stages Dante passes through before arriving in Heaven . . .”
Though they both knew death wouldn’t come soon enough to satisfy her.
Sophia sat in front of the window, absorbed in the swirl of water on glass.
Two days of meager sunshine had at last given way to a chain of sour storm clouds, and Angela realized Sophia seemed to like nothing more than staring at the different downpours through every new window the Academy had to offer. Considering the extent of the damage, that was quite a lot. The Pentacle House, now renamed the Emerald House, had a set of bay and bow windows on every other floor, marking its status as a grand mansion. Most of these were now covered with plywood, turning the building into a match for its neighboring buildings, which most definitely weren’t. Stephanie’s influence must have been the culprit.
She’d demanded privacy, but not crappy real estate.
“I’m surprised,” Angela said, sitting on the velvet chair next to Sophia, the candles flickering, highlighting the darker red strands of her hair. She crossed her legs, still not used to the skin on her thighs rubbing together. During the past week, Angela had discarded her tights permanently, taking pride in being a freak for the first time. “Every time I turn around, you’re there, watching and waiting. I thought you’d be gone like the rest of them.”
Sophia smiled, her expression amused and lovely. “Well, I am your property now. Why would they bother with a Book they can’t even read?”
“You know what I’m saying. It could take a long time to find the Key. The Lock. Maybe I’ll never find it, and Raziel will have to try all over again. Maybe you’ll always be waiting.”
Sophia shook her head, her curls swaying. “Not for as long as you might think.”
Gentle thunder rolled above the dormitory, rumbling across the roof shingles.
“Did you see the paper this morning?” She plucked the newspaper from her lap and handed it to Angela.
Angela unfolded the front page, her fingers already shaking. The headline was all too familiar.
FEAR IN LUZ: KILLER’S REIGN OF TERROR BEGINS ANEW
Center City, Luz—With massive death tolls on every side of the island, Luz city officials as well as Academy authorities have been quick to put the deceased to rest, establishing their Memorial Cemetery in a park formerly at the epicenter of Academy life more than sixty years ago. Dedicated to the memory of Archbishop Gregory T. Solomon, often known for his annual celebration of the All Saints’ Day feast . . .
Angela glanced at the picture: a priest with white hair and an authoritative face.
The last she’d seen him, his head had been rolling across the floor of St. Mary’s, severed by Naamah’s overgrown nails.
. . . it has been planned to be a haven for family and friends to mourn their loved ones and erect impressive headstones, their cost benefiting the Academy’s slow recovery of buildings, academic materials, and communication lines to the mainland. The disturbing presence of a murdered woman just three days ago, however, has put a halt to one of the most generous outpourings of sympathy in recent years. The killer’s habits are familiar, as is the method of dismemberment and the pattern of animalistic cuts on the right . . .
Angela didn’t need to read anymore. She set the paper down, hollow inside.