Naamah left him and wandered over to the window, crossing her arms while she gazed out into the evening. The crow strutted below her, its yellow eyes glinting in the candlelight. The first sigh of rain washed against the glass.
“Because the world is in a state of flux. Answering to Her call.”
His frown deepened.
“Or haven’t you noticed the weather?” Stephanie gestured outside.
Dull lightning flickered to the north.
Archbishop Solomon straightened himself, flipping through the papers with a finger. “What I want to know is, yet again, why do you think this blood head in particular, mentally unbalanced or not, is a threat? And what do you intend to do about it if she is? In other words”—and now it was his turn to lean forward, intending his whispers for Stephanie’s ears alone—“why do you go sticking your pretty nose where it doesn’t belong?”
She stayed silent, keeping her composure. If only she had Naamah’s blades, her strength, her utter lack of remorse.
He was really asking for someone to put him in his place.
“Why did you summon a demon into this city, Miss Walsh? To prove that you are indeed a witch? To shove the prophecy in our faces? Because it’s a fatal and ignorant game to play. People are dying out there. People will continue to die. And if there’s something I learned from my years of theology— it’s that their kind,” he pointed at Naamah, “don’t understand sympathy.”
“So you’re concerned for me. How encouraging.” Stephanie stood from her seat, her hand outstretched. “I think it’s time for me to leave.” She curled her fingers, beckoning. “But not empty-handed.”
“Watch your step,” the archbishop muttered. “To humanity, the Archon is the Ruin, not its overlord.”
“But there are two who can be the Ruin.” Stephanie took the papers from him, reviving her smile. “It simply comes down to the choice She makes.”
She scanned the documents briefly, overwhelmed by a sense of satisfaction.
. . . Angela Marie Mathers. Date of birth, the sixth of December . . . schooling, ten years of private home tutoring, intensive counseling at the Forwallis Institution . . . parents, deceased . . .
Normal enough. Stephanie continued scanning, turning through pages, at last reaching confidential psychiatry files.
Here it was. The important information.
. . . personality, self-destructive with suicidal tendencies, a marked inclination to the imaginative bordering on delusional; patient has suffered from psychotic episodes with vivid hallucinations—
A startling crack sounded throughout the office, its force like a gunshot.
Stephanie dropped some of the papers, swearing to herself. The archbishop was frozen in his chair, gazing at Naamah with a grim expression that suggested he was fast approaching some invisible precipice. She’d punched through the window, her fist making a neat hole in the glass. Blood streamed from her fingers, but she ignored it, instead examining the black feathers stuck to her skin. The demon flung them to the floor, cursing in a language neither of them understood.
“The crow got away?” Stephanie said, shivering slightly.
Naamah smiled and her teeth appeared, shockingly white. She looked to the priest, a warning behind her eyes. “Back to its rat’s nest.”
Seven
Witches are easy to manipulate. Because if they are up to no good, they also think the same of everyone else.
—THE DEMON PYTHON, TRANSCRIBED FROM The Lies of Babylon
The dead student must have bothered Angela more than she’d thought. Her nightmares had revolved around the gray angel, and those crimson eyes that both fascinated and repelled her with their suggestion of disease and blood. In their depths, she saw herself reflected blacker than pitch, as if all the dirt in her soul had been brought to light. Unfortunately, when she arrived for her first afternoon of class, the sickness inside of her seemed to spread rather than mitigate. Kim was the student teacher presiding over her Literature session, and the moment she took a seat next to Nina, it was painful not to stare at him, thinking about what the night would hold. Suddenly, the image of that dead girl was all around her, haunting her with unspoken accusations.
“You look suitably pathetic,” Nina said, drumming her fingers on the desktop. “Are you seeing the dead in your sleep now too?”
“So that was who they were.” Angela allowed her sarcasm to be heard but stared ahead at the chalkboards. “And here I thought you were making it up.”
“Just more angels, huh?” Nina laughed and laid her head on her arms, eyes closing. “You might not be happy, but I’m glad your latest suicide attempt crapped out. With you here, this class might actually be tolerable for a change.”