“Sophia,” Kim said. He closed the book and stood over her, taking a moment to gather in some more of her paintings, her dolls. His gaze lingered on the gray angel, but soon turned back to Angela, golden and searching. His stare felt more penetrating and grim than before. “She was the one glaring at me yesterday in the church. Is she your roommate?”
“She’s a member of the Pentacle Sorority. That’s what’s important.”
“I see.” Kim sighed, rubbing back the red in his bangs. “And she’s not in Stephanie’s good graces?”
“Don’t you know about any of this? I can’t believe Stephanie wouldn’t tell you.”
He sat back on the bed, not leaning into the pillows with her, but staring at the scars on her exposed arms, his attention then flitting like hers to more dolls, and the paintings, and the barely perceptible tremors of candlelight. He was analyzing her, of course, probably quietly judging her qualifications to be the Ruin according to her personality, past, interests, and desires. Unfortunately, his fingers strayed back to her face, and she almost forgot to keep her guard up as he cupped her cheek, bringing her in close.
“If Stephanie made you so angry, if your friend will pay for it, why are we doing this right now? I can leave if this makes you too uncomfortable.”
“No,” Angela said shortly. “Otherwise, you won’t tell me anything about finding angels. You said so yourself.”
“That’s right.” Kim leaned forward on an elbow, bending over her with his shadow. “I did say that. Well, what do you want to know, Miss Mathers? I brought one of my best books and you’re too flighty to read it. That’s not really my fault.”
“I don’t need a book. I need someone who has experience. How do I find an angel? Where are they?”
“First things first. What kind of angel are we talking about?” He pointed at the paintings on her wall, his voice cooling to a murmur. “Are they dead or alive?”
Angela sucked in a breath, overwhelmed by the sudden sense of her own ignorance. The question had taken her completely off guard, and without a second thought, she knew he was referring to how much she believed in what she painted and obviously saw. Were the angels alive? Were they real? Angela had always firmly felt that to be the case, yet she didn’t truly know a single fact about angels at all—besides that they existed—even after years of watching them interact in her dreams. Her own name was like some kind of joke. Dead?
Death? It was everywhere she turned anymore, but never helping anyone out.
Last night, as Angela and Sophia stood before each other, still reeling over everything that had taken place, Sophia had mentioned what it would mean for Angela to join the Pentacle Sorority.
If you do join, you’ll have to treat me like I’m no better than dead. You’ll have to watch me suffer, just like the others do.
Angela said she wouldn’t.
That she’d make sure Stephanie—and her friends—never touched Sophia again.
The ridiculousness of her reply hit them both at once. Sophia’s gray eyes had widened. She’d turned from the window, clearly astonished that anyone in their right mind would risk everything to protect her, especially when that anyone was a girl she barely knew. And Angela couldn’t justify it either, even if she was crazy, until that sudden ache seized hold of her and she realized why.
If Sophia was destined to be a doll, then she was at least going to be Angela’s.
Sophia wasn’t dead. Angela’s angels couldn’t be dead. But she knew one thing absolutely.
“They’re mine,” Angela said, reaching out as if she could caress the beautiful angel. Kim’s eyes never left her for a moment, but a muscle in his jaw tightened slightly. Was he nervous? Jealous? But it passed, and he took her hand, settling it back on her lap. “That’s . . . all I know. Not if they’re dead or alive. Only that they’re mine, in the sense that they’ve been with me for a while. Like they’ve been existing for me all along.”
Kim unbuttoned his collar, taking a deep breath. “Then that leaves you with a quandary.” Black hair tickled the side of her cheek, and he whispered into her ear, like it was important to keep even a ghost from hearing them. “A deceased angel can be summoned, but not controlled,” he said, staring back at her in the reflection of her bedroom mirror.
His white face seemed so strangely perfect and balanced, it could have been chiseled from ceramic. Completely unlike hers, especially when all she could see was her scars and how worthless that fire had been. She’d been failing in her search for too long.