The girl regarded her with horror. “Why does it have to be me who goes in there and—”
“Because . . .” Stephanie yanked her in close enough for a kiss. But her mouth was on her cheek, and her voice was thick with warnings and nothing else. Just enough intimacy to keep down suspicion. Just enough forcefulness to keep up appearances. “You spoke out of turn yesterday, and we both know how bad that looks to the other members. Besides, I shouldn’t have to remind you, she can hear you whine. So if you can’t handle what’s coming next, close your eyes. That’s what I’ve learned to do.” She let Lyrica go. “Otherwise, she’ll break you in the hard way.”
Lyrica stumbled backward, brushing the spit off her chin.
Then she dashed away, her shoes tapping through spilled wine, her fists clenched at her sides.
The couple at Stephanie’s right paused as she finally opened the door, stepping beyond the threshold. Before the latch clicked, she caught a final glimpse of a trashed university girl, bending down to lick the wine off the stone.
Inside, the music faded to a dull pulse. Stephanie stood alone with her nervous stomach, the stale smell of alcohol, and the fumes of illegal weed clinging to her clothes. Her ears rang, tormented by the sudden silence.
She turned the lock, forcing herself to relax.
Naamah sat in the middle of what used to be an office connected to the chapel, her chair little more than a sad piece of furniture sewn and patched to a mockery. Most of the room was a chaotic mess, overloaded with collapsed brick, stone, and shards of broken stained glass. Wooden boards had been nailed over the open windows, but grimy curtains still suffered from whatever wind entered, snapping their fabric like miniature whips. Thunder rumbled from the sea as the storm moved swiftly inland.
“That girl is more annoying than a cockroach,” Naamah said. “You’d think she’d have adjusted to this boring shit by now.”
Blood fanned out from her bare toes, leaking from a pigeon whose upturned feet snatched at the air. The walls were covered in crimson pentagrams, all of them remnants of portals Naamah used to communicate with demons Stephanie wasn’t important enough to meet. Strangely, though, there was no cloying smell; solid evidence that Naamah often sucked out whatever life remained in that blood, forcing the odor to vanish with it.
Everywhere Stephanie looked the repeating star pattern burned at her eyes. “Did the report go well for you tonight?” she said quietly.
She set the candleholder on a mound of broken stone, its flame licking at the gloom.
The blackness was like an aura. Alive. Listening. Absorbing the light.
Something was wrong. Usually, all of Stephanie’s worries melted away once she and Naamah were face-to-face. That included the fear of being in the demon’s presence, of making her angry, and of asking for services that always required a higher and higher price.
Yet this time the heavy feeling in her stomach hadn’t gone away.
Naamah kicked at the pigeon, still examining her nails. “No.” She looked up through her braids, her eyes like dark stars. “We need some results tonight. I can’t keep making excuses for you.”
Stephanie stepped closer, half in a daze, her mind turning in circles.
That last word sounded too harsh to be real.
“I can handle this. From what I read about Angela Mathers, she’s gifted, but nothing special. Tonight will be the end of it all.”
“She sees angels in her dreams.” Naamah cradled her own chin with a hand, leaning on an elbow. “That’s hard to ignore.”
“You’re losing faith in me. Just say it.” Her voice cracked, and all of a sudden her blinding confidence shattered and revealed her frustration. “You think I’ve wasted your time. Don’t you?” God, she sounded so stupid, so needy. Like a child begging Mommy to kiss her wounds. She wandered closer, barely aware of the blood on the floor as she knelt beneath the demon, laying her head on her lap. Naamah had her own smell: like ash and vinegar, harsh but somehow infinitely familiar and consoling. Unlike so many details in Stephanie’s life, it had always been there when she needed it. Or had the bravery to want it. “But I know I’m the Archon. I—I—”
Naamah waited, eyebrows raised.
“Mother.” Stephanie turned to her. “I’m worried about that Jinn-rat ruining tonight’s ceremony. I thought we’d have found it by now, taken care of things.”
“No. You’re worried about that priest’s feelings for you. Like a typical, weak, human female.”
Stephanie caught the tears before they fell. Outbursts of emotion were never welcome, and when she looked up again, Naamah’s face remained hard and impassive. Stephanie’s vision had glazed over, yet she could still see there was no real sympathy to be found, just like the archbishop had warned. Until Naamah gently brushed back some of Stephanie’s bangs, and she found the courage to hold on to the demon’s hand, rubbing the bloodied fingertips against her cheek.