Archon(51)

The pentacle relit itself, beckoning.





Fifteen



Every Summoning has the potential for disaster. I myself once summoned a demon who was not what she seemed. Since then, each morning I live has been paid for in blood.



—MONSIGNOR JOSEPH MAUSS, UNOFFICIAL CORRESPONDENCE





Two hours and—nothing.

Angela had taken her place at the northern tip of the star that made up the pentacle, chanting according to Stephanie’s instructions, Nina taking the opposite position near the outside balustrade, both of them flanked on right and left by robed people who could have been absolutely anyone. But in all that time, very little had changed except the weather, and the occasional flash of Lyrica’s stocking-covered feet from under her robe.

Stephanie refused to revel brazenly, yet the more Angela failed, the more she smiled, and the more the new sorority ring on Angela’s finger began to feel like a manacle, binding her to the earth. It was like she’d made a contract with the Devil, only this devil would torment you for at least four years and finally dangle you over a cliff. The wind and rain had died down, the new silence signifying that this was the eye of the intense storm hammering the coast. Angela continued to chant as a steady drizzle rolled off her hair.

Stephanie continued to circle her, like a shadow that never completely disappeared.

“This isn’t going very well.”

Unlike everyone else, Sophia hadn’t moved since Angela arrived, still staring at some far, dark corner of the room that held only inky blackness. Since the eerie quiet had arrived she looked absolutely riveted.

Something wasn’t right. In so many ways.

“Not very well at all.” Stephanie slid by again.

Angela paused, glaring at her. “Then tell me what I’m doing wrong. What kind of gibberish am I saying, anyway?”

“You don’t know Latin?” Stephanie shook her head, turning away. “You must have been homeschooled—before your parents died in that suspicious fire, of course.”

If that was meant to be nasty, it was a sad attempt. Angela’s sense of justice wasn’t about to change. Accident or not, for various reasons, her parents had deserved their untimely end, and she refused to sob over it. Even in her particular version of Hell, Erianna was probably drinking herself stupid, and Marcus was likely having sex with an underage girl. He’d do that often, especially if he knew Angela could hear him in the other room. Often, she’d tune him out by trying to suffocate herself with pillows, never managing to die, but at least waking up to a wonderful silence.

“A sacrifice,” a cool, male voice murmured in her ear.

Kim had revealed himself at last, his musky breath reminding her of kisses in the dark. If only they could be together alone again instead of wet and miserable. If only Angela didn’t adore her beautiful angel so much, she was willing to trample on anyone and anything to find him, even crushing what was left of her pride by muttering a dead language in a hurricane.

“Tell the spirits,” he continued, “that you’ll give them what is most important to you . . .”

All this time, he’d been standing right behind her, hiding beneath his robe. Now he took the two short steps back to his spot, seconds before Stephanie turned back around. The moment she did, it became clear to her that something had changed. Stephanie bit her lip, glancing around at the other sorority members suspiciously, marching with that light step of hers along a path of candles. “You’ve given up already?”

“No.” Angela’s heartbeat quickened. “I’m going to offer them something.”

Stephanie peered at her, too interested, her green eyes too cold in the flickering light. “It can’t just be something—”

“It’s going to be what I hold the most dear. That’s the way this works, isn’t it?”

“Who told you?”

Angela didn’t answer. Instead, her heart raced, faster and faster. If she wanted to see her angels at all, the sacrifice would literally be gut-wrenching. The only important thing left to her was her dreams, and no more dreams also meant no more inspiration for her paintings. It meant no more reasons to fall asleep, or even wake up in the morning so that she could simply fall asleep again, which was the nearest thing to death she’d ever experienced. But if she didn’t follow Kim’s suggestions, the night might end on worse than a sour note. This was a different kind of suicide, one even more painful because it would kill her spirit.

But this was her last gasp, after all.

Kim can’t lead me in the invocation. And just saying what I’m offering won’t be enough.

Her heart continued to hammer, like an insistent drum. Angela looked to Nina—wet and miserable too, but pale, shivery, ready to faint—and then to Sophia. For the first instance since Angela entered the chapel, their glances connected and held. Sophia’s soulless expression had returned. Angela began fading away with her, entering a silent, mindless void. Oddly enough there were words in that void, or inside of Sophia, somehow passing between them, because Angela heard herself speaking.