Nothing. Just the scraping of twigs and leaves.
It’s in my head. The voice is in my head. No one else can hear it.
Kim continued to sleep, rolling over and resting his arm against his forehead. If the voice truly came from an outside source, it was certainly loud enough to have awakened him by now.
If we tarry in this place.
If we take not the chance to taste . . .
Whoever was singing, was calling her.
Angela left Kim behind, slowly walking through the same tunnel of foliage that had led her to Tileaf and a thousand dreadful images, most of which lingered in her mind. Her boots crackled through leaves and dry twigs, splashed through mud, and tapped against old stone. The weeds on either side of the path shivered, as if saying farewell; Angela patted the Grail resting in its cold lump beneath her blouse and slipped her fingers through a space between the buttons, stroking its smooth surface. Without warning, it struck her—perhaps Angela had never heard this song or this voice before. Perhaps it had been tailor-made to seduce her. As if whoever was singing knew exactly what she wanted to hear, offering it to her along with all her dreams and hopes, if she would simply—
Come to me.
Bushes rustled nearby.
Angela froze, frightened, then relaxed in relief.
Revealed by the moving bushes, Nina shifted her sleeping position against a tree trunk. Her blouse had been torn by a patch of thorns. Otherwise, she looked too peaceful for someone possessed. But if Angela tried to wake her up, she might only end up speaking to Mikel.
Angela shuffled past her, slowly following the path out of the park and up to the immense wrought-iron gate. As always, the return journey seemed shorter than the arrival, and she stepped out onto the cobblestones tentatively, like someone might catch her, hear her, and force the trees to snag her back inside.
Now where do I go?
A long wet street escaped into the fog ahead, and on either side stretched the avenues and tunnels Kim had used to get them to the Park in the first place.
Instead, Angela chose the route the song—or her heart—suggested. A narrow alley directly to her left. The verses repeated themselves, throbbing inside of her like a heartbeat, and soon she was obeying, entering the most dilapidated section of the Academy’s Western District, its buildings more like vacant shacks hoisted too tightly against one another. A rat skittered across the street and over her boot.
Come to me.
Luz passed her by, little more than a blur of black and gray.
Grates that covered the ocean began to line both sides of the street, water churning beneath them, frothy and ice cold. But the melody pounding through her head drowned out both the sea and the threat of its unusually high waves, their tips licking the grate’s lower edges. And somehow, she knew where to go, despite distractions, despite guilt—
You were there in the Garden of Shadows.
You were there when the Father took wing.
And my words will remind you of pleasure . . .
She paused, backpedaling to a stone church, its perimeter surrounded by barbed wire. Whoever owned the incredible voice was inside the building, waiting, and the instinct carried her like a dream, one foot after the other pushing her up the stairs, and then hand by hand over the fence and the barbs that tore into her skirt and her tights. The Vatican had closed off this church to the public and to students for good, for forever, perhaps because it stood too near Tileaf’s tree, and so, too close to secrets. Time and acid rain had both done their share, and once-impressive stone reliefs had been worn away to featureless lumps. Most of the stained-glass windows had been cracked or shattered, and the wooden doors had warped from constant rain. Locked or unlocked, a hard push would snap them open, but Angela tried the handles anyway.
Cool, tarnished brass met her hand.
She turned her wrist.
The door gave way, creaking open.
And imprison your soul in a ring.
Gray haze veiled the altar.
Numerous puddles surrounded the pews like moats, reflecting the brick of the nearest towers in a collage of brown and russet. Ragged holes had been torn in the walls near the ceiling, leaving most of the floor naked to the rain, but Angela followed the central aisle, picking her away around the water, wondering at the moldy tapestries and the stench of mildew. Then the mist receded, revealing one window still intact. Angela stopped to examine the stained glass, dulled beneath its film of grime. Its image was barely discernible: an angel handing a lily to a frightened young woman.
“She carried a treasure in her body.”
A soft voice. A real voice. Just like the one that had been singing to her.
“That’s the legend, or so I’ve heard . . .”
The pitch sounded gentle but too deep to be female. She forced herself to turn around, heart working overtime, everything seeming to happen in slow motion, as if time were in the very process of freezing—