Archon(83)
Mikel knew enough to dash into the bushes, before he could grab her.
He couldn’t wait.
Twenty-five
They look into the soul, they see all sins. Worst of all, they judge accordingly.
—VENERABLE MAXIMINA, Lost Writings and Annotations
Angela threw open the doors of the cathedral, rain streaming down her face and squishing in the soles of her boots. Thunder split the air behind her, horrendously loud.
Yet the music inside of the church was even louder. Apparently, the feast had been postponed until shortly before she arrived, probably because of the harsh weather. While the church had been a morass of darkness and unholy light only a day or so ago, now it overflowed with life and expectation, every wick lit, every candle burning, every lamp shining brightly.
Angela stood at the end of the aisle, alone. Ahead, and flanking either side of the building, rows upon rows of students stood in their pews, observing the tail end of the procession heading toward the altar.
She couldn’t even count the novices. There could have been one hundred, two hundred.
No sign of Israfel. If he’d arrived before her, then he was hiding.
She proceeded down the aisle, scanning heads as she went.
Students turned and stared at her, some angry, most simply perplexed by her dirty blouse and tattered skirt. And in the meantime, the bishops and superintendent priests climbed the short set of stairs to their seats, robes drifting across the gray stone. Angela followed them, growing ever more aware of people examining her like the freak show she must have looked like, unable to find a spot to sit or stand among them, or even a friendly face that was inviting her in. Then the priests turned around to face the assembled students, taking their assigned places at the head of the altar.
Angela shoved her way into the nearest pew on her right, still dripping water everywhere.
Lyrica Pengold stood on the opposite side of the aisle, goggling at Angela like she was a corpse come back from the grave. By sheer bad luck, the entire Pentacle Sorority was gathered next to her, Stephanie standing in the very front row closest to the altar.
Sophia and Naamah flanked Stephanie like bodyguards.
Sophia’s all right. But that could change in a minute. I’ve got to get her out of here.
The organ music stopped, its echo resounding against the walls of the church. Slowly, the head priest of the Academy raised his hands, motioning for complete silence. Students who had been chattering while the music continued now stopped to listen, very few paying any more attention to Angela.
Lyrica, though, trembled. She leaned over and muttered to a sorority member on her right. Instantly, the message began to relay farther up the ranks, heading inexorably for Stephanie Walsh and the demon standing with her.
Shit.
“I want to thank everyone,” the priest proclaimed, his voice booming all the way back into the eaves, “who was involved in last night’s relief efforts at the lower levels of the Academy. Those who opened their dormitories to shelter students now without possessions, and those who assisted in the brave task of bringing the deceased out of the waters, and into a place where their bodies could be prepared for burial. Despite the intense wind and waves, by the blessing of God, we suffered very few casualties. Three students, two from overseas, and one whom we will greatly mourn, our resident valedictorian, Maribel Heins—”
Some of the students gasped, shifting uncomfortably in their seats.
“—we will be having a funeral Mass for them tomorrow at eight in the morning. All students are asked to attend and pray for the souls of their departed brothers and sisters.”
Stephanie turned her head, glancing at Angela.
Then she turned around, an upsetting smile on her lips.
Angela patted the Grail beneath her blouse, wishing Troy still carried it after all. That way, it would be eternally impossible for Stephanie to see or get her hands on it, and that was assuming she could without breaking under its gaze. But she could look into the eyes of a demon without being intimidated—that had to count for something. If she and Naamah had been making plans over the long night, then it was lost on everyone around her, a testament to how well Stephanie could squash her emotions when she felt like it.
When her name was announced by the priest, she barely reacted.
“—and so, as head of the sorority that claimed Maribel as a member, Stephanie Walsh will now address the student body in her stead before we formally begin the Mass—”
Stephanie slipped out of her pew and walked up to the podium where the priest had been standing, her skirt swishing around her hips. She was probably the only person at the Academy who could get away with attending Mass in a soft-porn school-girl uniform. Then, in a gesture of astounding disrespect, she took her maroon hair out of its ponytail, regathered it, and slouched against the podium, staring out at the students arranged in front of her. “Students of Westwood Academy, of the University,” she said slowly. “I’m sorry to say that one of the dearest sisters in our sorority died last night—though not in the way you’ve been led to believe.”