Then, as if in answer to his prayer, he saw it.
He crossed the street toward the church with one arm raised to protect his eyes. Even through the rain, he faintly smelled smoke. Lights in the surrounding buildings flickered from the storm, and he could almost swear that this was the night the world would end.
Jac threw open the wooden church doors and collapsed onto the damp floorboards. Immediately, strong arms hoisted him up, causing him to scream out from the pain in his shoulder.
“Asylum!” he screamed. “I seek asylum!”
But the young man, he discovered, was not a priest. Though a Creed dangled from his neck, he wore regular street clothes, soaked through from the rain.
And he held a gun to Jac’s head.
Jac raised his hands, wincing as he did so. “Don’t shoot!”
“Are you a whiteboot?” he demanded.
“Do I look like a whiteboot?”
The man inspected his face with narrowed eyes. “You look familiar.”
That probably had to do with his wanted poster. “You don’t.”
“You’re Jac Mardlin,” he breathed, and Jac braced himself for a bullet. After all, Jac was wanted dead or alive. But the man lowered his gun and laughed. “I’m Harvey Gabbiano.”
Jac recognized the name. Despite their mutual friends, he didn’t relax. Harvey was a Chainer—a bit like Vianca, only he could bind you to a place rather than a person. Jac knew better than to trust him.
Harvey gestured to the main church area, where a number of others huddled in pews as a priest distributed blankets. “Looks like we have a crowd for the night.”
Jac didn’t intend to stay more than a few hours, until the madness passed. “Do you know what’s going on out there?”
“The whiteboots brought in the Republic’s guard to institute a curfew. The North Side is now officially on lockdown until morning.” Harvey shook his head. “They came storming into the variety show where I was, asking for paperwork and everything. The Senate had that vote this morning—the one about the talent registrations. Guess it was about more than they let the public know.”
Jac had been trying to keep up with the news, but his work with Sophia took nearly all his focus. He hadn’t realized the world had turned so bleak.
“Do you think the whiteboots will break into a church?” Jac asked. After all, if they were acting like it was the Revolution all over again, then their next step would be closing down all the churches of the Faithful—for good.
“They might come here,” Harvey said darkly. “But I think they’d go for the gangs first, wouldn’t you?”
“I guess so,” Jac answered. He still didn’t anticipate getting much sleep tonight.
Jac crept back into the main hall of the church. Paintings filled each wall, depicting stories that were included in the scriptures. The Faith was a collection of stories, of lessons and superstitions, each one adding more texture to the Faith’s overall fabric.
The largest painting on the back wall was from a recent story—the martyrdom of a Mizer princess who credited the Revolution to the work of a malison, a Faith term for someone with an unholy talent. The painting illustrated her last moments of life, her head bent low with a noose slipped around her neck. It’d taken place in New Reynes, in Liberty Square—the same place crime lords were executed now.
A number of blue votive candles burned in rows beneath her, and Jac treaded carefully toward the display. A votive candle symbolized a prayer offering, a wish.
He wondered if he would die like she did—the death of a gangster. All for an oath he’d made to Levi on a drunken night five years ago. Jac had agreed to this assignment because he’d been prepared to face the worst for his friend, but he wondered if Levi even flinched at the thought of such a death for himself. It was a fitting ending for a lord. For a king.
Jac reached forward and lit a votive candle for Levi.
Maybe Jac would die at the hand of Charles Torren. At least then it would be because of his own decision, his own choices, but he couldn’t imagine a more gruesome end. The rumors he’d heard about Charles were frightening enough to paint and frame on one of the walls of this church.
Jac lit a candle for Sophia. Because of all the rumors he’d heard, he still suspected her tales were the worst.
Lastly, he lit a candle for himself, and prayed that if he did die, that he’d do so unburdened and unafraid.
“I don’t meet many gangsters who are Faithful,” Harvey said behind him, causing Jac to startle and knock his candle on the floor. The glass shattered, and the flame flickered out. “Muck. I’m sorry. Let me—”
“No.No,” Jac told him sharply. He didn’t want a favor from Harvey—a favor from a Chainer meant a debt that demanded something in return. But then pain radiated out from his shoulder, and he let out a groan.
