Clouds swirl overhead as Jude and I work together to slide the stone slab back into place. By the time we’re through, the temperature has dropped and the sky is spitting.
Thunder rumbles.
A gust of wind rips through the ruins.
I slide my arms into the sleeves of my coat and fish my phone from the pocket. The screen lights up with a slew of missed messages.
Half a dozen from Twig and two from Dad.
The parade’s over. He wants to know where I am and why Mercy Bogaard never appeared on the Fire of 1822 float. Also, severe thunderstorms are approaching. The festival’s postponed. Could I please let him know I’m okay?
I type out a quick reply.
All good, Dad! Sorry to worry you. Something came up with a friend and I had to help. Will be home soon. XOXO.
I hate being dishonest, but I hate worrying him even more. A vague half-truth is the best I can do.
I scroll through Twig’s texts as lightning flashes in the distance and Jude covers the door with detritus—dead leaves and sticks and chunks of smaller stone.
10:12 a.m.: Fracture confirmed. Sling acquired. Ortho scheduled for next week. Zero stars. Would not recommend.
10:54 a.m.: Pain meds: engaged. Recliner: activated. Boredom: reaching critical mass. Parade update: conspicuously absent? Requesting field report.
11:11 a.m.: Gnarly storms inbound. Mom says festival is postponed. I’m beginning to suspect your battery has passed from this life to the next.
11:37 a.m.: Ground control to Major Tom. Come in, Major Tom. Your phone is ringing, which means the battery is intact. Mom says you weren’t in the parade and your dad called. Storms about to go full apocalypse. Do you copy? Over.
I shoot him a text every bit as vague but slightly more truthful than the one I sent my dad.
Sorry for going AWOL. Went on side quest. Too much to explain. Will call when I can.
I drop the phone into my pocket.
Jude finishes camouflaging the door.
“I’m going to find the tomb,” I announce.
“What?”
“According to the map, it’s right over there.” With a pair of fallen angels locked inside.
I don’t wait for permission or protest. A fork of lightning splits through the clouds as I turn toward the cemetery and go.
“Selah,” Jude calls.
I keep going.
He catches up. “We need to get indoors.”
I only walk faster. “We knowwhat he’s after now,” I say over the wind. “Rafe wants to open the tomb. The question is—why?”
Does he think Seraphina will share her powers with him if he lets her out? Is this some foolish duty, passed down from one rotten generation to the next? Or does he simply want to unleash chaos?
Lightning flashes.
Thunder booms.
And the sky opens.
