“Still alive?”
“That isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little bit funny,” I reply, my jaw tense to keep the shivering at bay. “Are you on your way back?”
“Already on U.S. soil.”
A thrill of delight zips through my body.
“Are you home?” he asks.
I consider lying. I don’t want him to worry more than he already is. Me at home in the middle of a school day will definitely make him worry.
“Because if you aren’t,” he says, “you’re not paying much attention to your carbon footprint.”
I sit upright.
“Several lights are on, and your dad’s working in the front garden. I’m a little concerned he might think I’m a stalker.”
I smile. “You’re here.”
“On your front porch. Looking at a very strange jack-o-lantern. I think it might be a cowboy hat attached to a jellybean with legs?”
“It’s a UFO beaming up a cow.”
A low chuckle rumbles in my ear.
Ten seconds later, he’s rapping on my bedroom door. He pokes his head inside—his hair tousled, his eyes shadowed—and my intuition was right. Clearly, the sight of me in bed under all these covers in the middle of the day worries him immensely.
He crosses the room in two easy strides and sits beside me, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. “You’re sick?”
“I feel fine.” The words aren’t even a lie, because right now, with him here, I do feel fine. More than fine, actually. I cross my legs beneath the covers. It takes significant restraint not to grab his hand and pull it into my lap. Instead, I tuck my hair behind my ears and tug at my sleeves. “So, did he tell you anything helpful—the monk guy? Was it worth the trip?”
“I’m going to tell Rafe we’re on his side.”
I blink several times, positive I misheard.
“We’ll open the tomb in exchange for Seraphina undoing the curse.”
“Jude, Seraphina isn’t going to?—”
“I know she isn’t. But we don’t need her to undo anything.” He reaches inside his coat pocket and removes a small notepad. “Father Odo might be the strangest person I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t let me take photographs or make copies of anything. But he knew his stuff, and he had a lot to say. I planned to write everything down once I left. But really, it all boils down to this.”
He hands me the notepad. Two lines have been written on the page in his familiar, controlled handwriting:
A curse of a fallen one may linger upon the mortal soul, but its roots die when the caster falls. From the Thirteenth Epistle.
“What’s the Thirteenth Epistle?”
“A letter. Part of a collection he calledScriptura Obscura. Its origins trace back to a secret order in Rome from the seventh century.”
I read it again, slower this time. “So if Seraphina dies … the curse dies with her?”
Jude nods.
“Your plan is to kill her?”
The fact that he doesn’t laugh or scoff at the absurdity unnerves me.
