Page 43 of Redline Communion

The show ends, and I let the next episode start.

Chapter eleven

The Offering Pt. I

Lorelei

The annex sits behind the church proper, close enough to share its foundation but far enough away that the church can pretend not to know what happens here. No pews, no stained glass, no hymnals, no cameras. Rafe told me that once, weeks ago, before I understood why it mattered.

The stone floor has been worn smooth by people whose Sunday clothes probably never came anywhere near this room. Upstairs, thousands of people sing about salvation under stage lights.

Down here, nobody is singing yet.

Helena dresses me in the room off the entrance, her hands steady at my back as she fastens hooks I can’t reach. White, like Cassian told me in the garden. Under the candles, the fabric looks almost luminous, which seems excessive for something nobody will explain.

“Where’s Ash?”

Helena’s fingers stop on the last hook.

“He isn’t part of tonight.”

“Why not?”

“That isn’t mine to explain.”

I look at her in the mirror. “Does anyone in this family have a job that includes explaining things?”

She checks the line of my shoulder instead of answering.

Of course.

I glance toward the door anyway, half expecting Ash to appear late and angry, already looking for whoever needs to be blamed. He doesn’t, and the relief comes before I can stop it. If Ash isn’t here, I don’t have to watch his face while this happens or see him standing there with all that guilt and nowhere useful to put it.

I hate the relief.

A woman I don’t recognize brings an ornate chalice to me after Helena leaves. She’s older, with careful hands and a voice that sounds built for ceremonies instead of conversations. Pale gold liquid fills the bottom, bruised petals settled beneath it.

“What is that?”

“A special flower.”

“That didn’t answer the question.”

“It eases the transition. Everyone takes it tonight.”

She lifts a smaller cup from the tray at her side and drinks from it first, one swallow before setting it down.

“The house does not ask of the vessel what it does not ask of itself. You’ll understand shortly.”

I look past her toward the door, where two people I don’t know are standing in the hall. Nobody says I have to drink it, but the woman keeps holding the chalice out while everybody waits, and I notice that hers was a sip.

Mine goes to the bottom.

I take it.

The liquid tastes floral at first. The bitterness arrives after I swallow, and the woman retrieves the empty cup before I can set it down.

“How long does it take?”