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Why didn’t my parents tear down the statue that stands as an icon?
When I get to the clearing, I slow my steps. In the distance, I hear Benedict whine, and guilt gnaws at me. I should have brought him. I’m sure Grandmother has him tethered to the pole outside the kitchen door.
I just want to be alone with my thoughts and my misery, though. I don’t deserve the happiness he brings.
I move toward Abacus’s tree. Once I’m near enough, I search the ground for a sharp stone and, in lieu of a proper memorial, I carve a line into the trunk of the tree to mark the first anniversary.
The dagger he used to cut out the birthmarks on his shoulder blades was an antique dating centuries back. Its place sits empty in the library still. For those Penitents who chose to shave the head of their sacrifice, inflicting yet another humiliation on the condemned woman, that was the blade they used. No scissors; that hadn’t been barbaric enough. The significance of it all, the butchering of the hair that is so much a part of the Wildblood identity, Abacus having chosen that particular knife to slice the mark of our ancestry off his back, it is not lost on me.
That knife, worth a fortune once, now rusts in the bottom of the lake—and good riddance to it. If Grandmother knew, I’m sure she’d send a diving party to retrieve it.
Willow’s face in the window last night comes to mind. The way she looked at me when I dragged her from Bec’s bedside and locked her away is burned into my mind. Her concern for my sister. Her disbelief. Her desperation.
Then Grandmother’s warning.
I will not allow you to waste this second chance.
I turn from the tree, that rock clenched in my fist and with a scream, I send it crashing into the water. I push my hands into my hair, pulling at it, the pain of the migraine almost unbearable. When Willow and I stood under this tree just a few nights ago, she set the tips of her fingers on my temples and, as if by some witchcraft, banished the pain. The way my head feels now, it’s like someone’s pushing pins into an effigy of me. Dozens of them. Hundreds.
I walk back toward the house, but veer off toward the chapel when I get to the crossroads. Anger carries me toward the statue. I find my hands are fists and my jaw is set tight with rage.
I don’t plan on paying any attention to it, but I am going to do what my brother would have wanted me to do: light a candle for him inside the chapel. Abacus, for all our Grandmother’s teaching, still believed in a good god. A benevolent one. He was terrified of Shemhazai’s wrath. As much as Grandmother had tried to beat into him that Shemhazai was his god, he’d resisted. He was stronger than she wanted to believe.
In the end, not strong enough, but not in any way weak.
The red light of the tabernacle lamp comes into view first, and I don’t mean to pause at the broken altar. I don’t mean to pay the demon-angel any mind, but my eye catches on something glinting around his sword hand and I stop. Because there, since my visit with Grandmother, someone has hung a crucifix.
Is it a mockery of the angel? Surely it could not be Grandmother. She would not affix a crucifix to his wrist. Not Bec, obviously. The staff wouldn’t come here. I hear their whispers. They’re certain the thing is haunted. Willow is locked away. It’s not her. Was it Emmanuel? An effort to temper Shemhazai’s power? His grip on us?
It’s strange, out of character.
I leave it alone. I’ll ask Emmanuel about it later. Instead, I go into the chapel, which always feels cold no matter the outside temperature, and light two candles. One for Abacus and one for Bec. Because it can’t hurt, can it?
My cell phone rings. I lift it out of my pocket to find it’s Emmanuel.
“Where are you?” he asks, sounding urgent, his voice echoing as if off empty halls.
“Out at the chapel. Where are you?”
“I came to find you in your usual place. Heading back now. You need to meet me out front now.”
“Why? Is Bec—”
“Bec’s stable. She woke up a little while ago and managed to have a few sips of broth. Larissa just called.”
“Larissa?” The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and I make my way out of the chapel and back toward the house.
“There’s been an attempt on another woman.”
I hurry my steps. “What?”
“Disciples. She’s alive. Badly hurt but alive. And we need to meet Larissa.”
“Why?’
“They were interrupted. A neighbor was walking her dog and the thing went batshit apparently. Neighbor knew something was off at the house, and when she set the dog loose, it went bolting for the back door. Must have scared them, and three men fled, one of them injured.”
