Celia watched him. “How good is your Angelic?”
“I can read what’s in front of me.”
Better than Tobias’s, then. She stared at the towers of books lining the shelves, nearly reaching the ceiling, and her chest tightened. Even the most learned philosopher would need hours to sort through this.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Jack
Jack lay on his back on the cold stone floor, his hands bound behind him with iron shackles. Each breath was an agony, opening the wound on his chest. The athame had narrowly missed his heart, and the only thing distracting him from the pain in his chest was the red dust that coated his face and neck, eating into his skin like acid.
He’d been so close—not just to Fiona, but to completing his Great Work. Alexandria had left a message on his phone: she’d cracked the code. But now those plans lay in ruins, too. Papillon had delivered the news just before his arrival at Winderbellow. That filthy, wretched succubus had drained Alexandria of her life and stolen the hard drive. Why, he didn’t know. Likely she was going to use it as a bargaining chip to gain favor with her fire god. I liked her, too. She was beautiful, and she wanted me. What a waste.
The sounds of his own breathing echoed through the cell, his eyes pressed shut as he tried to manage the pain. And what has happened to Fiona? He’d been tossed in a cell with her friend, the wolverine, but she was nowhere to be seen.
His body began to tremble. Is it the blood loss? He couldn’t use Angelic to heal himself while the dust coated him, and no doubt the Purgators would spray him with more as soon as he uttered the first magical syllable. Still, Druloch’s power should heal him soon.
He moaned, the dust searing him, until he felt a wet cloth on his forehead. He opened his eyes. It was the wolverine boy, using his shirt as a cloth. Is his name Alan? Relief flooded him as Alan wiped the dust off his face.
“Are you using your own shirt?” He managed. Druloch’s magic soothed his chest.
Alan nodded.
“And where did the water come from?”
“You don’t want to know.” He finished washing the dust off Jack’s neck and shuffled back to the other side of the cell.
Jack pushed himself up to stare at Fiona’s friend, shirtless under his jacket. Alan leaned against the wall. Unlike Jack, he was unshackled, and he held his head in his hands. He looked physically strong, his torso lean and muscled. Jack hadn’t really noticed him before.
“Alan, right?”
“Yep.” Alan didn’t look up.
“The dust isn’t burning you.”
“I hadn’t finished chanting the spell when they cracked me over the head. I had no aura to burn.”
The unexpected gesture of kindness suggested that—just maybe—they could work together. I’ll be damned if I’m going to die in a Purgator sewer. “They didn’t shackle you.”
“Apparently they don’t see me as a threat.”
“No doubt your friend Tobias is shackled. The Purgators could see by our power that we’re bonded with gods.”
Alan lifted his head. “Gods?”
“The earthly gods. The Purgators call them demons. The Purgators call us demons.”
Alan rubbed a hand across his mouth but didn’t respond. Jack continued to examine him. Alan’s shoulders looked relaxed.
Jack raised an eyebrow. “You do know that we’re probably going to die painful deaths in the near future, don’t you?”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
He flexed his wrists. The irons were tight around them. “You seem awfully calm about it.”
Alan glared at him. “I still hear my classmates screaming in my dreams every night, still see Eric writhing with a flaming arrow in his stomach. I still feel a Harvester’s blood on my hands. Why do I get to live, when they didn’t?” The disgust in his voice was palpable. “It was just luck. And my luck has run out.”
“So why did you help me?”
Alan leaned forward, his jaw clenching. “Because I’m not like you. I killed someone when I had to, but I don’t take pleasure in other people’s suffering. Even if they deserve it.”
He scoffed. “You think I enjoy murdering people?”
“Are you honestly going to tell me that you don’t?” His face was a mask of revulsion.
“I killed for survival just like you did.” Staring at the novice philosopher across from him, something unfamiliar welled up in him. A sudden impulse to tell the truth. It was a reckless feeling, like standing at the edge of a platform, compelled to jump in the path of an oncoming train. “At least, that’s how it started. After hundreds of years…” He trailed off, edging back from the ledge. “Anyway, I’m not murdering just for the sake of it. My father may have been a sadist, but I am not. It’s for the greater good.”
Alan snorted, unconvinced.
“Your friend Tobias doesn’t know what he’s done. The gods don’t give their power for free. I know that better than anyone.”
The boy tilted back his head. “What do you mean?”