His countenance slacked. “The occult?” That obviously was not what he’d expected to hear.
Rone released a long breath. Tried to refocus himself. Tried to bury the pain and panic rising in his chest. “The grafters have vessels.”
“I know this.” The Angelic’s voice was curt. “That’s what makes them grafters, I believe.”
“One of their leaders, a man named Kazen,” Rone continued, his shoulders tense as iron rods, “is trying to summon a numen supposedly greater than all others.” He looked at Sandis, who nodded confirmation. “He’s already killed innocent people to do it.”
“Kolosos,” Sandis whispered.
The Angelic jerked as if stabbed by a knife. “What did you say?”
Sandis spoke louder. “Kolosos, sir. That’s the numen’s name.”
The Angelic shook his head. Paused. “And how do you know this?” His eyes narrowed at Sandis.
Rone took a step forward, putting one shoulder between Sandis and his father. “They thought she was the daughter of someone who owed them money. Captured her. Turned her loose when they realized the mistake.” He inwardly winced—the grafters would never turn a prisoner loose, mistake or not. Hopefully the Angelic didn’t realize that. “But she saw things when she was down there. Heard things.”
“Please,” Sandis said, gently easing Rone back. “We have no voice with the government. No power. Surely you can . . . do something.”
But the Angelic shook his head, denying them again. Rone was sure his skin would melt from the amount of heat brewing inside him.
“Do not fear, child,” the Angelic said. “He will not succeed. You speak of a depth of the occult that is incapable of being summoned into our world. No vessel would survive that amount of evil.”
Sandis blinked, and Rone noticed a tear on the rim of her eyelashes. “But, sir—”
The Angelic dismissed both of them with a wave of his hand. “Leave now. I do not want to force you to depart, but I will call upon the priests’ arms if need be.” He focused on Rone. “Do not come here again.”
And just like that, he vanished into the curtained hallway. The sound of a door opening and closing echoed around them, followed by the clicking of a lock.
Rone almost chased him down. Almost kicked in that door and grabbed the selfish, godly man by his collar. How good it would feel to throw a fist into his father’s wrinkled face . . .
But he didn’t. For a long time, he didn’t move, trying to garner some sort of control over himself. Because otherwise, he’d kill the Angelic right there in the Lily Tower, and then he’d be in Gerech, too.
“Rone.”
Rone growled.
Sandis grabbed his arm and tugged. “Rone,” she whispered. “Someone is coming.”
He blinked. Turned toward the stairs. Of course no one would leave the Angelic alone for so long. Rone couldn’t possibly be the only person who wanted him dead.
He ushered Sandis back the way they had come, behind the privacy wall and the sheer curtains surrounding it. A priestess came up with a broom to clean the already-immaculate space. When her back was turned, they quietly snuck down the stairs. A small priest asked them if they were lost, but Rone plowed past him without a word, Sandis scrambling to keep up. He wanted out of this place.
He descended the next set of stairs, then the next, feeling eyes on him. He ripped off his pilgrim sash.
His mother. What was he going to do about his mother?
As much as he hated to admit it, he’d held on to a sliver of hope that his father would help them. That his heart would soften for the family he’d forsaken.
Now what would Rone do? He needed money. But he’d never make more than Ernst Renad. He’d never be able to out-bribe the briber.
She’ll be all right. She’s strong, he reminded himself.
He reached their shoes; about half the pairs left by the pilgrims had been taken, their owners already en route back into the city. Rone paused.
The city. They had nowhere to go. Kurtz’s home was out of the question. So was Rone’s flat. Could they go to his mother’s? Maybe, but if the grafters knew who he was, they could easily figure out her residence.
He cursed under his breath.
“I’m sorry, Rone.”
Her words sounded like winter.
He closed his eyes. Rubbed at the headache at the base of his skull. Pilgrims were granted one night in the Lily Tower before venturing back home. One night to figure out what the hell they were doing next.
Even if he left Sandis, they’d still come after him.
Besides, he didn’t want to leave her. Not yet.
He sighed. “Come on.” He led her away from the shoes, away from the stairs, until two white-garbed priestesses with lilies embroidered on their robes greeted them and asked if they were hungry. Rone lied about their backstory, and they were granted a room. He doubted his father would intervene, if he even heard Rone had lingered. He wouldn’t care. As far as he was concerned, Rone was a ghost.
At least his belly would be full.
His story had named Sandis his wife, so one of the two priestesses took them to a room with a bed barely large enough for two. Half the far wall was eaten up by a circle-top window that let in bright sunlight dimmed by only a portion of the main city’s pollution. Sandis hurried to it and put her hands on the sill, looking out at the sky with something like wonder. Rone crumpled into a chair by the door and put his forehead in his hands, wincing when the scabbing cuts on his palm met the salt of his skin.
“It’s so pretty,” she said, pressing her nose to the glass. “The sky looks blue.”
Rone grunted a response.
He heard her pull away from the window and settle on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry . . . about your father.”
Rone lifted his head and snorted. “Don’t be. As far as I’m concerned, he’s not.”
Sandis frowned.
It irritated him. It shouldn’t have, but it did. “What?” he snapped.
She leaned back as if the word had physical force. “I . . .” She looked away. “I think it’s sad. To be alone, even when you have living family.”
Rone growled. “He chose to leave. When the Angelic dies, the high priests petition together for his replacement. The man they select can choose whether to take the position or not; it isn’t an absolute.” He pushed his head against the stone wall behind the chair and folded his arms across his chest. “He chose to leave.”
Sandis’s eyes glistened. God’s tower, was she going to cry? This was his life, not hers.
“I’m sorry.”
“So you’ve said. Twice.”
She was quiet a moment, tracing a ray of muted sunlight on the bedspread. “At least you still have your mother.”
He glared at her. “My mother is in the pits of the worst prison in Kolingrad.”
She nodded. “But she’s alive. And she still loves you, doesn’t she?”
The ball of guilt rolled around stupidly in his stomach. Those damn scars on Sandis’s back resurfaced in his mind. Slave. Her record taken. No one had come to look for her, had they? From what she’d said, the sole family she had left was a distant uncle she couldn’t find.
“Maybe you can talk to him.” Her words were barely louder than a whisper.
Rone gritted his teeth. “He obviously doesn’t want to listen.”
“Not your father.” She scooted along the edge of the mattress to get closer to him. “The man accusing your mother.”
“Ernst Renad? Ha!”
“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?” She thought for a moment. “Talbur has, or had, a sizeable bank account, I’m guessing. If we can find him, maybe he can help.”
“Maybe.” Rone nearly dismissed the dreamlike possibility, but Sandis’s suggestion gave him pause. “You found his name on a gold-exchange record?”
She nodded. Studied his face.