“It’s honestly not that complicated, when you think of it.” Brendan shrugged. “He’s a good kid. He has a soft heart, always had. Maybe that’s why it was hard for him. . . .” He trailed off. “He had to go through things, sure—we all have. But he’s fine now. There’s no problem.”
I let Brendan leave thinking I believed him.
Secrets piling up like bones in a graveyard. Natalya knew it too. She was probably mocking me in front of the red door, waiting. She had answers. And I had to know for sure.
I had to see Natalya.
? ? ?
Belle borrowed a vintage pink Beetle from the Sect lot—the same one she always took when she wanted to disappear for a while without telling us where she was going. The fully tinted windows made driving around the city a lot easier; she could peer at the outside, but the outside couldn’t peer at her. It was a comforting thought as we drove through the outer gates, passed the warring crowds picketing and counterpicketing on the other side of the bars. Fans and Sect haters, newly spurred by the attacks in Bloemfontein.
I pressed my temple against the window as Belle drove. “Isn’t there more we can do?”
“Agents are out trying to locate the remaining trainees of Fisk-Hoffman, assuming they’re alive. Communications is still attempting to track Saul, but he’s hidden his frequency. We don’t know where he’ll attack next. Of course, the usual method is to track phantom movements, looking for swells in activity, but we’ll always be at least a little late. The only way to get ahead of him is to find out who he is and what his goals are.”
Which meant we needed Natalya. Marian. Me.
“We know they’ll be coming for me eventually.” The dread I felt seemed the perfect reflection of the grim skies above. “Then again, Vasily seemed pretty confident that I’d go with them on my own. That I’d ‘listen to Jessie,’ whatever that means. Either way, I can’t rest easy.”
I shut my eyes, ignoring the cold sting of the window against my temple. It was hard to imagine there was once a time I woke up every morning and ate Uncle Nathan’s pancakes. Being an Effigy had stolen the one connection from me I needed most right now. But worse still, it’d placed a target on my back.
“We’ll be here with you.” She’d said it simply, her stern gaze never leaving the road ahead of us. “The three of us.”
“The three of you . . .” I let the words fall to silence, but they lingered between us nonetheless. The three of us. Yeah. Being an Effigy may have stolen one connection from me, but it had given me others in its place. I couldn’t forget that. “Despite everything, we’re in this together, right?”
Belle glanced at me and nodded. And with just that gesture, Natalya’s haunting spirit had been banished, the two of us freed if only for that fleeting moment. We were what I always wanted us to be. Mentor and protégé. Part of the same team. I didn’t know how long the feeling would last, but it was there, unmistakably. I smiled.
Belle drove us into London, through the winding streets. There was a church on the corner of Friary Road, its large sundial beneath the steeple carved into stone.
“A church?” I frowned as Belle parked by the side of the road.
“Natalya brought me here once to train me,” Belle said, unbuckling her seat belt.
“This place will help me scry?” I considered it. “Well, scrying requires calm,” I said. “I guess a church might make sense, but . . . I mean, I know you’re Catholic and all, but I’m not particularly religious.”
“Neither am I.” Belle stepped outside. “And this is not a Catholic church,” she added before shutting the door.
As I got out of the car, a scrawl of words written below the sundial caught my eye. “Et in . . .” I paused. “In tenebris . . .” I squinted, partly from the sun in my eyes. The Latin words were hard to read, chiseled too lightly on the plaque below the sundial. “Invenies?”
“?‘And among the shadows, you will find them.’?”
Without saying more, Belle walked up the stone steps and entered the church. I understood the second I entered through the arched doorway and saw the solemn march of black robes down the long aisle. Rich, haunting chords from the church organ gave the procession its rhythm, and never once did they fall out of sync. Even their hands were sheathed in black gloves as they carried tall candles to the altar at the front of the church, where a man in flowing white robes spread out his arms, ready to receive them.
Phantoms painted black across the white walls . . . “Wait, this is . . . this is that death cult,” I said, my voice hushed because the old man sitting in the last pew stirred and looked back at us once the door slammed shut behind us. “You’re kidding me. They’re Scales, Belle.”
“The Deoscali,” Belle said simply, using the “proper” term, as if we somehow needed to respect a group of psychos who thought getting eaten by phantoms was some kind of honor.
I’d heard they did rituals and worshipped phantoms in “churches” like these before going on pilgrimages into Dead Zones through illegal networks and letting phantoms kill them. They were probably in the middle of one now. Montreal’s Cirque de Minuit may have had an unhealthy fascination with using phantoms for entertainment, but they did everything on the level and kept people safe. Then you had Scales, who took unhealthy fascination to a whole new level.
Not very many people out there bent the law in order to get killed.
Motioning me to follow her, Belle took her seat in the second-to-last pew. Disgusted, I trailed behind her nonetheless.
That was when the old man launched himself at me.
“Effigy!” he spat as he grabbed me by the collar and pushed me back out of the pew. “You’re not welcome here. . . .”
He tried to push me again. Swiftly, I shoved him back into his pew and held my foot against his chest to pin him down.
“Okay,” I said, no longer bothering to keep my voice low. “And you want to tell me why you took me to some den of phantom-worshipping death cult nutjobs? Especially when they hate us?” I added as the old man struggled against my foot.
“Not all of us,” said the priest standing at the pulpit. Despite the commotion of the attack, the procession hadn’t even stopped shuffling toward him until he put up his delicate hand. He’d tied his wavy brown hair in a ponytail behind his giraffe neck, showing the contours of his soft, small face. “Joseph, please escort Mr. Goffin out of the church.”
A large man who’d been standing silently by one of the white pillars nodded at the order.
“Yeah, teach him some manners while you’re at it,” I said as Joseph grabbed the cursing man by the arm and began dragging him out.
“Pastor Charles,” Belle said as the man came near us. “I thought you had made some progress with your teachings.”
I straightened my blouse. “What teachings? Or do I want to know?”