“Why?” blurted Annie.
Balthazar’s eyes remained fixed on me. “Sweeney. She will kill him—”
“No!”
“Yes. She is not the Angelica you knew, Sweeney. She hasn’t been, for—for a long time.”
For the first time since I arrived he took notice of Annie. “Tell her, Annie,” he urged. “You saw—you know what happened to the others—”
Annie stared at him in disbelief. “You knew? All along, you knew what she was doing—and you didn’t stop her? You let her kill Baby Joe, and Hasel—you almost let her kill me!” She looked as though she were about to grab Balthazar by the throat. “Why didn’t you stop her—”
Balthazar stood his ground. “We couldn’t—”
I broke in furiously. “You couldn’t? Why couldn’t you? Why? Where’s your Benandanti magic now? Why don’t you just stick Angelica through another door, Balthazar? Why don’t you just go after her with a fucking gun?”
I lurched forward and grabbed Balthazar by the collar, no longer caring what happened to me. “What, all of a sudden you need my help? All of a sudden you need my permission to kill someone? You didn’t bother asking when you killed Oliver—”
“We didn’t kill Oliver!” Balthazar cried. “He—”
“You drove him to it! You had him locked up in that place, you knew he wasn’t strong enough, you knew it! I thought you were supposed to help him, I thought you all had some special plan for him—”
“We had no plan, Katherine,” Robert Dvorkin said softly. “All we ever knew of Oliver and Angelica was that they were Chosen. For some reason, they were Chosen. It’s only now that we realize that Dylan must have been the reason—”
I shook my head. “Dylan?”
“He must be—else why would Angelica and Oliver have conceived him? He is the last great sacrifice Angelica must make, in order for her epiphany to be complete. Then she will truly be Othiym—”
“Then it will be as before,” whispered Balthazar. “Have you forgotten, Sweeney?”
I flinched as Annie grabbed my arm. “What’s he talking about, Sweeney?”
“Have you forgotten?” Balthazar took a step back and flung his hands upward. “Then remember now!”
Before us the room was rent apart. Where Balthazar and Robert had stood, there was utter darkness. From the wasteland came a freezing wind, its roar so deafening that I could not hear Annie’s screams, only see her face contorted into mute horror. My sweat-soaked clothes grew stiff with rime as I grabbed her and pulled her to me, then crouched so as not to be borne into the abyss.
A terrible voice rang out. Balthazar’s voice.
“Behold Her now!”
The darkness was sucked away, whirling into some vast fiery vortex whose center was an immense eye. An eye that was open yet at the same time without sensibility, like that of a stone idol. As the darkness coiled into that huge orb I could see that it was but part of a face, a face so horribly and inconceivably vast that I fell to my knees in awe and terror.
“Behold Othiym!”
It was Her—the same monstrous figure I had seen that night with Angelica so long ago. The sleeping goddess, the Woman in the Moon: Othiym Lunarsa. She wore upon her breast the lunula, but it was no longer a slender crescent of silver but the moon, the real moon. She was more beautiful and terrible than I could ever have imagined, her mouth parted like a dreaming child’s—but it was Angelica’s mouth, just as those dreaming eyes were Angelica’s eyes, as the hair that was the very fabric of the night country was Angelica’s hair…
With a shout of horror I drew my arm up over my face. Because that deathly wind, the wind that sucked all sound and color and life into the void—that wind was her breath. All life was being drawn into her, into the shining crescent that lay upon her white skin. It was so brilliant that I could not bear to look upon it, so bright that it would surely set aflame all who gazed upon it, all who dared to walk beneath it—
“Sweeney!”
Like a gong Balthazar’s voice echoed across the wasteland. I lifted my head. As suddenly as it had appeared the night country was gone. I was kneeling on the slate floor of the carriage house, shuddering with cold. Beside me Annie moaned, then with a cry started to her feet.
“Sweeney—he’s going to kill us!” She grabbed me, her eyes wild. “Come on—”
Before us stood Balthazar and Robert Dvorkin. Their hands hung limply at their sides and their eyes were wasted-looking. As I looked at them, Balthazar raised one hand and held it out to me.
“It is my fault,” he said, his voice so low I could scarcely hear him. “I thought Angelica was too young when the lunula came to her. I thought she could never be anything more than what Magda was—smart, ambitious, cunning. I thought—I thought she was just a girl. Just a woman…
“Even after that night at the Orphic Lodge—I never dreamed how powerful she might become. I never dreamed she would turn so completely from her father, from all of us—”
He looked at Annie. “From all of you,” he said. “From her friends. And from her own son.”
He fell silent. I thought I could hear my heart beating inside me, and in the stillness Annie’s heart as well, and Balthazar’s, and Robert’s. I looked away from Balthazar and stared at the floor, trying to find some pattern there in the slate tile. Trying to find an answer; something to believe in.
“Sweeney.” I raised my head and Balthazar was there, his hand still held out to me. “You are our last hope.”
“You are Dylan’s only hope,” murmured Robert.
Annie yanked my wrist. “No, Sweeney, this is insane—”
With an effort I shook her from me. “No,” I whispered. “Wait—”
The room was utterly still, save for the exhausted buzzing of a fly against the window. I could feel their eyes upon me—Balthazar’s brilliant yet restrained gaze; Annie’s fury and confusion; Dr. Dvorkin’s pleading. I took a deep breath. Then I took Balthazar’s hand.
“I will help you,” I said in a low voice. “Not because I think you’re any better than Angelica. I don’t. You murdered Magda Kurtz and Oliver Crawford and god knows how many others. You stood by and did nothing while Angelica slaughtered my friends. You let her take Dylan, and—”
My voice began to shake. “—and you tossed me aside, like I was nothing! Like I had no place in your beautiful perfect world, your perfect Divine! Because I wasn’t one of your golden children, one of your goddamn scholars. One of your fucking chosen ones.”
I tried to yank away from Balthazar, but he tightened his grip with one hand.
“No,” he said. “You’re wrong. All these years, here—”
He indicated the walls and ceiling of the carriage house, the garden outside. “All this time, Sweeney: you have been under our protection.”
A chill ran through me. “No—”
“Yes.” Beside him Robert Dvorkin nodded. “We have been taking care of you, Sweeney—”
“No—”
“Watching out for you. Protecting you…”
The blood was thrumming in my ears but I could only shake my head, saying no, no, no as he went on.
“All those years ago at the Divine, Sweeney—we were wrong. Or, at least, we were only partly right. We knew that Angelica and Oliver were part of the equation; later, we knew that Othiym was as well.
“But we did not understand that there might be someone who would love Angelica and Oliver both. Someone who would not just come between them, but who might, somehow, serve to bring them together again.”
I groaned. “No…”
“And Dylan—We did not know that he was going to be born, that he would grow, perhaps, to become the real, the true Chosen One—
“We did not foresee that, Sweeney. And we did not foresee you.”
Silence. My legs buckled, but Balthazar pulled me to him, his hands surprisingly strong.
“Do you understand now?” he asked, his voice desperate. “Do you see, Sweeney? The pattern was t
here all along! It wasn’t just Angelica and Oliver—it was you and Angelica and Oliver—you were there, all along—”
“But what can I do?” I cried. I could feel Annie next to me, her cold hands tight on one arm, Balthazar’s on the other.
“You can save Dylan,” Robert said. “If we haven’t waited too long.”
“But how—where is he?”
I pulled away from Balthazar, and pushed Annie aside. “Do you know? Is he hurt? Because if you hurt him—if anyone hurts him—I’ll kill you with my bare hands. I swear to god by all that’s holy, I will—”
Balthazar opened his mouth to speak. But before he could say anything, Annie erupted into laughter.
“What?” I shouted, whirling to face her. “What’s so funny?”
“N-nothing,” she gasped.
“Because I’m not kidding, I’ll kill anyone—”
“That’s what I mean,” Annie said, and wiped her eyes. “I think that’s the point, Sweeney—”
She turned and stared at the two Benandanti. Then, to my surprise, she made a little bow. Her husky voice rang out as she announced, “Well, guys—whoever you really are, and whatever the hell you’re doing—
“I think you finally got the right girl for the job.”
I said nothing; what could I say? But at last Robert Dvorkin sighed and murmured, “We can’t wait. Are you ready, Balthazar?”
Balthazar turned to me. I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I stared at my feet and nodded. “I’m ready. But where is he? How are we going to find him?”
Balthazar took my hand. “This way, Sweeney,” he said, and pointed at the front door of the carriage house. Abruptly Annie was there between us, shaking her head furiously.
“Hey! If you think you’re taking her off somewhere—”
“No, Annie,” I said. Adrenaline and dread and exhaustion had pumped me up so that I hardly even felt afraid anymore. “This is—well, I don’t know what it is, but you better not come.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Annie!”
“Let her go.” Robert’s calm voice cut through the anger. “One way or another, it won’t matter.”
Annie turned to him. “Oh, right, like I don’t—”
I grabbed her. “Shut up, Annie. Balthazar, tell me what to do.”
I looked into his eyes: those half-feral eyes, with their mockery and menace always waiting, waiting, like a patient wolf. I saw no mockery there now, or menace; but neither did I see any warmth. Only a cool, measuring regard, as though he were looking at a heated glass and wondering if it was strong enough not to shatter.
After a moment he nodded. “That way.” Once again he pointed to the door.
I shook my head. “That’s the front door of my house.”
“That’s right, Sweeney.” A very small smile appeared on his face. “Go,” he urged, and gave me a gentle push.
“But—”
“Go.”
All the bravura I’d felt moments before was gone. I felt sick and numb with fear; but then I thought of Dylan. Somewhere, Angelica had Dylan; but where? I could only trust Balthazar now.
“Okay,” I said. I walked toward the door, forgetting Annie stumbling behind me, forgetting Balthazar and Robert and even Angelica.
Dylan, Dylan, I thought, and reached until my hand pressed against the screen. Oh, Dylan.
The door bulged open, the bottom catching on the floor sill and groaning as I pushed. Dylan. Dylan. Then, with a sound like water bursting from a broken dam, the door gave way. Before me was a dazzling vista, gold and crimson and argent, nothing but radiance, and so brilliant I could not bear to gaze upon it. I closed my eyes and stepped forward. My hands flailed helplessly as I plunged. Before I could draw another breath I tumbled head over heels and struck the ground. I lay there for a moment, groaning.
I had walked through the Benandanti’s portal and left the carriage house behind, and it hadn’t killed me. Yet. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.
I was at the Divine.
“Sweeney—”
I stumbled to my feet as Annie staggered up beside me. “Sweeney—how did—are we—”
“Yes,” I said, staring at the sky. “I think we are.”
We were on the porch in front of Garvey House. Wherever I looked, everything seemed to be in motion. Immense oaks lashed back and forth like saplings, their leaves torn from them and sent spinning upward. All the air was charged with the sound of wind, a terrifying roar like a thousand engines racing. A power line whipped through the air, finally wrapped itself around a toppled pole. On the narrow path leading to the building, whirlwinds of dust and grit churned furiously. A chair went skidding across the porch to crash into the balustrade. I grabbed Annie to steady myself, then pulled her after me down the steps.
“Oh Annie,” I breathed when we reached the bottom. “It’s the end of the world.”
Above us was a raging maelstrom like that I had glimpsed in my vision of Othiym. Only this was real. This was the sky. Like an endless sea of molten lead it flowed and boiled, iron-colored, streaked with waves of bruised green and violet. Lightning shot through the clouds, and as we watched a tree burst into blue flame, then, with a howl like a wounded leviathan, crashed to the ground.
“We have to go!” Annie shouted, pointing at the flaming wreckage. “Get off the hill!”
With a deafening boom the air exploded into white flame. I screamed and ducked, felt Annie pulling me down the path. Leaves and branches whipped my cheeks as I stumbled after her, until with a cry I looked up.
All the Divine was ablaze with lightning. Against this jagged splendor the Gothic buildings rose stark black, their towers and parapets rippling with phosphorescence, their angel guardians aglow. There were no people anywhere in sight, no lights on in any of the windows. I stared, speechless, half-deafened by thunder, like one of those stone figures brought to ground.
“What are we supposed to do?” yelled Annie.
I shook my head and shouted, “I don’t know.”
But I did. Because in all that raging tempest, only the Shrine was untouched. It loomed above the chaos of light and shadow, more the implacable sphinx than ever it had been: ponderous and silent, a behemoth waiting to give birth. Fox-fire flowed from its parapets, pooled like cyanic mist about its twisting stairs and the empty black eyes of its stained glass windows. The gilded stars burned a fiery gold against the lapis dome, and reflected within its curve was the most perfect white crescent of a moon, rising from volcanic clouds on the eastern horizon.
“In there.” I pointed to the Shrine. “He’s in there.” Annie nodded mutely as I started to run. “Come on—”
Beneath our feet the grass kindled. Smoke billowed behind us and I choked on the scent of burning leaves. To either side rose the Piranesian citadels where for two hundred years the Benandanti had kept their treasures and lore intact, with their winged granite sentinels outside. I could feel their eyes upon me now, those same blank eyes that had greeted me on that first afternoon so long ago; could see them crouched on balusters and columns with wings arched as for flight, their hands drawn up before them prayerfully. I ran, wiping my eyes against the smoke and heat, while before me the Shrine seemed to swell ever more monstrous, and the impassive angels watched.
Suddenly Annie shrieked. I turned and saw her pointing wildly.
“Sweeney!—”
The sky was filled with angels: black and crimson angels with coppery wings. From towers and rooftops and steeples they flew, launching themselves with arms outflung, hair aflame and their wings spreading behind them in glorious arcs, and all the air thundered with their cries. Voices like bells and voices like the sea, children’s voices and the groans of old men, exulting and lamenting and howling their triumph as they swooped from their pediments and made blazing Catherine wheels across the sky. I stared dumbfounded, too overcome by awe to feel afraid, until one careened through the air above me, so close that its fingers raked my scalp and I fell back sc
reaming with pain.
“Fire—”
I covered my head, my palms scorched and the reek of singed hair filling my nostrils.
“Sweeney! Are you okay?” Annie shook me. “Sweeney!”
I bit my lip and nodded. “Can you still run, Annie?”
A grin broke through her ash-streaked face. “Hell,” she shouted, “if I can’t run now—” She raised her arms protectively as another shadow raced across us.
We ran, zigzagging among the trees, pursued by that yelping horde. Angels or demons, furies or divine escort, I never knew. Whether they were sent by the Benandanti to protect us, or by Angelica to hunt us, they followed Annie and me to the very foot of the Shrine. Only then did their whooping cries diminish. In twos and threes they flew to the uppermost rim of the Shrine and landed, wings spread, until the dome was ringed with them.
Beneath that watchful army Annie and I hesitated. Overhead storm clouds boiled. The sickle moon was a hooded eye within the tumult. Before us the great steps led up to the Shrine, the rosy sandstone given a lurid sheen by the storm. Dust eddied like smoke where the wind garnered it. I glanced to make sure Annie was beside me, and began to climb.
Nothing stopped our ascent; nothing was there to bar our way inside. The wind’s roar seemed muted there, though its power was evident: a fallen column, a large concrete urn toppled and crushed like an acorn. Bitter smoke hung everywhere, and there was the funereal musk of another odor, myrrh and sandalwood incense.
“Look,” whispered Annie.
Where the statues of the three archangels had once stood, there was now a single huge marble image, filigreed with smoke and flame. A young woman with huge staring eyes, her torso draped in heavy robes that parted to expose her chest. Only where her breasts should have been, there were mounded rows upon rows of teats, dozens of breasts like a dog’s or sow’s, like rows of monstrous eyes staring down upon us.
I tried to summon some thin veil of hope to cloak me when I walked through those doors. Nothing came. Only the thought of Dylan bore me on—but it was a distant and curiously detached thought, like the remnant of a dream quickly fading. My scalp ached dully, my mouth felt dry and chalky.
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