by Gwenda Bond
Rofocale pauses, and I watch him search. He frowns. “I can’t seem to…”
“No worries, they’re cloaked. I’ll find them,” I say, sounding more confident than I am. He inclines his chin and—
“Wait!” I call, remembering my other question.
He growls, but doesn’t disappear yet.
“Is it safe for her to travel in our fashion?”
“Not pleasant, but…” Rofocale smiles. “Sure.”
In a gout of smoke and fire, he is gone, and I’m left with someone who is at least as furious at me as my boss.
“An intern!” Callie says, shaking her head with what reminds me an awful lot of disgust. “And I listened to you. I—”
You kissed me. I know. I can’t stop thinking about it.
She extends her hand stiffly. “Time to go.”
“Home?” I pose the question carefully.
“No,” she says, “the house where they summoned you. Maybe I can find some clues there, figure out where they went.”
I note the shift from “us” to just her, but decide not to question it. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I say, “but the cult couldn’t know I wasn’t him.”
“I can imagine. An intern doesn’t conjure the same kind of vibe at all, does it?” She shakes her head again and waves her fingers. “Let’s go.”
I take them in mine. I’m not ready for this to end, but it feels like an ending.
The whirring, shrieking darkness welcomes me like a friend until, after long moments, it recedes. Trees surround both sides of the narrow road, and above is the lightening blue of a country night sky almost ready for sunrise. The familiar silhouette of a certain creepy house looms ahead of us.
Callie yanks her hand away and takes off toward the house.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“None of your business,” she says, tossing it over her shoulder. “You apparently have bigger problems. Just go take care of them. I’ve got this.”
I’m starting to know her well enough to know that she’s pretending at the level of confidence. And that she means what she says about ditching me.
“You’re mad at me, I get it,” I say, hurrying to keep up.
She pauses. “Take a hint,” she says. “I’m not mad at you, because I don’t know you. We don’t know each other, and I am Team Good and you are Team Hell. I’m mad at myself for forgetting that. We had a … moment. But I can take the Team Good side from here.”
“Point taken,” I say, and I can see she’s surprised. She kissed me. “I guess…”
I pull out a smile and hope it’s suitably charming. I’m having trouble managing it, which isn’t a problem I’ve encountered before. I could argue my case, that she’s better off with me, that I can help her navigate these cult-infested holy waters. But …
I’m not sure that she is better off with me. For whatever reason, that matters. It’s enough to give me pause.
“I suppose I’ll see you again…” I hesitate, not sure how to finish. Then, I add, softly, “Never.” My hand lifts in a good-bye sadder than I mean it to be.
Callie’s reaction is to nod and resituate the strap of her messenger bag, which must be heavy with the spearhead. “Guess so. ‘Nice meeting you’ doesn’t seem right after tonight.”
“I always wondered if there was a platitude for every occasion,” I say. “It seems there isn’t. We’ve both learned something.”
She half smiles. “It has been educational.”
“See, I’m wrong again—there is a platitude for everything.” I tilt my head. “Good-bye, Callisto. And good luck.”
“Good luck to you too, Luke,” she says, and might even mean it.
Then off she goes. I already miss her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CALLIE
I march toward the house we fled earlier, where Mom and I bought the grimoire. Where Luke appeared in Rofocale’s place. I refuse to let myself look back at him. There are no footsteps behind me this time, and I tell myself that I’m fine with that.
I teamed up with a demon and an imposter, and I still feel a twinge of regret about saying good-bye to him. Yes, I’m dying to know what sort of deadline Luke is on, what kind of trouble he’s in, why he needs souls so badly. I like knowing things, so of course I am. But (a) I really can’t trust him to tell the truth, (b) I’ve apparently got to figure out how to get the other half of the Holy Lance back, stat, and (c) part of me still wants to make out with him again.
When the option is between preventing the end times and things you shouldn’t even care about, preventing the end times is the obvious choice.
Not that I’m confident I’m capable of it. But I’m not going to be like the characters in stories I want to yell at to get with the program and stop doubting themselves. So what if I can’t stop doubting myself? I’ll do the right thing anyway.
The first step is going back in this house and either being captured or finding some clues. Possibly both.
When I reach the front door, I find it unlocked.
Inside the lights are on, bright as a kid’s birthday party. Which I didn’t notice until I crossed the threshold. Time to turn on every mental faculty and focus. Put Lying Luke in the rearview.
Maybe a birthday party isn’t the best comparison. The remnants of the ritual are strewn across the parlor—including my book. So if it was a birthday party, it was a dark and twisted theme.
Even though I know the book is a real grimoire that holds serious power, satisfaction outweighs fear as I walk over and pick it up. I might not be able to put it back to work as a prop at the Great Escape, but I’m not leaving it here for the cult to use. Then again, they must only be able to use it once. Otherwise they’d have taken it … Unless they’re planning to come back.
A loud clatter sounds upstairs, followed by voices arguing, low.
Or they never left. I didn’t count how many were in Portugal. The front door’s still open and I could easily bail, but this is the only lead I have.
The argument is coming my way. I find a spot with a good view of the staircase and a half wall I can crouch behind. The lights upstairs are off, and two figures appear at the dark top of the staircase. One of the people is holding a flashlight that keeps me from getting a good look at them. The other hefts a baseball bat.
I know that stance. In fact, I know both of them by silhouette alone.
“Mag!” I burst out of my hiding spot. “Jared!”
Mag pushes Jared out of the way and runs down the stairs and we fling ourselves at each other. We’re hugging each other awkwardly around the grimoire before I’ve begun to process how relieved I am. Hugging Mag grounds me instantly.
My stomach sinks with the knowledge I have to tell them how badly I’m in over my head.
“Thank god you’re okay,” Mag says.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Looking for you,” Jared says. He bops down the steps to join us, lingering at the bottom. He idly swings the bat. “You gave us a huge scare. Where’s your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my—” I stop. Memories of our kiss and how hot it was shimmy through my head. And bickering with Jared isn’t on the menu right now. “He’s gone. I asked him to leave.”
Mag recoils in surprise. “Where did you go when you left? Back here? Were you here when we got here? Did you, um, see us?”
I consider how to answer this. I don’t keep secrets from Mag. I’ll need both their and Jared’s help to see the rest of this through, more than likely. “You guys are okay?”
“Obviously,” Jared says.
I turn to Mag. “Okay, so you told him—”
“Mag told me everything.” Jared crosses his arms in front of his chest.
Mag nods.
“You’re lucky I decided not to call Mom yet,” he says.
I want to hug him. That’s one piece of good news.
“I was in Portugal,” I say. “Just got back. I know this sounds made up, but I had part of the Holy Lance
and then the cult showed up and took it from me. So Luke and I went somewhere else and got the other part of it. Now I need to get back what they took.” What I do with the spear after that is an open question, but at least my objective is clear. “Which means I have to find them. Has anyone else been here that you’ve seen?”
Mag and Jared exchange a speaking look that’s so intimate it feels like a secret. My relief is tempered by something else. Suspicion. Worry. Uneasiness about my best friend for life and the ever after having a secret understanding about anything with my older brother.
“No, no one,” Mag says, dropping one shoulder in the usual tick that means they’re uncomfortable. “We’re just wondering … is this all a practical joke? A prank gone wrong?”
My face must reflect my disbelief at the question because Jared steps in with a conciliatory shrug. “An epic one, obviously, but … yeah,” Jared says. “That’s got to be it, right? Did they drug you guys?”
I’m so confused. How could either of them believe all this is a prank?
“You guys saw what Luke did, knocking you out with a wave of his hand. Turns out he’s not exactly who he said he was, but he does have powers. He took me to Portugal and brought me back here—in a flash. Mag, it was just like when he took us back to the Great Escape. Zappity.”
Mag studies their glittery sneakers.
Jared shakes his head at me. “Like I said, he must have slipped you something. Or…”
“Mag,” I say, “you were there tonight. The cult kidnapped us in a murder van. The Hand of Glory! The book!” I heft it. “You saw them summon Luke with it. You have to know this is real.”
Mag looks up at me and nods, but carefully. “It all seemed real, but…”
“But it couldn’t have been,” Jared finishes their sentence.
He and Mag exchange another look.
Seriously?
“What is wrong with you two?” I say. “I know you didn’t hit your heads. We kept that from happening.”
“Consider what you are claiming,” Jared says. “That a demonic lord from Hell got summoned by a cult who kidnapped you and then the demon took you to Portugal and back in one evening … It breaks every law of physics.”
Wow, I’m truly bad at everything, not just being a guardian.
But this is really happening. Somehow I have to convince my big brother and my best friend we’re not victim to some mass—for very small values of mass—hallucination. This night is bonkers.
Although, I suppose, technically by now it’s tomorrow.
“Maybe physics doesn’t explain everything,” I say, a soft opening.
Jared shakes his head. “Yeah, it does. That’s why it’s physics—we may not have discovered all the laws that govern reality, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”
“Okay. Okay.” May as well give up on that part of the argument. Jared’s way too rational. “We’ll tackle the ways the situation impacts the laws of reality later. But I don’t know how much time we have. So.” I’m going to have to go simple. “You trust me, both of you?”
There’s a brief hesitation, and Mag nods. Jared glances over at them, as if to check his own reaction, then does the same.
“Then humor me,” I plead. “Something else weird will happen and you’ll have to believe me then that this isn’t some fumes we inhaled or whatever. Just wait. In the meantime, go along with my delusions. Deal?”
The two of them don’t speak, so I take that as agreement and press on. “Now, did you see anyone when you got here?”
This time, neither of them has a chance to answer.
Because the door explodes inward and a group of men and women wearing sleek matching white leather ensembles races through it. They spread out to flank us and point a variety of weapons in our direction. There’s a crossbow and a katana and a knife and … Is that a wooden stake? What do they think we are? Vampires?
Are there vampires?
I’m mildly comforted when no one moves in to attack. They hold position.
“Who are you?” demands a statuesque woman with dark brown skin, red-blond braids, and a sword leveled in our direction.
“We could ask you the same thing,” I say and reach out to gather Mag and Jared closer.
“We,” she says, tossing her braids and tilting her face up with pride, “are guardians. Now, where is the Lance of Longinus?”
My breath grows shallow, but I manage to whisper “Told you so” to Mag and Jared. Even I didn’t expect to be proven right quite this quickly. I summon the strength to say to the woman in charge, “I’m a guardian too.”
I suffer under a moment of sober consideration before she throws her head back and roars with laughter.
Roars.
With.
Laughter.
Just like that, I decide there’s no way I’m telling her I’ve got part of the Holy Lance in my bag.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LUKE
I am about to vanish. Seconds away from it. I don’t want to overstay my welcome—well, I don’t want to overstay it too much—and Callie has been magnificently clear I’m in danger of doing so.
Options array before me, the many paths I might take to wrest back control of this wayward evening. I could even plead my case to Rofocale and ask for advice on how to get those souls in time. Whether or not they belong to me won’t affect Callie’s chances of catching their owners and recovering that portion of the spear. I feel poised on the cusp of turning over a new, more mature leaf. An entire tree of them. I imagine Father’s twisted fallen-angelic lips taking on the hint of a proud smile at my successful report.
But …
As I’m wandering in the waning darkness on that fiery cusp, I catch a hint of something on the wind. A squad of the righteous approacheth. Guardians are incoming.
Seeing as how Callie still thinks she is one, this meeting could go down in the proverbial flames.
So do I stay or do I go? Do I choose the mature tree or stick with devil-may-care?
Come now, you know that decision makes itself. It’s just the excuse I need.
But I’m not about to announce my dark, dashing presence to them either. Guardians aren’t fond of those of us from below, given that they’ve pledged to the archangel Michael to devote their lives to thwarting us and our sympathizers. Their sanctimony has a sickening bouquet. No thanks.
I blink and relocate from the early morning outside to the shadowy hall at the top of the stairs inside the house. The sound of … laughter … floats up from below. Am I in the wrong place? Given the last several hours, it’s possible.
But I hear Mag speak up. “Stop laughing at her.”
They must mean Callie.
I take it she told them she’s a guardian.
Well, I can still leave. I might need the help of these guardians—by way of following them—to find the cult. Which I still have to do.
It would be by far the easiest path ahead. As far as finding the souls in question go before they show themselves again by seeking the other part of the spear, there’s only one other possible way for me to locate them. And it’s such an epically, hideously bad idea even I recognize that I shouldn’t try it.
While I don’t think Solomon Elerion has the patience to wait a day before he emerges once more out of frustration, am I willing to bet my existence on it? I am not.
I creep along the hallway. Callie, Mag, and Jared stand at the bottom of the steps, backs to me. Guardians surround them in what I suppose passes for stylish in the religious warrior garb department. I shudder.
White leather is an affront to everything unholy.
Callie has her head tilted down. She could be praying, but, no, it looks like deference. Or possibly shame. I advance the inch closer I’m willing to go as the laugher-in-chief, a tall woman with braids and the kind of relaxed grip on her sword that tells you all the ways she could destroy you with it, finally sobers.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just funny. What you see in fr
ont of you is an elite team chosen by God. We answer to the archangel. We were trained since childhood, our bloodlines marked by holy flame as belonging to warriors.” She pauses. “I apologize if it seems rude to point out … But does any of that describe what you see in the mirror every morning?”
Callie’s head ticks down more, and when she swipes at her cheek I catch a glimpse of bright red. She’s humiliated.
Callie, humiliated? By someone who’s supposed to be good? Callie is the best person I’ve ever encountered. That might not be saying much, but she matters to me.
I want to reveal myself and come awfully close to doing so even though it’s a terrible idea. I might be able to fight back—or the leader’s blessed sword might slice me in half.
Not a gamble I’m willing to take. But I think hard at Callie: Stand up for yourself. You’re not a screw-up. I would know: I am.
“Now,” the woman says, “if we’ve established that you have a misconception, I am Saraya, pledged to the service of Michael. I compel you to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here. You don’t have the stink of Elerion on you. Though you really should give me the grimoire.”
“No,” Callie says, some energy returning to her as she holds tight to the book. “It’s mine. The Order of Elerion stole it. We came to get it back. They summoned…” I wait for her to say Luke and my skin itches with an unseemly eagerness to hear my name, but she doesn’t. “Lucifuge Rofocale and bargained with him for the location of the Holy Lance.”
Saraya the guardian’s head shifts to the side as she considers this. The rest of her battle squadron remain as still and focused as statues, awaiting her decision. The discipline is frightening.
Not to mention off-putting. She and Rofocale would probably secretly get along. Little enough separates good and evil at the official level when you get down to it.
Disturbing thought, that.
“Why didn’t they take you?” Saraya asks. Then she shakes her head. “We know the lance was retrieved—but how? They shouldn’t have been able to get into a sacred location with souls gone to darkness.”