Csilla peered around him, unsure what she was looking at in the fanned sheets. Ilan pressed next to her, arms crossed.

"Look at..." His voice trailed off and he edged past Mihály to get closer. "Wait, are you saying..."

"It looks like any ritual song, does it not? Even without knowing what it says, there's cadence. Repetition."

Now that she was looking at them together, it was undeniable that the eyes danced across the symbols like a poem. Or a prayer.

"So not a message at all," Ilan breathed, fists balling. "It's actual shadow work."

Mihály nodded. "I don't think any human, no matter how far they'd sunk, would have found this kind of knowledge. Someone has to have released one."

There was a tiny measure of relief in knowing it wasn't the people themselves weakening the seal, slipping faith or no. "But why?"

"The church has always had enemies," Ilan said. "I'm more concerned with how someone possessed got into town in the first place."

Someone possessed. Csilla chewed the idea, choking and bitter. Demons were so corrupt they couldn't hold material form long and couldn't pass for part of the world when they did, but they could be invited in, welcomed, and nurtured by a soul feeding its shadow appetites. Anyone like that would boil to walk around the holiness of Silgard. A demon couldn't parasite a person of true faith.

But there were dirtier ways in than walking through the gates. It would take a lot of work, but what was physical strain to someone happy to damn them all?

"The tunnels," Csilla said, crossing her arms over herself with a claustrophobic constriction. "If they dug out an old entrance, it's possible to get into the city from underground."

Ilan nodded. "There aren't that many potential entrances. We can go down and see if any seem freshly opened."

Mihály gave a small grunt, clearly displeased with the idea of spending more time in claustrophobic holes.

It was a potential how. But it still didn't tell them who had broken the demon from its shadowy prison or who was giving it a home in their flesh, or why they'd chosen to hunt Mihály's flock.

"Think," she pressed. "Mihály, is there anyone who would have cause to hate your or be jealous of your followers? There has to be a reason they're the victims."

His snort was derisive, echoing in the crypt-like cool. "We're living with the worst of them, and she's no killer."

No. She might look askance at Csilla, point her words like needles, but her anger stopped at verbal barbs. Ilan spread his hand over the paper and then pushed the sheets back together.

"We'll gather your people together, then. You can preach, and we'll watch for signs of someone possessed. If the killer knows your followers, they're likely among them." Ilan's voice was clipped, sure, but Mihály stiffened.

"Why don't I just talk to them?" Mihály was pacing now, breath huffing, and Csilla watched for signs of illness. "Find out if they've had strange experiences with any of their fellows. There's no reason to do what amounts to taking them to market."

"And tip off the killer if he catches wind? Spread even more rumors through the streets? Besides, you've been quiet enough, for you, and yet here's another body. Do you want to wait until every person who had the misfortune of overhearing your foolishness is dead?"

Mihály put a hand on Csilla's shoulder, tight and searing with desperation.

"If you won't use them, use me. Whoever it is has likely seen me with you enough. I can go places alone. Make myself more conspicuous." Though she wasn't exactly sure how she could become more of a sight than walking arm in arm with the Izir while wearing a fortune in borrowed fabric.

"Absolutely not!" The shock in Mihály's voice rang like the strike of a blacksmith's hammer on iron. "If I lose you, I have..."

"Nothing?" Despairing tears sprang to her eyes. No one was about to let him go cold or hungry, and all he would lose was the lover he would have lost long ago if he'd been any other man. "It's a good plan," she assured him, putting her hand over his as a comfort. And even if it wasn't, it was the best they had.

He gave a tiny, terse nod. "Fine. We'll bring them together. But Ilan, you'd better be watching so nobody gets hurt"

Ilan was still looking at the corpse, lips pressed thin and determined. "Not nobody. Only those who deserve it."

19

Csilla

Mihály's fingers twitched at his collar, pulling it from his sweat-dampened skin. He seemed to think the inn was overly warm, but Csilla's arms were covered in gooseflesh.

"Remember why we're doing this," she whispered. The words half-choked her. People were crowding into the room, and she tried to take the measure of their faces. One might be the killer. One would be a victim.

But now we know, she told herself. We can end the whole thing if we're quick and clever and blessed. The words repeated themselves, building a wall between her mind and the tug of wrongness in her gut.

Mihály looked down at her, then put his hand on her head and smiled softly. She tried to smile back, like this was a perfect idea, like his touch was warming instead of a further pulse of worried ice down her spine. If this was what it took to get him to lead one of his lambs to the chopping block, so be it. She could swallow her doubts and pretend it pleased her. "I'll be watching from the back."

He started to bend closer, but she ducked and scattered toward the edge of the gathering crowd with an apologetic wave. They needed to focus on him, not the attention he was paying to the girl he arrived with, especially when she was bolting the door. She would watch, try to spot the most suspicious, and Ilan would wait outside to test their souls and find the vessel. They might all be gray with listening to heresy, but only one should be ruined black with Shadow.

But they hadn't anticipated how many would show up. There were people from all areas of the city, those whose clothes were mended with coarse thread and those with subtle gold on their ears and necks. Some were even pilgrims or refugees, wearing the kind of clothing that would be dear to import. Death made no distinctions, and so neither did the kind of person who feared it.

So many faces she knew, at least in passing; the ill were the first to search for a miracle.

A hand caught her arm. "Csilla! I've missed you. I couldn't believe when they told me you'd left service."

Elmere. She froze as he kissed her cheeks and fussed over her fine dress with a grandfather's teasing. He shouldn't be out here. She took his hands out of habit, frowning at his loose collar and the rash creeping down his neck. "Elmere..."

"It seems you've been doing well for yourself, though, dear. And you went to the Izir, like I told you." His eyes were nothing but kind, and she hoped he couldn't tell how forced her smile was.

"I'm well enough. But you shouldn't be here. Go home and rest."

Mihály's curious gaze was hot on her back, waiting for her to get in place. She stepped aside, but the old man still had her hand. "And miss his preaching? He hasn't been on the streets in days."

Because of Csilla. No wonder everyone here was desperate to see Mihály again.

"What if I promise you he'll come visit you later? Personally?" She tilted her head, trying to look convincing. "I'm working with him now. You don't have to stay in this crowd. It won't make you feel any better."

"I've already come all this way." But he was unsteady on his feet, and she squeezed his hand.

"Trust me. Please."

He sighed, but the fondness in his gaze squeezed her chest. "I always have, little girl. Well then." They walked arm in arm to the door, Elmere leaning on her for balance. "I suppose standing for hours wasn't going to be the most comfortable experience. But I expect to see you soon."

"You will," she promised, guiding him past the tight-pressed bodies. "Please, rest."

He patted her arm, pausing in the doorway. "I am glad you're doing well for yourself, even if you couldn't take the gray."

Doing well. She tipped up and kissed his cheek again so he couldn't see how her face twisted.

The agitated crowd began to shift and caw.