She jerked away from the kiss, legs bracing with an urge to stand. “Mihály,” she managed through chattering teeth and what felt like a hand on her mouth, “what did you do?”
“It might be uncomfortable for a moment.” His breath had a far-away hiss as she pushed herself up, balance suddenly coltish. She felt heavy and dissolving at once, and the pressure of the ground under her feet was unnerving.
“Mihály...”
“Hush, Evie.” He struggled to his own feet, right hand clamped to his forearm. She couldn’t quite stop the blood dripping down her arm, watering the grass with rich rain.
Do I sound like Evie? she wanted to say, but there was too much pressure in her head, under her skin, in her lungs. She pitched forward and he caught her, her back becoming a compress as he locked his arms around her. She forced herself to push away enough to raise her head and meet his eyes. “Mihály. I’m not...”
She had just enough consciousness to watch his expression change before her eyes rolled back and everything went dark.
She woke in front of a fire, wrapped in furs. Angry voices echoed behind her as she raised her hand to look at it in the red-tinged glow. It looked as it always did, scars and all. When she put it against her cheek, it was warm. Everything seemed as it should be, though her dress was filthy with dirt and her arm throbbed.
“You didn’t do anything except send her into shock, which even you should have known enough to recognize, and cut yourself and her in a garden likely filled with fertilizing pig shit. What were you even thinking?”
“I did something. Evie is gone—”
“If she was ever there, you delusional, arrogant—”
Csilla pulled herself up, the movement cutting off the argument. There was hope in Mihály’s indrawn breath, worry in Tamas’. They were in the house, but she couldn't tell how many hours had passed. She'd been unconscious long enough Mihály'd had time to call for a second opinion.
“I’d like some water,” she said, voice cracking with the words. Her throat was raw, strange since she remembered not screaming. Her old scars ached in a way they hadn’t since she was very young.
“Evie,” Mihály tried, but she shrunk back before he could reach for her.
“Csilla.” She meant the words a slap, and by his recoil, they hit. It wasn’t entirely enough to deter him; he knelt by her side and after a moment she leaned against him, grateful for the firm support.
“You don’t feel any different?” He looked different. His skin was sallow, dull, but his eyes were clearer than they had been.
She shook her head. She couldn’t even say it wasn’t the outcome she’d hoped for. Maybe it was her fault; Evie had sensed her doubts and refused to make a home in Csilla. “I feel ill, but not different.”
There was something sweet about the guilt on Mihály’s face.
“Well, there is one way to check.” Tamas procured a small, wrapped bundle, the embroidered yellow and red flowers far too cheerful for the atmosphere. He unwrapped the cloth and tumbled the glass bit onto her palm.
She held her breath, waiting for the gold.
There was still nothing save shadows cast by firelight.
None of them should have expected any better. She squeezed her eyes shut. It didn’t matter- she still had things to do, a slice of hope thin as her new cuts that they would perform some great good for the city.
Her stomach rolled at the thought, and she slumped against Mihály. Surely she hadn’t lost enough blood for this level of exhaustion. Even her thoughts were slow.
Tamas set the glass down hard enough to rattle. “Let her rest.” The words were more an order than request.
“I’ll be away all day tomorrow. Perhaps I shouldn’t...”
“You’ll piss that old woman off and lose what home you have managed to give the girl. Go with her. I’ll take care of Csilla.”
“You’re right,” Mihály said, and there was a softness in his voice, in his hands as he stroked her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Csilla. I’m so sorry.”
The apology wasn’t much, but it was genuine.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, bracing herself to stave off the dizziness. If she just said it enough, even to herself, it had to be true.
25
Ilan
Saving the city was well and good, but there was nothing better than being right. Ilan drank deep of the satisfaction as the elders and Sandor looked at him with alarmed expressions. Ágnes was seated, wrapped in a gray shawl and murmuring prayers between hollow coughs. Abe’s face was unreadable, but he was listening. Frozen in stained glass, the angels seemed to be listening, too.
“If you look at the facts, we can’t deny the connections.” He gestured again to his notes, the paper still creased where it had been folded by Mihály’s hands; he pressed his lips at the reminder of the Izir. “I assume the completion of the ritual will cut the continent from Arany’s protection entirely.”
“And erase the seal?” Abe asked, pale.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” a congregational elder interjected. “Not unless they pollute it directly. And it’s protected.”
We were protected, too. “If they complete their ritual, it will hardly matter. A heart can barely beat if the body is so broken. Maybe those lucky enough to have been confirmed here will still be effective, but there are hardly many. And it’s not as if the angels show a sign of coming back and bleeding for us again.” He looked up to the image of Arany. The gold on her wings was dull orange in the low light, but the red-stained glass at her feet had darkened to the richness of wine.
“Then, forgive my language, but we are already fucked, are we not?” Sandor’s hands slapped his thighs, and a few jumped at the sudden echo. “There’s only one district and territory left uncorrupted, even if the church guards the seal.”
Ilan frowned. “That’s no reason to give up. We can still find whoever did this now that we know where they’ll be hunting. There are priests here who can still banish,” Abe nodded at that, clearly grasping at the slim thread on offer. “We can get the demon out of them and see if they know how to reverse their spell.”
He’d pull the details from their killer himself— the killers, if need be. There was always a possibility the demon was using more than one body. Anyone greedy or foolish enough to let a monster in deserved their bones smashed to powder in their skin.
