He couldn't help but smile back, even surrounded by detritus and the bodies of people they knew. All of this around them was his failure, and yet he was still happy to see her breathing. If she hadn't been, none of the rest of it would matter. She was safe, and he was desperate to touch her, to feel that she was fine. He clenched his hands instead.
The feelings were as natural as any other illness. He could starve or slice them out the same way and be quietly jealous of the dog.
"Ilan. You're all right?"
Of course she would ask him, when she was the one sleeping in a makeshift crypt. He nodded. "But you don't seem to be." He gestured to her face, and her hand flew up to touch her cheek as her eyes darted to Mihály.
"It's..." Her eyes darkened. "I have so much to tell you."
"In here?" It was far too open, indefensible, and his skin was still crawling from a brush with an ancient corpse.
Csilla looked down at Ágnes. The woman's face had taken on a gray cast, and her mouth hung wide in the loose-jawed gasp of the dead. Csilla touched the sunken cheek. "I'm fine here."
She was grieving and loyal, not fine.
"Off the floor, at least. Not every pew has a body."
Csilla rose then stilled, the perfect pause of a bird about to take flight. "Watch." She approached the altar as if entranced, broken glass crunching under her feet.
The flame in front of the ever-seeing eye still burned, licking yellow and orange across her skin. Perhaps that was where their saboteur took their own fire from. The light ringed her in gold, blending the shadows on her face into something soft and sacred.
"Mihály. Come here."
The angel surprisingly said nothing, hurrying at the quiet command. Csilla offered her hand to him with a small nod.
He took it and raised it to his lips, and the holy firelight was eclipsed by white and shining brilliance, Csilla in the center of it all. She slanted her head towards him, the slightest hopeful smile on her pale lips as silver kissed every inch of her. Holiness and beauty incarnate.
Ilan fell to his knees.
30
Csilla
Embarrassment yanked her hand away from Mihály. “Please stand up,” she said, hand fluttering as the light faded. She wanted Ilan to tell her what he thought, like he always did, not this worshipful silence as he knelt, eyes turned down from her. She wanted answers, and his reaction seemed to mean he didn’t have any.
He finally stood, looking between them, eyes wide and lips parted. “What was that?” Then, softer. “What did the two of you do?”
Csilla swallowed. There couldn’t be any more stalling.
“We tried the ritual to give me Evie’s soul.” Her mouth was sour at the memory of lying against Mihály and bleeding under the stars. “But it didn’t work.”
And she had to tell them why. Csilla took both Mihály’s hands in hers, pressing her palms around his fingers as they glowed in silver comfort. Devastation was a consequence of the hopeful human condition. And she could be gentle, though he hadn’t been gentle with her. Perhaps the numb shock of her grief would be a blessing at the moment.
“It didn’t work because she wasn’t real.”
That expression…the kind, bemused look he’d given her the first moment they’d met, but more genuine now. She squeezed tighter, heart cracking at his smile, and dropped her gaze.
“You were tricked.” She braced herself for the denial and anger to come, like readying for the first thundercrack of a storm. “We both were.”
He clucked his tongue with a pitying look and Csilla’s blood rose. She was being better to him than he deserved. This was a moment she should be taking for herself, and he would mock her for it? “Just because I failed in a ritual...”
“Whatever magic you and Tamas did at the University, it didn’t save her.” Csilla’s skin crawled, pieces of the evening coming back. The softness of her bed. The weight of the knife. “Do you even know what it was you were doing? Or did you just take his word for it?”
“I...” He gulped air, words lost as he jerked away.
“Think.” Her head pounded. Blood and magic. They’d used for themselves what the killer was using now. And the only person they had claiming it was holy was the grief-stricken boy who’d have done anything to get his soulmate back.
Tamas knew blood, magic, and consecration, and didn’t mind dark acts. Csilla’s heart stopped.
Mihály grabbed her wrist. Light flared, but the shadows it cast were sinister. Ilan leaped forward, but Csilla raised a hand to stop him. She had to see this through.
“It was a miracle. You don’t question miracles. And I’m blessed.”
“I’ve seen miracles.” Her voice choked. “You’re just a man. Whatever you did didn’t save her, and it may have damned us all.”
“You’re mistaken…” He tensed like a wild creature newly caged. But she couldn't let him edge away, no matter what a slippery thing he was.
“The mistake was what you did. They used you, you’re not to blame, but think.”
He sank down onto the steps and put his head in his hands. Was he praying?
Crying. “He brought me here because I needed looking after,” he whispered into his hands. “That’s what he told me.”
A part of her wanted to scream at him over the audacity of his acting as if he were the only person here grieving. Ágnes’ body was next to them and not yet cold.
But that wasn’t a pain she wished on anyone else. “He used you to hold something evil. You put it in me.”
