

### THE IRON BELLS

### The Demon's Gate: Book One

### Jeanette Battista

### Copyright 2013 Jeanette Battista

### All rights reserved

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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### Discover other titles by Jeanette Battista at Smashwords.com:

### Leopard Moon (Volume 1 of the Moon series)

### Jackal Moon (Volume 2 of the Moon series)

### Hyena Moon (Volume 3 of the Moon series)

### Hunter Moon (Volume 4 of the Moon series)

### Long Black Veil

### Dead Harvest (with Tracey Phillips)

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter One

The year is 64 A.D., at least the way we count it. A.D. doesn't stand for Anno Domini, not anymore.

A.D. now stands for Anno Daemonii.

Chapter Two

I wait atop the park wall near the entrance, hidden by a cluster of trees. The sun leaks through the clouds, but the day is dry. For now. Still, it is enough to be aboveground while the sun shines—it has been less and less frequent that I get to see it. My work in the tunnels keeps me too long underground most days to catch full afternoon light; usually I make my way back to the boarding house at dusk or after.

Or not at all.

It has been a few weeks since I've gotten to check in on Patrick. Even though my visits with him lead to arguments when he asks questions I can't answer, he is still my best friend. My only friend, really. When time allows, I like to pop in and see how he fares.

My hiding spot amongst the trees does more than just conceal me from the ever-present cameras throughout all of London. It gives me an excellent vantage point to see Patrick coming from his classes. He graduated and is in some kind of school for computers or something--I don't know. I barely made it through secondary--there is no way I could handle university, not with what I have to deal with every day in the Underground.

Patrick's clothes are rumpled, his tie askew. I smile at the sight of his dark face screwed up in concentration. I don't know what he is thinking about, but I know the expression well enough to recognize the intense focus that meant the gears were grinding inside his head. I make to swing myself down so I can properly greet him, but stop when two larger guys step onto the path next to him. "Bowen," one of them—he has reddish hair and a pugnacious look on his face—says, putting his hand flat on Patrick's chest.

"What is it, Roddy?" I hear Patrick ask, a quiet sort of resignation in his voice. I grit my teeth. I don't like to hear that tone in his voice; it makes me think that this is an everyday occurrence and I can't bear the thought of that.

"My money," Roddy says, his hand fisting into the material of Patrick's sweater.

"Right," says the blond fellow beside him. "We've been waiting for a week, sport."

Patrick tries to pull away, but the blond boy has moved behind him. I tense, ready to spring, but hold still when Patrick speaks.

"I'm not giving you any more money." He tries to jerk out of Red Roddy's grip, but Blondie pushes him back.

"Sure you don't want to reconsider that, sport?" Red Roddy asks.

I've seen enough. Patrick has gone pale beneath his dusky skin, but I know that there is no changing his mind when he has that look on his face. I know he'll take the beating and whatever else those two can dish out, but that he won't be paying them--for what, I don't know--anymore.

But I have no intention of letting Patrick take a beating. I flip my hoodie up, hoping to obscure my hair and face.

Blondie grabs Patrick's arms, pinning them behind his back, while Red Roddy rears back with a fist the size of a ham. I grab a tree limb and swing down, using my momentum to slam into Red. I see Patrick's eyes widen into saucers right before I let go and crash into Red Roddy. He goes down like the proverbial ton of bricks with my boots in his middle.

Blondie lets Patrick go and tries to avenge his fallen companion. Charming boys—they'll probably have quite the storied careers with the Inquisition, preying on their fellow man until something unpleasant eats them.

He swings at me, but I'm ducking and spinning below his arm. Two rabbit punches to his kidneys and he's down. I drag him over to Red Roddy, then pull both of them up by their shirts. I smack their heads together to make sure I have their full attention.

"From this point on, Patrick is off-limits. If I hear that he so much as gets a hangnail, I'll be back, and I'll kick you both so hard your sons will be born clutching their privates. You get me, gentlemen?"

I don't even bother to see if either of them nod; I just shove them back down and come to my feet. Patrick is staring at me with a bemused expression on his face. I grab his arm and hustle him away from Red Roddy and Blondie and anyone else who might have seen the scuffle.

"Why didn't you tell me you were having troubles?" I ask as we move away from the park. I pull my hood back down.

"Nice to see you too, Amaranth." His voice is dry. He pulls him arm away from me.

I curse myself. If I were aboveground more, I might be able to keep a better eye on him. He's brilliant and people like to take advantage of that; at least when we went to school together I could watch out for him and keep him out of trouble.

"I've been busy," I mumble. It's the best excuse I can come up with and it is deeply sad.

"Doing what? You don't go to school, I never see you anymore. What are you up to?" He turns to look at me and I can see the anger warring with worry in his chocolate brown eyes. "Why won't you trust me?" When I don't answer right away, he sighs. I can see the disappointment crowd out the anger and worry. "You know what, Ama? Never mind. I'll see you around."

He turns to walk in the opposite direction. "Patrick!" I call after him. He waves his hand, dismissing me. "Pat! Come on!"

I see the red-grey of a policeman's uniform out of the corner of my eye. Time to go. With one last look at Patrick's disappearing back, I dig my hands into my pockets and keep walking. I wish I could tell Patrick where I've been and what I do when I should be in school, but that would only put him at risk.

I make sure that the bobby isn't following me or Pat. He hasn't moved, and I breathe a small sigh of relief. Maybe he'll come upon Red Roddy and Blondie—if they haven't moved on to boosting old ladies' pin money—and they'll report a complaint. Definitely not a good idea to hang about and wait to get picked up.

I keep my head down, walking steadily but not appearing to rush. It's not fair, I think as I walk. I'm trying to save the world and I can't even catch a break from my best friend.

Bollocks.

Chapter Three

I creep along the dark tunnel, the point of an inverted V, trying not to think about my non-meeting with Patrick. Even with a few days between it and now, I still feel like I failed. I want to find him and talk to him, but first I have to get through this mission.

Four others of the team are with me, two on either side. We haven't run across any Bottomdwellers so far, but we're still a little ways from the meet point. We still have to traverse the old Underground tracks that lead to the closest unused station. The Tube has been abandoned for decades; nobody dares to venture down here since the demons that can't survive in sunlight or are too weak for possession have made the tunnels their home. Nobody dares, except us.

"Amaranth," someone whispers.

I turn and glare at a young man to my right. Is he thick? Doesn't he know what _silent_ means? He gestures behind us. I remember his name is Tyler and that he has better ears than I do down here. He's been on a couple of runs with me before, but nothing this important. I use hand signals to indicate that Tyler and his opposite should keep an eye on our backtrail.

We continue moving on, but I'm straining to listen, to catch a noise behind us. I can't hear anything, so after a few minutes I keep all of my attention focused on what's ahead of me. The tunnels are dark, illuminated only by our small torches and the few wall-mounted maintenance lights we've been able to keep repaired.

I can feel we're getting close to the station platform by the change in the air. It's crisper, a little fresher and definitely cooler. The Tube tunnels tend to be close and humid, but the open space of the platform allows the air to move more freely. We're almost there.

Tyler shouts a warning from somewhere behind me and then I smell it: the sulfurous brimstone scent of demons closing on us. I turn, drawing two blades in one motion. There's more light here, probably from the platform and I'm grateful for it, although I don't exactly need it. I've been training in blind fighting for the past year.

My weapons are thin blades, almost as long as my whole arm and edged on both sides. They are light and fast, but not flexible like a fencing foil. The metal of the blades is hard and etched with holy symbols and runes of protection and destruction, then anointed with holy oils and blessed by the priests. At their forging, the blades were quenched with holy water. My blades have been baptized by fire and water and oil and smoke, and now stand ready to rend demons and send them back beyond the Gate to where they belong. Wrapped around the hilt and small crosspiece of the right blade is my mother's rosary, supposedly bought in Vatican City—when there was a Vatican—and blessed by the Pope himself. We haven't had a pope in decades and I know I am lucky to be entrusted with such a relic.

It also makes me a bigger, tastier target. Lucky me.

I can see them now: six Bottomdwellers. Three are humanoid in shape, which means they are more powerful, and the other three look like, well, demons. One inches forward on backward jointed limbs, serrated arms like a praying mantis' outstretched to try and catch someone and rip them apart. I surge forward, swiping at those horrid arms, the metal of my blade biting deep into shadowy substance. Sparks flicker inside the demon flesh, and the thing howls. I follow up with my second blade, driving it into the depths of the creature and twist, ripping upwards. The blessed blade tears through it, exiting out the demon's split head and leaving behind a fiery wreck.

I turn to the next demon. The team has engaged the remaining Bottomdwellers while I was dealing with my demon, but even facing only five, we are still outmatched. I see one of the other men go flying across the tunnel to strike the wall with a wet crack and lay twitching on the floor.

My breath comes fast as I close in on one of the humanoid ones, slashing at it to drive it away from the group. It still leaves the three remaining men fighting four demons, but there's no help for it. The tunnel is a battleground now, all curses and hissing, the smell of sulfur thick in the air. The demon evades my strikes, but moves farther away from me and from the dim light coming from the platform. I leap after it, trying to stop it before it can get away and maybe rally more help from its kind.

It suddenly lunges forward, catching me off guard and tries to grab me. I dodge, throwing myself to the side. Off balance, I stumble. The demon is on me then, appendages wrapping around me, tightening like a vise. The thing's like a constrictor, so I try not to lose my breath so it can tighten further and suffocate me. The smell of sulfur bites into the back of my throat, making me gag. It's like the rankest body odor combined with rotten eggs, and it's just lovely in the fetid, humid air down here. A real breath of spring.

My right arm is pinned against my body, but the left is still free. And my blade is still clasped in my hand. I adjust my grip, raise my hand over my head, and then drive the blade down as deeply as I can into the demon's back. The demon screams in my face, the red flare as the blade meets demonic flesh dimly illuminating the creature's form. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the old station sign: Charing Cross. I glimpse scales now against the black skin, a bit more definition to what I tend to think of as a formless thing.

Unfortunately, the demon doesn't loosen its hold on me. My peripheral vision is beginning to waver at the edges, and I can feel my ribs aching from the pressure of the creature's arms. I look into its face and eyes like an acetylene torch glare back at me. Its mouth gapes, a dribble of smoke pouring from between blackened lips. I twist the blade and pull it towards me, trying to cut into more of the thing. More red lightning flares along its skin.

It drops me with a yowl, like a child slapping its hand on a hot stove. I'm panting as I find my feet, gulping in sulfur-scented air. I've never been so happy to smell it since it means I'm not dying. Yet. My blade is still in the demon, but I also have the one in my right hand. My knees are a bit weak, but I advance, the adrenaline flooding into my system giving me a natural boost. I close with it before it can get too far and lead with my right blade, cutting into the demon's flank.

It spins and I'm able to grab my sword that's still in the beast's back. I yank it out, leaving a trail of sizzling light. As it heaves, I rear back and punch it in the face with the rosary-wrapped hilt. The spelled beads sink into the shadow flesh slightly, pale lightning shimmering beneath my hand. The demon reels back, more than the strength of my punch alone would warrant, and I slam both blades into its neck on opposite sides, carving through it like a wedge of cheese. Two pieces of shadow, one significantly larger than the other, drop to the floor and begin to dissipate into greasy green smoke.

And Patrick wonders why I seem to be keeping things from him. I can just see my saying, "Spent a lovely day in the Underground fighting demons. How's rhetoric?"

I widen my awareness and see the three remaining members of the team still fighting with two of the demons, a third lying on the ground oozing the green smoke that means its essence is leaving this world for the gate home. But that leaves one unaccounted for.

"Amaranth!" Tyler yells as he dodges a demon's blow.

I take a step in his direction, thinking he's calling for help. Instead he says, "Over there!"

I try to follow his line of sight, but he's moving around too much. "Where?"

"There!" He points to his left.

My eyes scan the area and I catch sight of it slinking towards the base of the platform. I can see shapes at the platform's edge, peering into the dimly lit gloom, trying to gauge what's going on. I glimpse the glint of steel reflected from a stray light and am only a little relieved that at least one of them is armed.

I push myself into a sprint, determined that this thing will not wreak any more havoc than it has done already. It turns as it registers me pounding after it. This demon is not humanoid; rather it is squat and dense, with a face like a tortoise crossed with a lion. It has three arms, all longer than its legs, the third one sprouting from the middle of what I take to be its chest, although it is so short, it's hard to tell.

The demon swings its arms and I twist, trying to evade rather than block since I could only stop two of the three possible attacks. My hair slips loose from the pins I hastily put in to keep the braid in a neat bun, and it unspools in a dark rope. The creature grabs it with one of its taloned hands and begins to reel me in, mouth open to reveal teeth poking up like rocks along a desolate shore. I try and pull against the force that's hauling me backwards, but all I do is make my neck wrench at a painful angle and risk losing my footing as it yanks harder on my braid.

This is not how I would have preferred to spend my afternoon.

I look down at the blades in my hands, making my decision in a split-second. The choice is simple. Life or death. It's just hair--it will grow back. My sword flashes down, severing the rope that connects me to the demon, just as the rolling sound of a deep-voiced bell rings out.

The result is startling. The demons freeze, becoming as still as statues, though I can tell by the fires burning in the backs of their eyes that they are still aware. I look to the sound of the bell and see a young man climb down from the platform. He's not much older than me. As he walks closer, I can see he holds a large bell in both hands. Before the sound from the first ring dies out, he lifts the bell again and its bass boom rings out once more.

He's a Ringer. I've never met one before, although I have heard of their existence. The talent for the bells is incredibly rare; Ringers wield the few remaining blessed handbells that have power over demons. The sound of a working bell can disable a demon, torment it, or even banish it. The effect of the sound varies with the bell's age and size. We don't know why bells have such a powerful effect on demons, but they do, and we guard them, and those that can ring them, carefully. Churches and their bell towers have all been destroyed, but some hand bells have managed to remain hidden and in Resistance hands.

Two more people clamber down off the platform after him. They trail in his wake as he continues to sound the tone. I keep my eyes on the Ringer. He's maybe nineteen or twenty, with dark blond hair and light eyes. I can't tell much more because of the lack of real light.

He comes level with me, mindful of my steel. "You may want to do something about them. The bell will only hold them for so long." He has an American accent and it sounds slow and lazy to my ears. I'm more used to the clipped British used around London. But more than that, it sounds like _home_. My mother was born in New Jersey, so hearing him is like hearing her all over again.

I nod and go over to the demon I'd been fighting just moments prior. My blades slice through it, severing head from trunk. I nab the braid from the demon's dead hand as it falls. I feel a twinge as I tuck the hank of hair into my vest. I've no idea how I'm going to explain my hair to Patrick when next I see him.

To squash the start of regret that I can feel bubbling up inside me, I look at Tyler. "Make sure you finish them." I indicate the ones close by him.

"On it." He and the other two get to work.

When all remaining demons are dispatched, I return my attention to the Ringer. He has placed the bell's mouth against his chest, stilling the sound. The Tube tunnel feels poorer for the silence, sad and empty.

My eyes flick to his two companions. Both are older men and one of them I recognize as a member of our Resistance cell. "I take it he's the package we're supposed to transport?" My head dips in the Ringer's direction. I sheath my blades in the scabbards crossed behind my back.

"My name's Dham," he says, his voice as unpleasant as the bell's was soothing.

I've walked over to the man lying against the wall. I check for a pulse, even though I know he's already dead. "Give us a hand, will you?"

"Sure." He packs his bell onto his belt. I can see other bells hanging from straps spaced evenly on the leather belt that circles his waist.

The Ringer comes over, as do the others of the team. With their help, I strip the body of anything that might be useful, including the old Kevlar vest he wore. Not much help against a head injury that pulped his brains to marmalade. When we've removed everything of value, I take a hip flask from my pocket and upend the contents over the body. Accelerant. Tyler lights a match and drops it. We won't leave a body of one of ours behind to be possessed, not if we can help it anyway.

"Let's move," I say, taking point again and starting off down the tunnel still marked "Way Out." The two escorts fall in behind me, followed by the Ringer, then Tyler and the rest in the rear. I put on a bit of speed to flee the smell of burning flesh behind me.

Chapter Four

I lead the group back the way we came, eyes and ears alert for any more Bottomdwellers that might have been roused by the sound of fighting. Occasionally, I glance back for a curious look at the Ringer and the men who came with him. They all move through the darkness easily, as though used to it, so I stop worrying about them getting lost. A Ringer, I suppose, would be used to the dark places, wherever he hails from.

I see the train car ahead that demarcates the beginning of the Resistance's area of the Underground from the more dangerous ones that the Bottomdwellers inhabit. The train cars were put in years ago—I have no idea how it was managed—and they block the tunnel that leads to the Northern Line, our part of the London Underground. The way in is through the last car's back door and one of our people guards it continuously. I signal with my torch and the guard, Grant, slides the door open to meet our party.

I pull myself up the steps and let him press a cross against my forehead. The silver feels cold against my clammy flesh, but that's all. No sizzling or burning or smoke that indicates infernal possession. I proceed into the train car and wait while the rest of the group is similarly tested.

It's highly unlikely any of my original group would have been possessed; we're all marked with sigils of protection and warding somewhere on our bodies. These marks help to make sure we stay in possession of our selves, rather than become meat for a hitchhiker demon. Our marks are well-hidden; they have to be. When it was first discovered that demons were here and borrowing bodies, permanent protection tattoos became commonplace.

By the time anyone actually realized what was happening, the possessed were already placed in positions of power, exerting their control on governments and military. No one knew why they were here or what they wanted, but humanity had missed the opportunity to stop them. And, it seemed, the desire.

After the destruction of all of the holy sites across the globe—Jerusalem, Mecca, and Vatican City being hit first and hardest—the demon-possessed governments outlawed any and all religious practice. No more mass, no more temple service, no more bells ringing out in calls to prayer in the holy cities. Oh, they couldn't root it out completely; people still tried to practice in the privacy of their homes, but it had to be kept secret. Leaders from all religions were killed off and raids began on the homes of suspected practitioners. It became almost impossible to follow any kind of religious doctrine without punishment due to "concerned" neighbors—busybodies—or betrayal by family members.

Then came the New Inquisition. I guess the demons thought it was funny to bring up that particular lowlight of religious history and trot it out for another round of fun. Raids began, ferreting out the priest holes and other hiding places of the few clergy that survived. Inquisitors began rounding up anyone sporting a visible protection sigil. Some of those arrested were released, their marks mutilated to uselessness, but a larger number were never seen again. In some cases, offenders were flayed in public as a warning to others. This was before I was born, but we still have to be careful. Inquisitors are not easily fooled. They still routinely inspect people under suspicion of wearing a mark, shaving their head and body in the search for any illegal tattoos.

And what started as a sort of demons-only club didn't stay that way for long. Humans soon began to fill the ranks, seeking protection and power, more than willing to sell out the futures of their fellow men for comfort and a modicum of security in the here and now. The demons allowed it--for their own reasons, none of which anyone seems to know--even raising up promising humans to the highest ranks. I suppose it encouraged regular humans to rat others out.

I think it's a sad statement of humanity. Sad, but not terribly surprising. There will always be someone willing to trade temporary power for permanent indentured servitude. Those kinds of people only ever think of the short term benefits and not the life-long consequences. For those people, the war is already lost. They are simply profiteers. Now, normal people—people not under the influence of anything remotely demonic except their own instincts—regularly turn in their friends and family to torture or worse. It's become impossible to know who to trust. The Resistance has to be very careful when accepting a new recruit for a cell; it can take months or even years before the newbie knows the full extent of our operations. We smuggle priests, rabbis and imams through our tunnels to where they're needed and they bless bullets, swords, and other weapons for us and keep us in holy water for our troubles.

I stroke the braid I've tucked into my vest. My sigil is tattooed at the base of my skull, done when I was small, too small to really remember. It's part of why I wore my hair so long. My fingers brush the ends of my newly shorn hair; it comes down to my shoulders now, instead of my waist. I hadn't cut it since my mother was taken, as a reminder of her. But I tell myself that it's just hair. It will grow back. Better to have lost my hair than my head.

When the entire group has checked out clean, I make my way through the train cars until I come to the final car. As I slide the door open, Ryland and his lieutenants are waiting for us in the large, open space of the unused station at Aldwych. This is one of the more secure stations we have, the main entrance above sealed years before.

"Nice haircut," he says, his voice a low rumble, like granite given sound. It echoes off of the stone walls.

"I wanted something to bring out my eyes." I grimace and move to the side. I can see him giving me the once over, making sure I'm in one piece with no appreciable damage. He's the closest thing to family that I have now. I didn't know my father and my mother's been dead seven years. Ryland sort of adopted me when I was eleven, after my mother went missing. Maybe he felt responsible for what happened to her or maybe he's just the good sort, but he's watched out for me since my mother's death. Satisfied that I'm relatively unscathed, he turns back to the group. I can see him counting in his head and coming up short.

"We got attacked by six Bottomdwellers," I fill in before he can ask. "We lost one."

"I can see that." His voice is dry, but I can tell in the tightening of his mouth that he's upset to have sent someone out who didn't make it back. I duck my head, a bit ashamed and not sure why. I couldn't have saved the man; I'd been too far away. But the feeling still clings to me stubbornly. "You secured the package though." Ryland walks closer to the young man who all the fuss was about. "Ringer." He extends his hand.

"Dham," the Ringer says, taking the older man's hand. It feels all portentous and everything; if Patrick were here we'd probably be making rude comments about important speeches and choruses of angels singing out to mark the occasion, but he's not here. All I want to do is head back to the surface and take a shower. "And this is Peter." He gestures to the younger of the two men he's with. "And I guess you all know Kevin."

Since I'm already acquainted with Kevin, I spend a moment getting a good look at Peter. He's maybe Ryland's age, perhaps a few years older. He's tall and fit, but his features look haggard. I get an odd feeling from him, one that makes me uncomfortable. I try to pin down what it is I don't like about him, but can't come up with anything, except maybe that his expression isn't one to make people want to get to know him. I turn away from him.

Ryland nods at Peter, and then he turns to me. "Amaranth, lead the way."

I take the front again, passing more men and women—some of them guards—on the way deeper into the tunnels. I navigate down a side corridor and open a rough hewn door, waiting for everyone to go inside. Ryland lays a hand on my shoulder as he passes, a brief assurance that I'm still there and solid perhaps. I close the door behind me and go to the corner of the room behind the way the door opens. Not that I expect a demon to make it this deep into our sanctuary, but it never hurts to be cautious.

I'm curious to find out what a Ringer is doing here, and one that sounds like he's from the States. I wonder if he's from the same place as my mother. How did he get over here with those bells? Air travel is tricky these days and he certainly wouldn't be let on a plane with those bells in his luggage. Even sea travel is difficult, with the Inquisition now taking an interest in what's being smuggled into various countries.

Ryland switches on several lights and I am able to get a better look at the Ringer. My assessment of his age seems correct; he's about nineteen or twenty--barely older than I am. He's got skin browned from the sun, so he's used to being outdoors or has been outdoors a lot recently. His hair is longish and a dark blond, the back of it curling around his collar. There's a bit of stubble on his face, a shadow on his strong jaw. His brows slant down sharply over remarkably green eyes.

"Did you run into any problems, Kevin?" Kevin is also one of Ryland's advisors.

Kevin's one of the old guard, probably in his early fifties but still fit. He's older than Ryland by maybe a decade, but he follows the younger man. "Not until we hit Charing Cross and this lot ran afoul of those Blights. I picked these two up at the docks and got them here as quick as I could."

Ryland gives Kevin a nod, then turns to the newcomers. "How was the trip?"

I perk up. This is what I've been wanting to hear about. It's not every day we get visitors from across the ocean. Travel between the continents is possible, but the amount of red tape you have to cut through and the palms you have grease along the way make it next to impossible for all but the very wealthy. I'd love to know how they managed to get themselves and their gear over here without being caught. Our resistance group is able to travel reasonably well on the continent, but crossing the Atlantic is far more difficult for us. It's been attempted numerous times, but most of them only end in failure.

Dham speaks, which surprises me. I thought the other man traveling with him would be the one to do the talking; he's older after all. I don't know why I'm surprised--in the Resistance, age doesn't always equate to rank. I listen carefully, trying to get as much from what he doesn't tell us as from what he does. "Long. And rough. The blockade runner we were on hit a few rough patches, but got us through. That's all that matters."

"You know why you're here?" I swivel my head to look at Ry. This is interesting. I haven't been told why he's here--I wasn't even told that the package I was to pick up was human. I'd been expecting the usual packet of arcane and religious texts and remnants: bones of saints, burial shrouds, the odd crucifix or packet of communion wafers. Ever since religion had been forced underground, there's been a huge call for the smuggling of holy relics and various items necessary for practice and defense.

But I'd always been told when I'd be escorting in a person before. We have the itinerant priests and rabbis that come by on their circuits, re-blessing weapons, dropping off the odd relic or two, and performing various priestly duties, like the anointing of the sick, confession, and communion when they could. I'd even escorted a Buddhist monk through the tunnels once. Their job was to get in and get out as quickly as possible, moving on to the next place on their circuit before their presence was found out by the Inquisition or their Sniffers. But a Ringer was different.

Apparently, I am to be kept in the dark a while longer. Lovely. Dham nods his head, but says nothing, his eyes flicking to me and the others gathered in the room. I take it to mean he doesn't feel comfortable talking about whatever he's here for in front of the rest of us. I have to stop a derisive snort. He's the one we know nothing about and he's going to play cagey with us?

Ryland lets this pass. "The meeting isn't for a few more days. Until then, you'll need to get acclimated. Amaranth, think Auntie can squeeze in one more?"

I arch a brow at him, and he gives me a knowing look. So I'm to babysit the newbie, eh? There are worse duties I could pull, but I can't think of many right now. "There's always room at Auntie's." Auntie runs a boarding house just off of High Holborn. A lot of Resistance use her place as a stopping point. I let a room there. It's secure and one of the few safe places aboveground for us, and Auntie is above reproach.

I glance at the Ringer out of the side of my eye. He looks confused and a bit curious, but seems content to follow our lead. He does not protest about having to wait for a meeting or express concern over being led around unfamiliar territory by a girl he hardly knows. I can't decide if he's dim, unimaginative, or just used to following orders.

"Right. Peter, let's get you squared away," Ryland says, gesturing for the older men to stay. The rest of us are dismissed. He turns back to the Ringer. "We'll send word of the meeting."

I turn, gesturing for the Ringer to follow. Before we can go topside, we need to be rid of a few things and I'll need to change into my street clothes. Wandering around London in body armor and black clothes with holes and stains on them is not recommended. Relatively little has obviously changed since the demons and those possessed took power, but standing out from the norm does not spell for a long, happy life. Everyone changes into "work" clothes while in the tunnels and it is only rarely that we dare to wear them aboveground.

I lead him down a corridor that twists sharply to the right, then turn down another tunnel. I doubt the Ringer would be able to find his way back to where we entered. I follow this tunnel for a few meters, then step into a room carved into the rock.

It's a locker room, of sorts. Chests, footlockers, old valises, and steamer trunks fill the room in a moderately orderly fashion. I head to a battered steamer trunk tucked away in the corner of the room and remove the lock on it. On the outside the trunk looks perfectly normal, a relic of antiquity, of a more enlightened and mannered age. As I lever the halves open, the interior fabric is decked out with wards and sigils of concealment and obfuscation. I unstrap the sheaths from my back and hang my blades in the trunk, taking extra care removing the rosary. I place it in a velvet bag embroidered with sigils of hiding and slip the bag's drawstring over my head. The rosary is the one thing I risk taking with me out of the tunnels--a reminder of my mother. Then I shuck off my vest and clothes, pulling on denims and a long sleeve cotton shirt. I grab my peacoat and backpack from the trunk too, but don't put them on.

I turn to face the Ringer, only to find him flushed. He has a hard time meeting my eyes and I wonder what it is that might be the problem and then I realize. I just stripped down to my skivvies in front of a complete stranger. Lovely. I try not to flush, clenching my teeth together. I've become so used to changing on my own, of having the place to myself that I had forgotten he'd followed me. I have nothing to be embarrassed about, I tell myself. _He's_ the outsider.

It's a testament to how softly he walks and how silent he can move that I had lost sight of him. That is an impressive skill, and one that took me a long time to master. I tend to clomp around when not actively trying for stealth. I brush the stray strands of hair out of my face in frustration and tuck what I can behind my ears. "You can share mine." I gesture to the other side of the steamer trunk that is now empty. "You'll have to keep your bells here. These are warded to prevent detection by the Inquisition. I'm betting you don't have anything spelled to carry them in outside of the tunnels." At his nod, I gesture to the empty side of the trunk.

He puts his hands to the belt that he carries the bells on, as if reluctant to part with them. I can understand it; I hate giving up my blades, even though I know it is for my safety and that of the Resistance. I feel small and vulnerable without them. Twitchy even. At least the rosary is easy to mask. I try to reassure him. "They'll be safe here. No one will touch them."

He eyes me dubiously. I stare back. I can't get a read on him yet. He seems older than his years, but then he seems terribly tentative. I'm about to say something cutting to get him to move it along, when he speaks, surprising me. "I'm not used to going out without them. I feel...naked." He turns away but I can see the red burning in his cheeks. Oh, the changing thing again. "But if you're leaving your swords..."

"Safe as houses." I gesture expansively at the trunk again.

He unbuckles the belt and I'm able to get a closer look at his rig. It looks like a modified toolbelt, the kind construction workers sometimes wear. It holds six bells, three on either side and then at the back is a sheath holding a wickedly long dagger. The bells are on the large side, ringing his waist in metal. I peer at the leather straps attaching the bells to the belt and see that there is a piece of leather that holds the clappers still. Ingenious.

"Did you make this?" I ask, pointing at his belt.

His head comes up from his work of divesting himself of holy objects. When he nods, a piece of hair flops down over his left eye. I find I'm fighting the urge to brush it out of his face. "I'm good with my hands." He looks away nervously for a moment, then says, "I mean, I like to tinker with stuff. I'm good at fixing things." He lays the belt and bells into the bottom of the trunk and adds a few packets to the top of the pile.

I fix him with a critical eye. His clothes are travel-stained, but serviceable. Cargo pants and a t-shirt with a jacket zipped over it. My gaze takes him in, until I'm practically staring at him. He's not completely objectionable. And his clothes would pass aboveground for now. "Do you have anything else?"

"Nope, this is it. We lost our packs when we had to swim for it." At my raised eyebrow, he says, "Long story."

"Maybe you'll tell it to me one day. We'll get you some fresh things when we get to Auntie's." I want to hear the story of his trip over, but he makes no further mention of it. I take that to mean he doesn't want to get into it, so I drop the conversation. I close the trunk and latch it. I want to get back to my room and take a shower. I still feel a bit grungy from the fight and from being down in the tunnels. "Come on then." I shoulder my bag and troop out the door.

I lead him farther into our parts of the tunnels. We excavate carefully as we have need, but these tunnels are at least a few decades older than me. Resistance numbers are dwindling as more and more of us are found out and taken by the Inquisition. We've been trying to hold the line, but it's becoming more difficult and dangerous to operate any kind of resistance to the demons. They have possessed powerful people and use that power to great effect to stamp out anything that threatens them. Still, it is better to fight than to be a puppet, a passenger in your own body. Or worse, evicted completely from it.

I don't swing my blades because I want to. I swing them because I have to, because someone has to try and stop the body snatching, the soul stealing, and the torment that comes from seeing a loved one simply vanish in the night. That's why I joined the Resistance. If I can help stop the demons and those they serve from hurting anyone else, then I'll keep at it until the day I die. I remember all too well what it was like for me in those terrifying days after my mother was taken....

I stop that avenue of thought and pull the torch from my bag, turning it on as we reach the end of the tunnel. I wave it at the metal rungs of a ladder that heads off above us into darkness. The ladder will take us up to an abandoned warehouse, again patrolled by Resistance. From there, we'll go up to the upper floor and head into another building, this one much like a tenement and we'll head to the ground from there. Two school kids won't attract attention leaving a complex like that. From there we'll leg it to Auntie's.

"Ready for a bit of a climb?" I shrug into my jacket and put the backpack on both shoulders so my hands are free and my weight balanced.

His eyes spark green when I train the torch at his face. He smiles grimly and says, "As I'll ever be."

I nod and put the torch in my teeth. Then I began to lead the way out, as we climb in darkness toward light.

Chapter Five

I walk along the street, head down like everyone else in the city. Clothes are in shades of greys, browns, and blacks; the only splash of color is the red on an Inquisitor's coat. Their presence on the street ensures that everyone moves along quickly. People don't speak in the streets or make eye contact with one another. The mood outside is always tense--no one likes being out in public for long anymore. Cameras on corners and in shops record the comings and goings of passerby.

No one knows exactly when the possessions began. It must have started small. By the time the public became aware that something was wrong, the demon's and those they were possessing were too well entrenched to get rid of them easily. Laws were passed restricting religious practice, but people just sort of went along with it--it was easier than fighting and disappearing. Too many people were dropping off the face of the earth. The mantra _it will get better_ was tossed around hopefully.

But it didn't get better. Once the demons had consolidated power, they began surgical strikes on the holy cities. They closed churches, mosques, and temples, then demolished them. A kill order was issued for religious leaders, but it was done quietly. By the time anyone knew enough to raise the alarm, it was too late.

It didn't help that humans began to sell out their own kind. The Resistance was formed to fight back, but the demon's public relations machine branded it a terrorist organization. Soon we were being blamed for bombs we didn't plant, for riots we didn't start. And the vast majority of people didn't want to risk dying or torture. They just want to live their lives in whatever peace they can find.

I can't really blame them. Until my mother was taken, I probably felt the same way.

And so now, when I walk down the street and see things going on as usual, but always with the presence of the Inquisition's Red Coats, I feel equal parts sympathy and anger. Children go to school, parents go to work. Men and women still get married, have kids, live their lives. But there are still the ones that go missing, there are still the ones that come back changed or no longer themselves, but still alive.

I don't know why the demons let it go on like this. They have to have a reason. I just don't know what it is. All I know is that I hate what we've turned into.

The Ringer walks beside me, taking in the scenery of central London. He seems impressed by the old buildings, still primarily law offices and printing houses. Fleet Street isn't as splashy as Piccadilly—nothing really is—but it has a seriousness to it. Cars go by, and buses, but I don't want to risk those. You never know who or what you could wind up sitting next to and I don't want to risk anything that might catch the interest of the Inquisition. I look over and grit my teeth. I'm not sure why I'm annoyed, but I am. I try not to think about it, instead choosing to observe him. After a few streets I notice that whenever we walk by large piles of rubble that had once been the great churches of London he looks sad.

We walk in silence for a time. Then he speaks to me. "You're pretty good with those blades."

I look around. There aren't a lot of people on the street, but it is still unwise to discuss what happens underground up here. The possessed aren't the only demons that are above ground. And spies are everywhere. Maybe it's different where he's from, but in London a careless word could get you hauled before the Inquisitors. I glare at him. "It's not exactly the most brilliant of ideas to mention that up here," I hiss, glancing around us once more. No one is close enough to have heard; at least I don't think so.

He looks around as well, his expression angry. He seems to stew for a minute, as if he's trying to figure out a caustic response and is having a hard time coming up with one. "How old are you anyway?"

The question surprises me. It wasn't at all what I expected. I'm so surprised that I answer truthfully. "Just turned nineteen."

He stops. After a few steps, I stop as well, looking back at him. "What?"

The Ringer shrugs. "I guess I thought you were older. You're a little young to be so..."

"Accomplished?" I suggest when he seems at a loss for the right word.

"I was thinking bitchy, but let's go with your word." He smiles at me coldly, then continues walking while I stand there incredulously. _Bitchy_?

I jog to catch up to him. "That was rude."

He looks sidelong at me, and I'm struck by his green eyes. I feel like I'm being evaluated. It is uncomfortable, especially coming from this American, although I can't say why. "So were you."

I go silent, thinking. I suppose my brusqueness could be taken for rudeness if looked at the right way. I'm not used to dealing with people, and certainly not unknown entities from across the ocean. I am not a friendly person by nature. I know that. I only have one real friend left from my childhood and I don't get to see him often enough. Patrick would be shaking his head and laughing at me before calling me a savage or something. Ry once joked that Patrick was the only thing that kept me from going completely feral. Ryland keeps trying to get me to work on my people skills, but that's not a strength I see any point in cultivating.

We walk a ways in silence. I want to apologize, but can't bring myself to do it. The words _I'm sorry_ do not come easily to me anymore. Sometimes I feel that if I start saying them, I won't be able to stop. Finally I decide on, "I did not mean to be rude. We don't get visitors often." At all, really. I know I need to establish a comfortable relationship with him, especially if I'm to be his guide. I smile, and it feels odd on my face. "Let's start over." I take a deep breath and extended my hand. "Hello, I'm Amaranth." He takes my hand, his warm one enveloping mine firmly. "And you are?"

"Dham." He shakes my hand, then lets it go. "It's good to meet you."

"You too." I turn around and continue walking. "Are you new to London?"

"Just got in." He's grinning now, but it isn't mocking.

"Well then, allow me to give you a tour." We're heading towards the Old Bank of England. I launch into describing our surroundings, pointing out the horrible fish and chip shop on the corner that the locals know not to frequent, the take-away market, and the unhappy fruit and vegetable seller in the stand across the street. His pickings are slim--the Inquisition and their kitchens always gets first crack at the fresh stuff.

That may be what's bothering me so much about the Ringer and his sudden appearance. I wasn't even told to expect him; just that I was supposed to pick up a package. I have no idea why he is here or what he is going to be doing. And the meeting that Ryland promised is news to me. There is something going on and I didn't like not knowing. It feels strangely like I am being kept out of something. But why?

"So what brings you to our far shores?" I ask as we walk.

The Ringer doesn't respond, just smiles again.

Fine. "How old are you?" I might as well find out some information about this newcomer.

"Twenty."

"Positively a Methuselah," I say, a mocking edge to my voice. He was calling me young?

We pass the ruins of St. Dunstan's-in-the-West on Fleet Street. He stops and stares at it, so I stop as well. The great stone blocks are rubble now, with most of the ironwork and anything else that might be usable spirited away in the night. Nothing has sprung up to take its place, not that anything would. The sites on which the churches were built are never built on again. Eventually Nature will overtake this place and it would just be another empty overgrown lot.

Still, you could see the bones of the church in the ruin and how great it must have been at one time when still standing. I can't see much trash, which always makes me happy. I hate seeing bottles and papers and random rubbish strewn about a former holy place. But it looks clean here. I don't know of any humans who would desecrate the grounds, not anymore anyway, but that doesn't mean the demon possessed won't.

"It must have been beautiful," the Ringer says in a whisper, eyes skimming along the detritus. He's looking with his mind's eye now, he must be—imagining the grand arches, the windows, the great doors leading inside.

"It was." He looks at me sharply. "I've seen pictures," I say to clarify. "It was rubble long before I was born."

"Did it have a bell tower?" Before I can answer, he's off, making his way through the shattered stone remnants.

I can't remember, truth be told, but that doesn't matter. It is a bad idea to go blundering around old religious sites. You have to worry about being reported or caught by the Inquisition, and you have no idea if you'll run across squatters who might be using the place as a way to lie low. Neither one are people you want to cross paths with.

I take off after him, scrabbling my way through broken bricks and mortar and shattered glass. This is not an idea designed to lead to a healthy life, something I plan to explain to him at length and volume, but he's moving like a mountain goat over the piles of rock and his legs are longer than mine. I finally catch up to him when he stops, looking down. I wipe scraped and battered hands on my jeans as I come up beside him.

A huge iron bell lies half-buried beneath blasted fragments of what must have been the church tower. The Ringer stands and stares down at it, his face closed like a shutter. I can't tell what he's thinking as he looks at the exposed metal. He bends down and touches his hand to it lightly, almost as if it might wake and ring on its own.

I want to say something, anything, but have no idea what. This moment fills me with sadness, and an almost overwhelming need to express it. The sound of cars and foot traffic is distant and muted and it feels like the Ringer and I are the only two people in the city. I am scared of loneliness, and this one minute is filled with it. I have to clench my fists to keep from touching the Ringer, as if he were some anchor.

His eyes catch mine, and I am held still. The space feels charged somehow, like I can expect to be flattened by lightning at any minute. His eyes are more a jade green, muddier than the clear, brilliant green of emeralds. This is going on in the back of my head, where the voice of logic is still able to speak, while the rest of me is fairly screaming _SaysomethingsaysomethingSAYSOMETHING_.

"YOU TWO!" I spin to see a policeman bearing down on us. His insignia is slashed with red, signifying that he's a police liaison to the Inquisition--he reports directly to an Inquisitor General. I can't tell if he's demon-ridden or not and I don't plan to find out, especially since he's one of the Inquisition's men.

I yank the Ringer to his feet, hauling on his arm. "Come on," I urge, dragging him after me as I head us towards the back side of the church.

"STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"

Unlikely. My sneakered feet pound against the ground, my breath sounding harsh in my ears. I pray I don't twist an ankle on the uneven pavement littered with blocks of stone. The Ringer is close behind me, practically stepping on my heels. I can't hear the sound of pursuit over the noise we're making, and I can only hope that the bobby doesn't have a partner patrolling the area close by. I swing wide around the rear of the remains of the building and see an alley off of what must have been the rectory at one point.

I grab the Ringer's arm again, propelling him toward the alley. I take a moment to look behind us and swear I see a flash of movement among the rubble, but it is opposite the side the bobby would be coming. I push myself to run faster now that we're on flat pavement and we come skidding out of the alley into a busy throng of people heading for home. We glide along with the flow of human traffic as I try to get my breathing back to normal.

The Ringer touches my arm, jerking his head to the left as I look up at him. I shift my gaze to where he indicates and see several police officers scanning the crowd. It looks as though we aren't free and clear just yet. People move away from them quickly, afraid they could be caught up in whatever is going on. They've all learned it's safer to stay out of it. I change my focus before they notice me staring. I see a pub's sign hanging just ahead of us. It says it's the Winchester and there's a curious curlicue mark in the c of the name. It's a safe house.

With a light touch on his arm, I guide the Ringer inside the dimly lit pub. Ryland told me that the Inquisition tried to close the pubs once, but then decided to leave them open. Something about giving the people an outlet where they can drown their sorrows and numb their troubles. Rubbish. The bar is a bit less than half full, although most of the tables are taken. I lead the way to the long wooden bar that has an old Winchester rifle mounted above the mirror. At the same time, I slip a bank note out of my pocket, the intricate folds of the bill telling a story of their own. As we sit, I pass it to the barkeep.

He's a middle aged man, brawny muscles bleeding slowly to fat. His dark eyes flick first to me, then the Ringer as he palms the note. "Follow."

The Ringer gives me a questioning look, and I nod slightly. We leave the bar and follow the man around to the back of the room and down a narrow hallway. He motions us down a left turn that ends in a door. He takes a key from a ring hooked onto his belt loops, using it to open the door. He gestures us inside the storeroom and closes the door behind him.

"What's this then?"

"We need to get out of here without being seen," I say, watching the barman carefully. I know I've taken a risk coming here, but his sign has the symbol and he accepted the note. He's part of the Resistance.

He nods sharply. He rummages in a box stashed in a corner and pulls out two rain jackets. "Get those on, you two. You can put your kit in the boxes." He points to two mid-sized supply boxes, stamped with a food logo.

I shrug out of my peacoat, placing it and my backpack into the box. The Ringer does the same with his hoodie. The barman hands him a cap. We get into the rain jackets and stand before the barman who eyes us critically. "You'll do," he pronounces. "This way."

We pick up our respective boxes and follow him to the back of the storeroom. He moves several large racks and boxes out of the way to reveal a hidden door. He pushes against it; the door seems reluctant to open, but it doesn't squeal or groan on its hinges. Instead it moves slowly and quietly and when it stands open, I can see another alley before us.

"Off with you now." He pushes us out with large hands. The door closes as slowly and silently as it opened, leaving us staring at each other in the gloom of the alley.

The Ringer hefts his box to a more comfortable position. "You do this often? Pretend to be a delivery person to outrun the cops?"

I nod. "Sometimes twice on Sundays." He laughs, the deep sound soaking into the darkness of the alley. "I don't usually make it a habit to go sifting through church ruins."

He frowns as he walks beside me. "I don't make a habit of it either. But I..." He shakes his head, trailing off.

"But you what?" My voice is pitched softly, sounding almost foreign to my own ears. He's odd, this one, and there's a draw for me there that I hadn't expected. I move in closer so I can better hear him.

He ducks his head, a gesture almost shy. "I had to see it. I had to see the bell."

"But you didn't even know there was a bell there." I'm confused and it must show on my face. "Did you?"

He readjusts the way he's holding his box, tucking it atop his hip and under his arm. "I didn't. I just sort of felt something. Like I could tell it was there." He quickens his pace and I stutter-step to catch up. "Sounds pretty crazy, I know."

I shrug. "Hardly. You're talking to someone who sticks swords in..." here I lowered my voice to a whisper, "...demons on a regular basis."

The look he gives me seems to say _Point to you_ , but he doesn't add to my comment. We get to the end of the alley and I take a quick look for anything odd before leading us back onto the street. We aren't far from the boarding house and seem to have escaped notice for now, so I relax the slightest bit. "So how did you get to be a, you know?" I keep my voice low so that we can't really be heard amidst the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks. I lead us back toward Holborn, and Auntie's boarding house in the neighborhood beyond it.

The Ringer thinks for a long time. I wonder if he's going to answer me or if I perhaps made a mistake in my question. It might be something he'd care not to talk about, like my decision to fight with the Resistance. We turn onto the block that houses Auntie's place when he finally speaks. "My family. We've always been able to make the bells work."

His voice is tight, clipped. I glance at him and see that his face is set in a frown, his brows drawn down in anger or unhappiness. It's clear that this is not a topic of conversation I should continue. I try to change the subject without being obvious. "It's pretty amazing, the effect they have on...things." It goes against some basic part of me to not ask. I have the need to delve deeper, to pry open doors to see what's hidden behind them. I'm sure it's part of what makes me so obnoxious. According to Ryland I would do better if I didn't push.

"It's nothing." The angry line is still showing between his eyes, but then it clears. "Now you and your...items... are pretty handy to have around. I've never seen anything like that back home."

It's my turn to frown. I do not want to talk about what I do or how I came to do it so well. I do not like to think about it at all. I prefer to treat it like muscle memory; when confronted by a threat of a certain stripe, I react accordingly. Preferably without thinking. "Like you said, it's nothing." I fiddle with my box, trying to find a more comfortable way to hold it so that the pointed edge of one side will stop digging into my middle. "Where's home for you?"

"New York." Not where my mother was from then. I ignore the vague feeling of disappointment. He's watching me, I can see him looking over from out of the corner of my eye. Then a strand of my newly shortened hair falls across my face, obscuring my vision. I try blowing it away from my face, but it just falls back in place. My hands are full with the box, but I try to grab it awkwardly with one hand and rest it on my leg to free one of my hands to deal with the hair.

"Let me." Before I can register complaint, the Ringer brushes the dark strands of my hair back and tucks them behind my ear. I watch, noting how long his fingers are. He has the hands of a musician, a pianist's hands. They move with a supple grace, but I can see the calluses and scars on them, telling a tale of harder use on instruments other than a piano's keys.

His hand slowly drops away from my face, but we're standing, staring at each other like we're the only two people on the street. It isn't busy, not off the main thoroughfares; we're into residential sections now. His eyes are cast in shadow beneath the brim of his cap, but I remember the pure green color of them. The silence is stretching past the point of comfort, and I feel as though something must happen, though I have no idea what.

My box slips, causing me to scrabble to grab it before it hits the ground. The moment is broken; when I look back up, the Ringer's face is turned away. He's looking back the way we came. I hoist my burden back in front of my chest—the box isn't heavy, just awkward—and say, "Come on. We're almost there."

In only a few more minutes we're in front of Auntie's house. The building is a bit run down, but Auntie keeps it neat and tidy, if slightly rough around the edges. Auntie's neighborhood, St. Giles, is still in fairly good repair, unlike a lot of the smaller residential sections of London. A slow decay seems to have set in in places, as if people—or what's inside them—no longer care about maintaining their property. Entropy has begun. I'm glad it hasn't touched what passes for my home, at least not yet.

The Ringer looks up at the brick townhouse. He looks a bit grim. He's already run from the police and been in a battle with demons and yet he looks hesitant about going into a simple boarding house. I begin to mount the six steps that lead up to the front door. "Right then. Time to meet Auntie."

Chapter Six

Auntie descends on us almost as soon as we enter the house. She's a large woman, not tall, but big. When she was younger she took a more active role in the Resistance; now though she runs the boarding house where some of us live. She functions as a replacement mother for those of us who no longer have our own: worrying, fretting, feeding, and offering unwanted advice just like the real thing.

She engulfs me in a hug as soon as I clear the doorway, then swoops in on the Ringer. Auntie has no issues with personal space, and I have to smother a laugh when I see his face pressed against her considerable bosom. She once wielded the blades I do today, but her powerful muscles are going to slack now that she's in retirement. The Ringer looks as though he's in danger of being suffocated.

"Welcome, welcome!" Auntie slackens her hold and the Ringer is able to shove himself far enough away to breathe again. "Ryland told me ages ago to expect you." I quickly look in her direction, shocked by this admission. So she knew about his impending arrival well before I did. Interesting. "Come along, my boy, and I'll show you where you'll be bunking."

He looks from me to her, as if waiting for my word. I put my box down and remove the contents. "Go on. I'll catch up with you later."

The Ringer nods and pulls his clothes out of the box he's been carrying. Auntie looks at me sharply, taking visual inventory. "What on earth have you done to your head?"

I sigh. Then I hold up the braid of my hair. She clucks her tongue at me while ushering the Ringer to the back of the house. I catch a glimpse of his smile before he disappears around the landing. "Well, we'll figure out something to do with you later."

I troop the three flights up to my bedroom. It's small, with just a twin bed and a small chest of drawers tucked under an eave. There's a sink with a mirror above it on the wall opposite the door, but I have to share a bathroom with the two other tenants on this side of the hall. I shuck off my pack and slicker, dumping them and my coat at the foot of the bed. I slip the pouch containing my rosary over my head and hang it on the bed frame.

I want a shower, something hot to eat, and a decent night's rest, in that order. I walk to the sink to gather up my kit, stopping once I see my reflection in the mirror. I lift my hand to touch the ends of my dark brown hair, now so much shorter after the enforced haircut. I turn my head from side to side, noticing how much lighter my head feels without the weight of so much hair. Then I stop and study my mirror image. I look different with my hair in my face, less severe. I look younger, softer. I look _different_. My eyes meet the muddy grey-blue of my reflection's. I try and smile, but I look like I have indigestion. I drag fingers through my hair, pulling it back once more. There she is, the old me. I let my hair fall back down. The new me. I'd better get used to it because the new me was going to be around for the foreseeable future unless I figure out how to make my hair grow overnight.

I put the long braid on top of the chest, brushing it once more with my fingers. My mother had loved my hair—she'd always said my hair was one of my best features. I loved it because it looked like hers. It was the last thing I had of hers really, other than the rosary.

I bundle my shower things into my bathrobe and head down the hall. The bathroom is thankfully unoccupied, so I take my time in there. When I emerge, the entire room is clouded with steam and I am pink and content. The hot water took the ache out of sore muscles and relaxed tense shoulders. I feel like I could almost skip food and go straight to bed. My stomach rumbles and I realize that though I might appreciate the rest, my body is crying out for something substantial.

I am pulling on a t-shirt when there's a knock at my door. I tug on a pair of lounging pants and pad over to it, wrapping a towel around my wet hair. When I open it, the Ringer is standing there. His hair is wet, sticking up in spikes like a hedgehog and he's managed to find some fresh clothes. "Hi."

"Hello." I squeeze water from my hair while I wait for him to continue. When he just stares at me, I ask, "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Is there anywhere I can grab some food?" He steps back to lean against the wall. "I don't want to bother you, but I haven't eaten in almost two days."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise, both at his admission and at the fact that Auntie didn't let him know about dinner. But then again, she tended to forget the simple things in light of learning more about her charges, however temporary. "I was just going to go downstairs to get some supper." I slip on my shoes. "Follow me."

I toss my towel on the bed and close my door. "So where'd Auntie put you?" If I'm to be his guide while he's in London, it's a good idea to know where he's staying.

He falls in beside me. "Bottom floor, west corner."

"I know the one." It's got an entrance to the back garden, which exits out to the street behind the house. Nice of her to give him a room with a possible escape route. I look at him intently. Now that I take the time, I can see the marks of a hard journey on him. His cheeks look hollow, and a fading bruise decorates his right one. There are shadows under the green eyes. He looks like he could use a long sleep and a hot meal, both of which he can get here. But there's something haunted about him too, a sadness that he carries with him but tries to hide. "How long has it been since you slept?"

He laughs ruefully. "I'm not sure. A few days at least. We've been traveling almost non-stop to get here. It's mostly been catnaps in the backs of trucks for me."

I lead him into the kitchen. Auntie always has a stew or soup or something like it on the stove and tonight is no exception. I lift the pot's lid and inhale the scent of lamb and root vegetables cooking in the thick brown stock. "Hand me those bowls." I get the ladle from its hook on the wall above the stove.

"Please?" The Ringer's voice has a rebuke in it.

I look up to find him looking at me with one eyebrow raised. I stare at him for a moment before I understand what he's after. "Please hand me the bowls," I say, trying hard not to sound gruff, especially when he grins like a little boy getting away with something. I realize that I'm out of practice with my manners, but I'm not enjoying his constant reminders of it. Patrick though would be having a field day with this. He was always trying to get me to be more polite.

The last time we had fish and chips together, Pat made another attempt at civilizing me. I had asked him to pass me the malt vinegar. He quirked a dark eyebrow at me and asked, "What do we say?"

"Now, before I thump you?" I grinned at him around a mouthful of chip.

"You are hopeless, you know that?" He handed me the bottle. "You may as well wear animal skins, live in a cave, and hit things over the head with a club."

Clearly, Patrick's lessons didn't take.

"You're welcome," Dham says, needling me. I ignore him.

As I ladle in the stew, he observes, "Not big on manners, are you?"

I put the bowls aside and grab one of the loaves of dense brown bread on the bread board. I slice off two thick pieces, offering one to the Ringer. I gesture towards the small sitting room off the kitchen and follow him. "Don't have much cause to be. I spend a lot of time by myself." I settle myself on the loveseat, putting my dinner on the low table in front of it. The Ringer sits next to me. "And it's not like there's a lot of time for formality when you're fighting a Blight. 'Oh do be so good as to please duck so I do not slice off your head by accident' is a bit of a mouthful."

He tries a spoonful of the stew and closes his eyes as he swallows. "That's possibly the best thing I've ever tasted." He pauses. "Granted, I probably wouldn't complain if you set a plate of fried dog food in front of me, but this is really good." He tears off a hunk of bread and dips it in the broth.

I find myself grinning. "I'll try to remember to convey your exact words to Auntie. You want some tea?"

"Whatever you're having." He wolfs down more of the stew while I get up to prepare the tea. I turn on the electric kettle, so it isn't long before I'm setting a tea tray down on the table.

I pour out two cups and pass him one. "Thanks," he says, wiping his mouth on a napkin. I can see he's almost polished off the bread and is nearly through his bowl of stew. "So besides carving up demons and having no manners, what else is there to know about you?"

I find myself smiling. I can't help it. I find him equal parts obnoxious and compelling. I take a bite of stew to try and keep him from seeing it, but the smirk on his face tells me he caught me. "There's not much to tell." I wash the stew down with a sip of tea; one sugar and a dash of cream. "I'm full-time Resistance. I come here, I go below." I dropped out of school a year ago so I could take on more missions. Not that anyone but Patrick noticed; it's not unusually for someone to just stop attending classes, and it was better for all involved not to ask too many questions about it.

I watch as he cleans his bowl, mopping up the last bit of liquid with his bread. "What about you?"

He shrugs and gets up, bowl in hand. "You want some more?" I shake my head and wait until he comes back with a second helping. He sits down and proceeds to eat, but stops when he notices me staring. "What?"

I put down my spoon. "Besides an obsessive interest in good manners and a talent for music, what is there to know about you?"

"Like you said, not much to tell." He takes another bite. I don't believe him. He's here for whatever meeting Ryland is holding, and he came all the way from New York to attend. That's the exact opposite of not much to tell.

I try a different tack. "What's New York like?" I haven't traveled anywhere. London is the only place I've been. It's always been enough for me, although I do wonder how other cities would compare to it. And I'd like to see where my mother came from one day.

He leans back against the pillows and runs a hand through his hair. His hair is darker when it's wet, almost brown, but as it dries it has golden highlights running through it. I dunk my bread in the stew and wait. "Kind of like here, I guess. Tall buildings, bombed churches, ruined synagogues and mosques, frightened people, underground subway tunnels full of demons." He takes a spoonful of stew, then cocks his head. "New York feels bigger though and at the same time...more compact." He looks at me. "I'm not sure how to explain it. London feels like it sprawls more. Maybe it's because the buildings aren't as tall."

I take another bite of stew, chewing thoughtfully. "How did you get involved in all this?" What I really want to know was how he came to be chosen to come over here, but I suppose I should work up to that.

His face grows serious and he looks down at his bowl. "You mean the Resistance?"

I nod. "And the bells. You said earlier that musical talent ran in your family, but this seems like...kind of an extreme way to use it." I take another sip of my tea as I wait for him to answer.

"Have you ever played an instrument before?" He sounds defensive.

I try to diffuse the situation. "I have absolutely no ear for music. When I sing, dogs howl and babies weep." I smile at him to show him it doesn't bother me. That's not where my skills lie.

"Well, it's not easy to learn. And the bells are even harder than a regular instrument, like a piano or guitar. They require more focus and attention. You need a strength of will to wield them properly, or at least that's what my sister always said." He looks at the fireplace, his eyes on the flames. "So when I say that it's a family calling what I mean is that we kind of have no choice. Not everyone has the knack for it."

I stare at him, watching the play of shadows and light from the fire flare over the bones of his face. I take the moment to study him when his mind is elsewhere and I can look at him freely. The dim light takes years from his face; he looks much younger now and smaller, almost like he's lost part of himself. I wonder how I look in this light. Probably like a gawky, adolescent boy, with my small chest and short hair.

"Is your sister older or younger?"

"Was. Older." His jaw clenches, the points jumping in the firelight.

"Was?" _Bollocks_.

He faces me, his movements sharp and quick, and there is a darkness in his eyes that wasn't there before. He looks sad and angry and heartsick, a far cry from the easy cheerfulness that I've seen since he's been here. Then his eyelids close, shuttering what's behind them like a blind. When he opens them again, I think I see a sheen in them, a hint of tears, but then it's gone. "Not open for discussion."

I nod, drinking my tea to give my hands something to do. The silence feels different now, loaded like a land mine that he and I are stepping around. I ruined the mood with the question about his sister. I feel like I should offer something of myself, of my background, but I can't talk about it either. I try not to think of my mother, of how she died. Some days I actually succeed.

So what to do? He's pushing his food around his bowl absently, no longer interested in eating. The fire is dying. Soon we'll be sitting in the dark, in silence, which will not help the awkwardness one jot. And lord only knows when more tenants might come barging in and make infantile jokes at our expense. In our present moods, well at least my present mood, that confrontation is not to be wished unless you like bleeding.

I take his bowl from him, stacking it with mine, and gather up the tea things. "Come on, there's something I want to show you." I drop off the tray in the kitchen, intending to come back for it later. For now, though, I have something more important to attend to.

I lead him back up the stairs, all the way to the top floor and my room. I push the door open and switch on the light. It's dusk, the sun slowly fading, and the room is wrapped in darkness. I push up the window and climb out on the ledge. There's a fire escape that leads down to the street, but I begin to climb up to the roof. After a moment, the Ringer follows. I pull myself over the edge and survey my rooftop.

Patrick was the first—and up until now only—person I'd ever brought up here. I remember that London had been encased in a light drizzle for days that weighed on everyone like watery chains. So when the sun finally made an appearance, like a celebrity on a red carpet, I dragged him along with me to enjoy it. We were maybe thirteen at the time, but I'd been living at Auntie's since my mother's death. Patrick's mother had tried to insist that I move in with them, but Ryland had taken me under his wing as my mother's last request and he was going to honor it. It hadn't made Mrs. Bowen very happy, but I guess she figured Patrick would report to her if I was being starved or beaten or had scurvy or anything. She must have been disappointed when it turned out Auntie was a more than adequate caretaker.

Patrick and I spent a lot of time together, either at Auntie's or running loose all over the city. I couldn't go back to his flat—it reminded me too much of what I'd lost. It was too hard for me to walk up those stairs and turn to walk into his flat rather than my old home across the hall. He seemed to understand that, and he still never presses me to come to dinner or spend time at his house. I am grateful for his consideration.

That clear spring night, I climbed up the fire escape that led to the roof of the building and waited while Patrick took his time. He'd changed over the past few years, becoming more and more cautious. I sometimes wonder if it had to do with how his father died—on his way to work when a terrorist bomb went off—that made Pat so careful. Chance took his parent; everyone agreed it was a simple case of wrong place-wrong time. But Pat was determined to take all chance out of his life—every decision he made was weighed and measured like an ingredient in a cake. Patrick intended to never leave anything to chance ever again.

I found out much later from Ryland that although the Resistance had been blamed for the terrorist attacks, it was the Inquisition that was responsible for that particular bomb. I didn't tell Patrick and I may never. He's careful with my wounds, it's only right that I'm careful with his.

When Patrick had finally made it to the roof, I led him to the side with the best view. You could barely notice the gaps in the buildings where the churches used to be. And you couldn't see the building that housed the Inquisition at all. The brisk wind sent the grey clouds scudding across the sky, reminding me of sheep being herded by a collie out in the country. "So this is it."

He looked around, brown eyes blinking against the diffused light from the sun through the clouds. He nodded to himself, taking a slow circle around the roof. He never makes snap judgments, so I let him take his time to come to his own conclusion about my little hideaway from the world.

Finally he stopped. I looked at him, waiting for him to say something. When he smiled, I felt something knotted up inside me relax. Patrick was always so serious; when he smiled, it was like a gift. "I like it."

I grinned at him, pleased that he liked it. I rummaged through one of the weatherproof boxes I kept up here. I pushed aside the candles I had up here for night visits and pulled out a couple of novels and a bag of crisps. I tossed him the bag, and made my way to a patch of roof that was almost dry.

He sat down beside me. "Is this what you do up here? Eat junk and read?"

I leaned back. "I'm a teenager. It's what we're supposed to do." I didn't mention my forays into the Underground. Patrick still doesn't like to think about it. It's just one more land mine we have to navigate around. I'd been noticing more and more of them and it concerned me. I smiled to show I was kidding. "We can't all be like you, content to think great thoughts and exist on air and our own genius." I nudged him playfully.

He nudged me back. "Pity that." He slanted his eyes at me, cautious. "Maybe if you came to class more often...." He left the sentence hanging.

I looked away, not wanting him to see the look on my face. I wish I could go to class like a normal person, but sometimes my work in the Resistance interfered. A lot of the time. I usually missed the maximum number of days a student can and still pass because of the missions Ryland assigned to me. "It's enough."

Patrick dropped the subject, but I knew he was unhappy about it. An awkward silence rose up, something I wasn't used to between us. We'd always talked about anything and everything; no subject was taboo. That day though, it felt like we were apart by the merest inches but that might as well have been an ocean.

I said the first thing that came to my head. "I heard Brianna talking about you in the ladies the other day."

"What'd she say?" He didn't sound particularly interested, more grateful that the silence had been filled.

"She thinks you're delish." I rolled the last word out of my mouth with a vocal flourish.

"She did not." He glared at me. "She'd never say anything like that to you."

Point to him. Brianna would never say anything at all to me actually. I was pretty certain she and her group of friends weren't even aware that I was alive. "I was in a stall at the time."

He nodded, understanding. I knew he thought I had an antisocial streak that meant I enjoyed hiding in the bathroom. I didn't tell him that it was amazing the tidbits of information you could pick up by eavesdropping on bathroom conversations. Parents weren't always as careful as they should be when talking in front of their children. Brianna's mother was a middle manager in one of the Inquisitorial agencies. I had already picked up a number of juicy tidbits that I could take back to the Resistance.

"Okay." He shrugged.

"Okay?" One of the popular girls in school liked him and all he could say was _okay_? I thought at least a look of horror was appropriate.

"What do you expect me to do?" He sounded angry.

"Well, do you like her?"

"Would it matter to you if I did?" His voice rose in a challenge.

I blinked. I wasn't sure what he meant by that. But Patrick was my friend. If he liked Brianna, I would be happy for him, even if I didn't care for her. "Of course it does! I want you to be happy."

He shook his head. He looked like he wanted to say something important—his eyes narrowed at the corners and his mouth went all firm—but then his face cleared. "I don't like her."

"Oh, good." I tucked my hands behind my head and watched the clouds. "That would have been strange, you with a girl like Brianna." I turned my head so I could look at him.

He stared at me for a few minutes. His eyes were very big and intense, like when he's thinking about something really serious. When he didn't say anything, I filled the silence with a joke. "Grandmother, what big eyes you have."

Patrick stood. I still remember how much his speed surprised me. "I've got to go."

"But you just got here." I wasn't sure what I'd said or done, but I knew I had done something. Patrick never just left like this.

"I've got a project due that I just remembered. I'll see you in a bit." Before I could protest any more, he was scampering down the fire escape.

That was the last time I brought anyone up here.

I leave the edge of the roof to find my usual spot. I sit, leaning back on my elbows. The Ringer stands next to me. The layout of my part of London is laid out before us, still faintly illuminated by the dying sun. You can see the shapes of the buildings, but not the details, everything turning into a study in shadow with the fading of the daylight. The blank spaces where churches once stood are empty pockets of brightness against the blackness of buildings.

This is my favorite time for the city. And this is my favorite place.

"Wow," he breathes, turning to admire the view from all directions. We aren't terribly high, but we have a good location to see the sprawl of the city. There's something about this view at twilight that seems magical. I feel like Wendy must have felt when flying over the rooftops of London with Peter Pan. This is the closest I can come to flying away to Neverland.

"I know it's not New York, but it's not so bad."

He drops down beside me, his posture mirroring my own. "This is beautiful." He turns his head and looks at me. For a few moments he just stares and I have to force myself not to fidget. His attention makes me uncomfortable. "Your eyes are blue. I didn't notice that before."

"More grey, actually. Not really a color at all." I turn my gaze back to the skyline.

"They're like the ocean when there's a storm."

I shrug, unsure of what to say to that, feeling suddenly awkward. My face feels warm. I've only seen the ocean a few times, when I was much younger, so I'll have to take his word for it. My mother took me when she could get time away...I stop myself before I go too far with the thought. Up here is safe from that world. Up here, I am away from it all, if only for a brief while. "I love coming up here," I tell him. "It's so quiet, so peaceful."

"Does anyone else ever come up here?" He leans in closer, his head almost at my shoulder.

I pause, thinking about Patrick. But I don't want to bring him up right now. "I don't think so. Most people prefer the back garden. There are no trees or flowers to recommend this place." Which is why I prefer it up here. It's the one place I can go where I can truly be by myself. I'm not even sure why I brought Dham up here, except that he was hurting and I thought that seeing the view of London might cheer him up.

"It reminds me a little of home. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine I'm on top of my old apartment building." He leans back and closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. "Except it doesn't smell the same." His nose wrinkles a little.

"Probably the petrol." I don't say anything else. I just sit and watch the night come in, shading the sky in roses and light blues, royals, and violets, until finally deepening to black. I wrap my arms about my legs and press my cheek to my knees. The quiet washes over me. I feel the day release its hold on me, and I can relax. For a moment, I can pretend the world--and what's in it--is nothing to fear.

I look towards him. He's so still that I wonder if he's fallen asleep. But then he opens his eyes. "Thank you, Amaranth."

Without moving, I smile faintly. "You are welcome, Dham."

Chapter Seven

I'm awakened from a deep, dreamless sleep by someone trying to batter in my door. I raise my bleary head off of the pillow and glare at the white wood, as if by some magic my death glare will penetrate the portal and obliterate the offender where they stand. Unfortunately, my magical death glare does not vaporize the offending pounder, and I have to stagger to the door to regain sweet, blessed silence. I fling it open, surprising another boarder named Rory on the other side.

"Phone for you," he announces before skittering away back down the hall.

I take a look at my digital alarm clock. 8:47 a.m. Not crack of dawn early, but still far too early to be expecting coherent conversation from me on a Saturday morning. I clomp down the stairs and pick up the receiver that's resting on a side table. My voice comes out as a froggy croak when I manage to say hello.

"Amaranth?" The voice on the other end of the phone speaks in softly accented tones that I know well. It has probably been almost a year since I heard or saw Patrick's mother, but I will always recognize her melodious, slightly husky voice.

"Mrs. Bowen?" I bite back an enormous yawn. It isn't like her to be calling me out of the blue. "Is everything okay?"

When she breathes, I can hear the slight hitch in her voice. Almost like she's trying not to cry or not to give into panic. But when she speaks, she sounds mostly calm. "I was wondering if you've heard from Patrick."

I rub my eyes, trying to think. I haven't seen Patrick since that day in the park. Since I don't go to school, I wouldn't see him there. I'd been planning on getting in touch with him to see if he was still angry for whatever it was I'd done, but Resistance business kept getting in the way. "No, I haven't. I'm sorry." I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat, at the same time telling myself that this is nothing to get excited about. "Is he...?" I trail off, unable to give voice to the thought.

"He hasn't been home in three days." Her speech is fast, her voice pitched higher than normal. I can feel her panic transmitting over the phone lines; my own shoulder muscles are tensing like springs. "I've called all of his friends. Nobody has seen him." She pauses and her voice quavers. "Oh, Amaranth, can you please..."

I don't even let her finish. "I'm on my way." I replace the receiver and head upstairs to drag a brush through my hair and throw on the nearest thing that's clean and presentable.

I make my way over to Bloomsbury. A quick walk, a bus, and another sprint for several blocks and I'm on Patrick's street. I pass the park near Patrick's building. It's empty today, as it is most every day. It isn't wise to spend too much time outside without an activity. The Inquisition can be fickle and it's wise not to give them an excuse to pick you up for loitering.

And then I'm standing in front of the door to Patrick's building. I don't think of it as my building, not anymore. Not since my mother died was it my building. Still, I climb steps that are as familiar to me as my own reflection and make my way to his family's flat.

I pass the door to the flat my mother and I lived in without looking at it. I don't want to be reminded of my life before—it's part of why I rarely come to visit Pat at his house. I stop in front of his door and knock.

The door opens and I'm immediately enveloped in a hug. His mother still smells the same: jasmine and a funny burnt orange scent that I've always liked. I'm surprised at the warmth of her greeting considering I haven't seen her in over a year; Patrick and I meet outside, away from the building since he knows why I don't like coming by.

She finally pulls away, holding me at arm's length. Her dark brown eyes survey me, narrowing a little when they reach my hair. She lightly touches the strands. "Pat never told me you had cut your hair."

"It's pretty recent," I answer, trying not to be too self-conscious about it. His mum's hair is a glossy black river sliding down her back. I tuck the sides behind my ears.

She smiles, her teeth a flash of white in her café au lait face. She's Indian and Patrick gets his coloring from her; his father was British. "It's cute. It suits you." She beckons me inside and leads me into the parlour. She offers me tea, which I refuse, then gestures for me sit down.

I settle into a side chair and come right to the point. "When was the last time you saw or heard from Pat?"

She folds her hands in her lap, eyes downcast. "Wednesday evening. He was going to meet some friends for a study group—he had a project he was working on. Something for his computer classes." She pauses, her gaze abstract, as if she were looking at something only she could see. "He said he might be late, that they had a lot to do. When I saw that he hadn't slept in his bed the next morning, I just assumed that he'd slept over at one of the boys' houses because it got too late."

She smoothes out the fabric of her trousers. I keep quiet, taking mental notes, waiting for her to continue. "But when he didn't come home on Thursday, I began to worry. I called all of his friends, went over to their houses when I couldn't reach anyone. I called the school and found out that he hadn't shown up that day." Her voice grows thick with emotion. "No one knew what had happened or where he might be."

"Did his friends tell you anything?"

She nods. "One boy said he left a little after midnight. He never made it home." Mrs. Bowen shakes her head in despair. "I contacted the police, but they were not much help. They have better things to do than chase after a runaway—that's what they said. But Patrick didn't run away." She looks at me. "Which is why I decided to call you."

I lean back and rub my hands together to work some warmth into them. "What do you think I can do?" I am afraid of what she's going to ask of me. And I won't be able to refuse her. Not after the way she and Patrick took care of me when my mother...died.

The look she gives me is as pointed as one of my blades. "Amaranth, I'm not stupid. And neither is Patrick." She smiles humorlessly at the gobsmacked look on my face. "I want you to do what you can to find him," she says, leaning forward. Her dark eyes are intense, locking onto mine with a maternal fierceness. "I don't think he's missing, at least not in the normal, human way."

I sit there in silence, trying to formulate the words and string them together in the proper order. "You think he's been possessed."

She nods, and I can see her eyes flush with tears, but nothing spills down her face. "I do. And I think that you are the only one who can find him."

I shake my head, not wanting the responsibility of all of her hopes resting on me. "I'm not sure what help I'll be, Mrs. Bowen." It's not like there's a safe and surefire way to tell whether someone is demon possessed. I can't exactly run around throwing holy water on people.

"You have a better chance than anyone else of knowing something about him. All I'm asking is that you check into his disappearance. Ask your...friends if they've seen him."

I look down at my hands, out of my depth. I want to help her, I do, but I'm not sure how. Unless I stumble across him in a series of unlikely coincidences, I will probably never see Patrick—or the demon riding around in his body. And that's assuming Pat has actually been possessed; it's still possible for bad things to happen to people that are completely not-demon related.

"You do realize his disappearance might not have anything to do with...them," I say, a touch of warning in my voice.

"I do." She leans back in her chair, resting her head against the back cushion. She closes her eyes and I catch a quick glimpse of the exhaustion she's trying to hide. I can't imagine what it must be like for her without Patrick. When his father died, Mrs. Bowen raised Pat by herself, with no family or help. I think that's why she and my mother became such fast friends. The two single mothers in the building needed to stick together.

She opens her eyes, but they stare out at nothing. "I just know it somehow—a mother's intuition perhaps—that he's in trouble." She comes out of her reverie and faces me, her eyes a force, pulling me in. "You're the only one I trust to help. I know you can't do much more than keep your eyes and ears out for him, but anything is better than sitting here, waiting and wondering." She pauses, considering me. "Please, Amaranth."

"I'll do whatever I can." I want to make her happy, to set her mind at ease, but I can't do it. Not when I know the likelihood of finding Patrick alive and unharmed is so very, very slim. "But even if I find him, he might not be...." She holds up her hand to stop my words.

I wonder if it wouldn't be better for her if Patrick is never found. Would I have been able to live with it, not knowing what had happened to my mother? Would it have been better than seeing the pitiable wreck that was left once the Inquisition was through with her? Which was worse: the knowing or the not knowing?

I leave her with the promise that I'll be in touch with anything I find out and that she can call me whenever she likes. And then, because I can't think of anything better to do and because I don't want to go back to the boarding house, I walk the streets. I have no direction in mind. I just wander about the city, trying to lose myself in its byways and back streets.

Eventually, I find myself standing in front of the British Museum. Patrick and I used to hate coming here on the afternoons when our mothers would drag us to keep us occupied and, ostensibly, out of trouble, but at some point it became our de facto hangout. It didn't matter that all of the really interesting manuscripts and ancient exhibits were gone, stored away in vaults or destroyed because of the information they may contain. Even the Rosetta Stone was gone. Some Egyptian demon must have been scared something could be revealed in it beyond the key to ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics.

I remember the first time my mother took us to the British Museum. She loved it there; she always said that the United States had such a short history in comparison to England and she loved to wander through and see something from way back when. To say that Patrick and I were bored would be an understatement of the highest order, like saying the Black Plague was like having a case of the sniffles. But it was raining and Patrick and I were driving everyone mad being cooped up inside, so on went the Wellies and out we went.

The only thing Patrick was interested in seeing were swords—any kind would do, he wasn't picky. He was bouncing around, waving his arms in what he must have thought was dazzling swordplay. He had hit me accidentally at least three times by the time we saw the front doors. When my mum asked us what we wanted to do first, he practically shouted, "Swords!" Heads swiveled in our direction and I saw my mother go a little pale. She herded us to the closest exhibit, her eyes darting around nervously.

I looked over my shoulder and caught the telltale red insignia on a museum guard's jacket. I wasn't quite sure what the Inquisition was at that point, but I knew that the symbol meant trouble. I looked up at my mother as she hurried away from the man. Her mouth was set into a frown, and the little wrinkle in between her eyes was making an appearance.

She took us to the Egyptian exhibit. Patrick and I skittered in her wake like leaves before we stopped in front of a collection of jewelry and gold headpieces.

"Brilliant," I breathed, pressing close to the glass case holding heavy neck plates. "Being a pharaoh would have been amazing."

"You think?" Patrick's dark face appeared next to mine in the glass. "It looks like a pain to me."

I shoved him with my shoulder. In the reflection, his coloring made him look like a talking shadow. His bright grin flashed at me.

"You think you'd want to wear all that stuff in a desert?" He shoved me back.

"At least it's not armor." I put my fist on my hips, ready for a fight.

"Children," came the warning from my mother. She didn't miss much. "We're in a museum."

"Yeah, _Ama_." Patrick tried to sound innocent. I think he failed, but my mother smiled at him. I scowled.

"Let's go look at the mummies," she suggested, holding out her hands for us.

Again we followed my mother as she led us through the warren of rooms that made up the Egyptian section of the museum. She brought us up short in front of a small figure wrapped tightly in what look like moldy scraps of cloth. My mother moved to the side so she could read the placard, leaving Patrick and me alone in front of the display.

"They pulled his brain out through his nose," Patrick said, his voice conversational.

"Ew." I wrinkled my nose in sympathy. "That's disgusting." I paused. "What else did they do?"

Patrick detailed all the things the ancient priests did to ready a body for mummification. I listened, my eyes tracing the mummified body, following the path of his words with my gaze. It's fascinating and gross all at the same time. I'm amazed he can remember all of the details of this stuff; I've never been anything more than an average student.

When he finally stopped, I asked, "How'd you know all that?"

"There are these things called books," he answered, nudging me playfully. "They live in this place called a library. You can find out all kinds of things."

"That's so funny, I forgot to laugh." I put all the sneer I could muster into my voice. I moved away from him, in a bit of a snit.

"Oh, don't be like that, Ama." He followed me, trying to chuff me out of my mood.

I sat on a bench. My lower lip must have been poking out so much people were likely to trip over it, but I didn't care. My mum always said I was smart, if only I would apply myself, but I just couldn't see the point. There was only one thing I was interested in researching, and I doubted they had anything in any library about what happened to my father. Sometimes I was jealous of Patrick. At least he had memories of his father and knew how he died. I had nothing.

"I was only joking." He sat down next to me, forcing me to scoot over to give him room. "You're smart, Ama. Just in a different way."

"Yeah, sure." I don't believe it. Pat was brilliant, so gifted it hurt me sometimes to be friends with him. I wondered when he'd get tired of me.

"No, really." He pushed against me so his shoulder is touching mine. "And you're much better at sports than I could ever be."

I couldn't help but smile. Patrick may have been a genius in class, but he was horrible with anything that required coordination. He could barely jog and kick a ball at the same time and he usually wound up wrapped in his own feet and falling over.

Looking up, I saw my mother talking with a man in front of a display of painted jars. It was Ryland, but this had been well before I'd been truly initiated into the Resistance. They were talking earnestly. I had met him a few times, but only knew him as my mother's friend. It would still be years before I knew the exact nature of their friendship.

I pulled my eyes away from the two adults talking and noticed that the guard from the other room—the one wearing the Inquisition's symbol—had followed us into the room. His eyes roved around the room, but they kept coming back to my mother and Ryland. I felt my throat close up in fear. I didn't like that the man had noticed my mother.

Patrick's voice pulled me out of my fear. "That's why we're the perfect team. I can outsmart anybody, and you can outfight them."

I turned to look at him. He wore his usual smile. "Always, Pat."

He nods. "Always, Ama."

It takes someone jostling me against one of the glass cases to break me from my remembrance. I take a quick stroll through a few of our favorite rooms. The crowds are light today, what with the day being so fine. I walk through the rooms, glancing idly at crowns and swords, at jewelry and leatherwork, and try to make sense of what I should do. What if Patrick's been taken by the Inquisition, instead of just being possessed like his mother thinks?

I stand in front of the bog man. Patrick and I used to make fun of it, laughing at the unfortunate man's position. I remember his bright laugh, his teeth a flash of lightning against his dark skin. I wonder if I'll ever hear it again. I should have called him more, stayed in closer contact. Maybe if I had, whatever happened to him wouldn't have happened.

I head back to Auntie's townhouse and climb the stairs. I don't feel like talking to anyone. It's early afternoon, but I'm not hungry. I slide open the window in my room and make my way to the roof. I need peace. I've had all day to think, and I still don't feel like I know my own mind. But I know I need to at least try to find Patrick.

****

After a couple of hours, I'm no closer to an idea of how to find Patrick. If his mother has already talked to his other friends and they haven't seen him, I don't see the point in wasting further time on them. I lie back so I can see overhead, the late afternoon sky a cloudless blue. It's gotten cooler up here and I zip up my jacket and tuck my hands into its pockets.

I hear the sound of feet on the ladder. I don't bother to sit up, sure that whoever it is will see me up here and go back down. Most everyone in the house knows this is my place. I close my eyes and try and figure out a plan.

The footsteps aren't leaving. In fact, they're getting closer. I crack open one eye, prepared to launch a caustic warning at the intruder and the words never get past my lips. Dham is staring down at me, head cocked, a strange expression on his face. I open the other eye and greet him. "Hello."

He straightens, a small smile on his face. "I can go if you want to be alone."

I shake my head. I do and I don't want to be alone. I don't know what I want, only that I don't want to think about Patrick being possessed another minute. I don't want to think about anything right now. I know I won't be good company, but I don't want to be alone with my thoughts.

"You were gone a long time," he begins as he sits down next to me. I shrug noncommittally. He raises his hands in a peaceful gesture. "I'm not trying to pry or anything. I just went looking for you, and you were already gone."

I slide my eyes over to look at him. His handsome face is open, unguarded. I feel a thrill in the pit of my stomach, intense and then gone. He looked for me? I duck my head to hide my blush. "Really?"

"Yeah. I wasn't sure how to get back down to the Underground."

"Oh." There's an entirely different feeling in my stomach now, like a rock coated in lead just dropped down through my esophagus. "Sorry about that."

"No problem." He leans back on his hands, eyes tracking the sun's progress as it sinks below the taller buildings. "So, you want to tell me where you went all day?"

I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. Part of me wants to talk to someone about what Mrs. Bowen asked of me, but a larger part doesn't want to say anything. I'm not even sure what I would say. I spent the day wandering around London hoping I might run into my possessed best friend because his mother asked me to? I'd sound mental.

"Just around a bit. I walked a lot." I sigh. Maybe I should have told him to leave. "I spent some time in the British Museum."

"You like to hang out in a museum?" He sounds unbelieving.

I frown. "Yes, I do. It soothes me. Calms me down."

"That didn't come out like I meant it to." He's looking at me, amusement darkening his eyes. "I just wouldn't have thought you'd spend your free time in a museum, especially after seeing the way you fight."

"What, I can't like art and use a blade? The two aren't mutually exclusive, you know."

He sits back up, running a hand through his hair. "Hold on, let me get my foot out of my mouth." He chuckles softly. "I'm sorry if I sound like an idiot. I was just surprised. I thought you'd do something more physical with your time off."

Physical is the last thing I want to be on my day off, but I don't tell him that. My ideal day off consists of lazing in bed reading for the better part of the morning before finally going downstairs for tea and toast, then returning to my room for more reading and napping. It's not a very ambitious schedule, but I do enough crazy stuff in my forays into the tunnels.

"What do you usually do with your time off?" I'm trying to change the subject away from me and back to him.

He laughs, startling a couple of roosting birds. "What time off?" He subsides back, this time resting on his elbows with his head tipped back. "The first time I got time off in the last year was on that boat across the ocean." He arches a brow at me. "I wouldn't recommend it."

I feel the smile creasing my cheeks. He grins. "So what did you do on the boat?"

"For the first couple of days, I puked my guts out. And while it was different than my regular routine, I think I would have happily gone back to the subway if it meant I'd be able to eat breakfast and not revisit it twenty minutes later."

"Did it get any better?" I wince in sympathy at the idea of him heaving over the side of a boat.

He nods. "Eventually. It took some time to get used to it. I stayed in the hold most of the time. It was safer that way."

"Did Peter stay down there with you?" I'm not sure about Peter, but Dham seems to trust him. Maybe I just need to become more familiar with the man. Heaven knows, I'm not particularly easy to get to know.

"Some. I was miserable so I wanted to be alone. In the dark. Not moving." He smiles at my outburst of laughter. "He thought it was safer if I didn't go topside very much. Never knew what might be watching."

I straighten up and look at him. "Sounds terrible."

"It wasn't a luxury trans-Atlantic cruise, that's for sure." He shrugs. "Once the vomit comet stopped though, it wasn't too bad. I got caught up on some reading. Practiced ringing. Did some sparring with the crew." A thoughtful look crosses his face. "Hey, is there anywhere I can do some target practice?"

"With a gun?" Guns are prized in the Resistance. They are pretty hard to come by.

He nods.

"Well, I don't suppose you have your own weapon?" England's gun laws have always been draconian, but since the Inquisition took control, it's almost impossible to lay hands on a firearm. Still, the Resistance has its ways. We have a few pistols and automatics but they are kept under lock and key.

When he shakes his head, I bite my lip in thought. We may have a few stockpiled that Dham can practice with. "We've probably got some extras we can spare. I'll talk to Ryland about it." And then it came to me. I could ask Ryland about Patrick too. He has a lot of contacts and resources, and he's met Patrick before. He'd be able to help me find him, if anyone could.

Chapter Eight

I awake the next morning with a feeling of resolution and I head out quickly to talk to Pat's friends. Just because Patrick's mother didn't get anything from them, doesn't mean that I will. I track them down in the old neighborhood, a few of them hanging out in front of one of the shops. But after only a few minutes of asking questions, I can tell that none of them can tell me anything more than Mrs. Bowen did. As far as they knew, Patrick was fine when he left and they haven't seen him since.

I try not to grind my teeth in frustration. I know that every moment I'm not looking for him is a moment wasted, but at this point, I'm running out of ideas. Searching for Patrick in a city as vast as London is like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack. I don't have the right connections to even know where to begin to search.

But Ryland does. I know he has an in with at least one person with access to the camera feeds scattered about London. He could probably get in to see if Patrick has shown up anywhere in the past few days. I take a quick pass around Patrick's school before in the hopes of finding anything there—as if Pat has been hiding in the library all of this time—before turning my steps back to Auntie's.

Dham is already awake and waiting for me. I'd promised to show him the quickest way to an Underground access point yesterday. We set out again almost immediately, this time in the opposite direction. The city is quiet and the air is brisk, but the sun is already shining brightly. I munch on a piece of buttered bread as Dham trots along beside me.

Even the tunnels are quiet. We're not far from an entrance to the Resistance's warren of cubbies and caves, but there's a certain stillness that I've come to recognize in the air that signals that there aren't Bottomdwellers nearby. I relax a bit, but keep my eyes open. This feeling can be deceiving so I try not to rely on it. Dham's hands twitch nervously, close to his waist where his bell belt would be if it wasn't locked in a trunk in the locker room. I understand his concern; I'd much rather be out here with my blades than without.

We reach the checkpoint without incident and are let inside the boundaries that we consider our safe zone. I ask the guard where Ryland might be before setting off in the direction of the narrow room that comprises his office. It's not much and it certainly isn't large enough to hold a full meeting of his lieutenants, but it is where Ryland plans the Resistance's next moves. It's also a place I can go to when I've had enough face time with people. Ryland usually doesn't mind me dropping in unannounced every now and then.

Ry is sitting behind a rickety table that's completely covered in maps. He looks up when we enter, a pair of reading glasses perched precariously on his nose. He sweeps the maps into a mostly neat pile and places them off to the side, then stands to greet us. He takes off his glasses self-consciously and drops them to the table.

"What brings you down here on a day off?" He's smiling, looking between me and Dham.

"Dham wants to get in some shooting practice. Is there a spare gun he can use while he's here?"

Ryland arches a brow and stares at Dham. "I would have thought the bells would be enough for you to handle." He leans forward, bracing his hands against the table.

Dham crosses his arms in front of his chest, leaning easily against the wall. "It never hurts to have a spare weapon, especially one the enemy doesn't expect." I eye him carefully, catching something odd in his expression. I hadn't known Dham long, but I knew he wasn't telling the whole truth here.

Ryland nods in approval though. "You've handled guns before, have you?"

Dham nods. "I had one of my own, but I had to dump it when we swam for shore. I'd like to replace it if I could."

"I don't see why not." Ryland stands up straight and walks over to a metal cabinet. "Blessed ammunition is getting harder to come by. We use rubber bullets for target shooting." He rummages around inside one of the drawers as he speaks.

"I'm fine with that, if you can spare it." Dham sounds relieved.

Ry hands a card out to Dham. "Take that to Kevin. He'll get you squared away and show you to the firing range we've got set up." Dham collects the card and looks curiously at it. "Amaranth can show you the way."

"Actually," I begin, voice tentative. "I need to talk to you about something." I turn, ignoring Ry's quizzical look, to face Dham and give him directions for the best place to find Kevin. "If you get turned around, ask anyone you meet. They'll be able to get you on the right path. I'll meet you there when I'm done."

Dham nods. "Sure thing, Amaranth. Thanks, Ryland." He turns to leave, then stops. "Catch up with you later?"

"Sure. I'll come find you when I'm done." I watch his back as he retreats down the tunnel the way we came.

When I turn back around, Ry is staring at me with a smirk on his face. "What?"

"Catch up with him later?" His grin deepens. "Should I be worried?"

"About what?" I cock my head at him, not really understanding what he's getting at.

"You and Dham. He is rather good looking and about the right age...." His grin is enormous, like the bloody Cheshire Cat of amorous intentions.

I roll my eyes, striving for a patience I most definitely do not feel. "Not funny. You were the one who told me to keep track of him." When he chuckles, I sigh. "Go ahead. Get it all out of your system."

"I'm not saying anything." He puts an innocent look on his face. It's clearly difficult for him to maintain. "But if there is anything that, as a sort of guardian, I should be aware of...." He raises a brow.

"You're impossible." I glare at him, not amused.

He drops back into his chair. "Fine. I'll drop it." He steeples his hands together, elbow resting on the table. "What do you need to talk to me about?"

I take the seat across from him and teeter in it for a moment. I make a mental note not to move at all or even breathe heavily for fear the entire chair will collapse. "I need your help with something." He makes a go on gesture and I take a deep breath. "I need to find someone that I think may be possessed."

His hands drop to the table, one of them plucking at the pile of maps. "Why?"

"You remember my friend Patrick?" At his nod, I continue. "His mother called me yesterday morning. She said that she needed to talk to me about something important. When I got there she told me that Patrick's gone missing. She thinks he might have been possessed, and she asked me to see if I could find him."

"How long's he been gone?" Gone are the grin and the easy joking manner. Ryland looks grim.

"A couple of days. He never came home Wednesday night."

"And she's sure he's not just off having some boyish fun?"

I give him a look that conveys what I think of that idea. "You have _met_ Patrick, right? Did he seem like the kind of guy who's into boyish fun?"

Ry raises his hands to placate me. "Calm down, I just had to ask. I remember Patrick all too well and he always struck me like the kind of kid that had his head on straight. I was just wondering if that had changed."

I shake my head. "He's still Patrick. Fun isn't in his vocabulary. It's why we get on so well." I lean forward, serious now. "None of his friends have seen him, and I'm running out of places to look. I know you've got contacts out and about. Can you put the word out that we're searching for him? I can get a picture from his mum if that's what you need."

"No pictures." He considers me for a long moment. "We may not find anything, Amaranth. It may not be possession."

"I know." I bite my lip. "But it doesn't feel like a random disappearance, you know?"

"I know that you are probably thinking that this is just like what happened to your mother." The lines on his face deepen as he frowns.

I stare at my hands resting against the scarred wood. I haven't wanted to admit it, but the lump in the pit of my stomach cannot be ignored. I feel Ryland's hand on mine and look up to meet his eyes.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" His eyes are kind and worried. "You may not like what you find."

I nod vigorously, my hair bobbing against my face. I have to blink back tears, but I refuse to give in to them. Not here and not in front of anyone. "I need to try. I owe it to his mother." And I owe it to him. What kind of a friend would I be if I just abandoned him?

"Okay," he says, sliding his hand away from mine. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Ry."

"Any time, Amaranth."

****

I find Dham firing the rubber rounds at a paper target. I hang back to watch him shoot. He's actually really good, most of his shots clustering near the heart. I think I can see a few holes in the head of the target too. When he stops to slide in a new clip, I walk over to him.

"Nice work," I compliment, gesturing at his handiwork.

He shrugs, a sort of American _aw shucks_ look on his face. For a moment he is totally and completely adorable. "I'm out of practice."

"You wouldn't know it." I tuck my arms across my chest and lean against the wall behind the shooting area. "Mind if I watch?"

"Sure." He chambers a round, careful to point the loaded gun away from me. "You want to fire off a few?"

I shake my head. I don't like guns. I can use them if I'm forced to, but I'm not drawn to them. Actually, they scare the hell out of me. I'm not sure if it's just my fear of them misfiring and blowing off the back of the gun and all of my face, or if it's only a lack of experience, but either way, I am way too uncomfortable around them. I prefer the simplicity of my blades.

He takes up a shooting stance and fires, squeezing off rounds in rapid succession. I flinch at each gunshot, unable to stop the automatic reaction to the loud pop of noise. When he's finished, the target looks shredded along the left side. I clap, duly impressed.

He checks the chamber to make sure the gun is empty, then gathers up his things. "Where can I return this?"

"Back to Kevin. He's sort of the gunmaster - or whatever you'd call it." I follow him out into the hallway.

Dham opens his mouth to respond, then frowns. Ryland is heading over to us, followed by Kevin and Peter. He shoots me a questioning look and I shrug, unsure of why all three would be looking for us.

"Suit up, Amaranth," Ryland says. "You've got another pickup."

"Package or person this time?"

Ryland smiles. "Does it make a difference?"

I grin back. "Sure it does. One fits in my pocket, the other doesn't."

He ruffles my hair like I'm a twelve year old. I scowl as the strands of hair I've forced into a short ponytail come loose to hang about my face. "Get on with you. Kevin has the brief."

Peter gestures to Dham as I walk to Kevin. Ryland retreats back towards his office, secure that Kevin and I can handle things. I listen closely to the details of the pickup; another contingent is coming for whatever meeting Ryland's called. It's my job—and that of team—to deliver them safely. He runs through the particulars of location and arrangements, including the team members and then cuts me loose to get ready.

I can hear little of the conversation between Dham and Peter, but I can read their body language fairly well. Dham is stiff, holding himself back, whereas Peter is leaning forward, words coming out quickly and intently. It almost looks like he's invading Dham's space, and Dham is clearly not happy about it. By Peter's gestures, I can tell he's getting frustrated, but he's managing to keep his voice low enough that I can't quite make out what they are arguing about.

Instinctively, I tense. I get a twinge when I see Peter arguing with Dham, but I can't figure out why. But I do know that I do not like the way he seems to be browbeating Dham.

I remind myself that it's not my business and that I have a job to do. I try to catch Dham's eye to wave goodbye, but he's deep in it with Peter. I continue down the hall on my own, heading towards the locker room.

I'm sliding the holsters for my blades over the Kevlar vest. We all try to wear some kind of body armor when we go into the tunnels. You never can predict what you might run into and what might actually save your life. I turn my head when Dham walks in. He looks unhappy. I don't say anything at first, choosing instead to give him a little space. I finish checking the fit of the harness and begin to wrap my rosary around the hilt of one of my blades.

He joins me in front of the steamer trunk, reaching in to grab the belt that holds his bells.

"What are you doing?" I ask as he begins to fasten the belt around his waist.

"Going with you." Dham doesn't look at me, instead busying himself with the fastenings.

"Ryland didn't say that you had to come along." My voice is hesitant and I hate myself for sounding that way. I don't like how I'm deferring to his mood, like he's someone I've known for a long time. "And I highly doubt he'd want you risking yourself in the tunnels."

Dham's head comes up and there's an ugly look on his face. It's as close to a snarl as I've ever seen him get. "I don't remember asking you for an opinion."

I stare at him. Then I snap at him. "That's too bad, because my opinion actually counts this time. I'm in charge of this expedition and you and your attitude are not welcome." I move to brush past him, unwilling to risk the mission on his fit of pique.

He grabs my upper arm. I pull away from him, angry now. "Wait." His voice is low, so I can barely hear him. "I'm sorry. It's not right to take it out on you."

"Take what out on me?" I cock my head, observing him. "Does this have to do with what you and Peter were talking about back there?"

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Kind of, yeah." His eyes flash up and catch mine and I need to remind myself that I am angry with him. His look of contrition nearly does me in. "He doesn't think I should go out there."

"Ever occur to you he might have a valid reason?" I'm not willing to let Dham off the hook. I'm shocked that Peter and I would agree on anything, but Dham is valuable.

He expels a breath in frustration. "I understand where he's coming from." At my disbelieving look, he reiterates, "I do. But I can't just sit down here and do nothing but practice ringing when there's nothing at stake." His face is serious. "I've got to be ready when we go take out the Gate."

"The Gate?" I lower my voice to a whisper, in case anyone should come into the locker room. "Is that what all this meeting business is about?"

He nods. "I thought you knew, being so close to Ryland and all."

I shake my head, stunned. The Gate. Had the Resistance found the location of it finally? Dham's voice jerks me out of my thoughts. "Peter just doesn't know when to quit, and he worries too much about my safety." He sighs. "So am I forgiven? Can I join your team?"

I turn back and shut the steamer trunk with more force than necessary. I can't get over the idea of the Gate--the portal that lets the demons enter our world. But I need to be focused. I can't afford distraction right now. I'll think about Rome later. I look at Dham for a long moment. "Just stay in the middle of the pack." He ambles along behind me like an eager puppy.

We meet up with the rest of the escort team, and I give out places and instructions. There are seven of us, counting Dham, who is in the center of the group, safely surrounded by the rest of us. I've got the point, as usual. As we move out of the train car and into the tunnels proper, I have to admit that I am glad Dham is with us. His bells could come in very useful down here.

We're only a half mile in when the first Bottomdweller strikes. I sense movement off to my left. I move to engage, signaling everyone else to keep moving. I hit it first and see that it is man-shaped, but instead of legs, it stands on lots of thin, spidery tentacles. Then it is moving and I have more important things to worry about; as it comes closer, I can see that each tentacle is tipped with a stinger of some kind.

I dodge and slash, always moving to make myself harder to hit. Several tentacles drop to the ground from my blades, but more seem to be taking their place. As I bob and weave, trying to avoid being hit by the stingers plunging at me, I try to get in a body or head shot. It's not happening and I realize I'm being pushed farther away from the group.

The demon turns suddenly, targeting the main group. It skitters forward, stingers waving as the thing strikes randomly. The group scatters, but from my vantage point I can see who it is going after. It follows the splintered group still protecting Dham, trying to separate him out from the others. I can see him working to loose one of the bells from its holster on his belt.

I don't know if he'll be able to get one free in time. I get a running start and slide at the demon, blades slicing furiously into what passes for the demon's flesh. A stinger ricochets off of my vest and I send up a small prayer of thanks. Then I'm beneath the creature, thrusting upwards with both blades. Light explodes inside the demon, like a sunburst muffled by clouds. I twist as I go, levering myself upwards. The tentacles surrounding me go limp, and my blades are pulling me over to my side with the weight of the creature.

I get to my feet, yanking my blades free as I rise. The group has come back together and I motion them to form up. I throw a look at Dham, making sure he's okay. He responds with a goofy grin and a thumbs-up from the hand not holding a bell. I turn back to the front, rolling my eyes. He's acting like what just happened is no big deal--like it happens every day. Maybe for him it does. I don't understand how he can be so nonplussed.

I set a brisk pace. We've got a farther meet point this time than the platform where I collected Dham and his companions, and I don't want us out in the tunnels for longer than we have to be. I move a bit further ahead, scouting out the upcoming tunnels. There's a charge in the air, a pressure that's building that I don't trust. Something is going on, something different. I've been racing through the Tube tunnels and abandoned stations for years now; I know when they feel off.

I fall back to the main group, blades out. I can see that the others feel it too: eyes are wide, nostrils flare to catch the faintest hint of brimstone, hands clutch blades and guns with fingers gone white with strain. We're about a quarter mile still from the meet point, but can feel the compulsion to turn around and hightail it back the way we've come.

I grit my teeth, trying to keep them from chattering. I have no idea what's going on, but everyone in the group is moving restlessly, like a corral of horses spooked by wild dogs. "Steady, all. Just keep it steady."

The smell of sulfur, so strong it's like a barge full of rotten eggs has just docked beside us, explodes out of the tunnel we need to go down. It has weight and heft, an almost physical presence, to the point where I think I can see tracers of scent in the gloom. It can either mean there are a lot of lesser demons gathered down that way or a greater demon has entered the fray. Or both.

I'm not fond of those odds.

A roar bursts forth from the mouth of the tunnel where it joins this one and darkness spews forth. "Get back," I yell as a host of lesser demons comes shambling toward us. I hear one of Dham's bells sound, the ring deep and clear, but it only stops a few in the lead. Tyler and I dispatch these with relative ease, but have to fall back as more pour in to fill their places. Dham rings his bell again, but the effect is lessened. The demons slow, but do not stop.

"Try another one," I shout, blocking a clubbing arm that almost takes Tyler's head off. I lunge forward, stabbing my blade into the thickest part of the creature, satisfied when fire lights up the inside of it. The thing disintegrates off of my blade.

"I am!" His voice sounds unsure, shaky. I spare him a glance and see he's got two bells, one in each hand and is ringing them in a complex pattern.

A scream and a tearing crunch sounds to my right. One of the guards has lost an arm. He's screaming and staggering, blood pouring out in bursts. I move to take his place; there are too many demons to try and treat the wound. He'll bleed out in minutes. I manage to shear through the demon menacing him, both blades ripping through the thing's shadowy substance, but it is only a stopgap. Before I can get closer to the injured man, black tendrils wrap around him, pulling him into a black blob waiting just outside the limits of our light.

"Why isn't it working?" I look at Dham and see his eyes are frantic. Gone is the ready smile and thumbs-up from before. He's unhooked more bells, holding two in each hand now.

"I have no idea. This isn't an exact science, you know!" His hands move up and down, sketching patterns in the air. The deep voices of the bells aren't drowning out the grunts and cries of the men as they fight. I can see one other person face down on the floor of the train tunnel, but can't tell who it is.

I'm wondering why there are so many here. I know we've been doing more forays into the tunnels and it is possible that something got wise to our movements, but we could be going anywhere. This attack has the flavor of ambush, of them knowingly lying in wait. It worries me, but I'm too busy to do more than file it away for later. If we do have a traitor in our midst, I can't do anything about it if I'm dead.

I slip forward, intending to engage a demon who appears to be made entirely of flames. I register that the flames put off no heat before I'm spinning my blades in an overhand arc, trying to split the demon in two. It throws up what might be considered appendages if I feel like being generous—which I don't—but my steel plows through them. I lunge forward, striking with my right, skewering the thing. It writhes for a moment, then dissipates in a hiss of steam.

I look around for a new target and pause. I can feel the pressure building again, that sense of fear heightening. The few demons that still surround us raise what passes for heads expectantly. A horrifying shriek echoes out of the tunnel, sounding like a baby being tortured. I clench my fists around the hilts of my blades to keep from covering my ears to blot out the awful sound.

Something is coming out of the tunnel. The smell hits me; a nauseating combination of brimstone and putrefaction. I swallow the bile that rises in my throat and keep my eyes on the creature as it moves into the light. It was a man, once, but that time has passed. Decomposition has begun on the body, flesh sloughing off in places, exposed skin going black. The eyes have sunk so far back in the sockets that they are invisible. For all that though, its movements are smooth and almost graceful.

It must be one of the more powerful demons animating the body. Whether the man had been alive when the demon took possession and it rode the body into death is anyone's guess. In most instances, a demon will leave a body once it is dead, but there are a few types that can remain long past the soul's exit or that just prefer to inhabit corpses.

"Do you have anything that will work on that?" I lean closer to Dham who is watching the possessed corpse with sick fascination.

"I think that one's above my pay grade," he whispers, eyes tracking the demon as it moves closer. The lesser demons are beginning to draw back to give the new arrival room. "Way above."

"Well, ring _something_ ," I hiss, gripping the hilts of my swords tightly. The other men with us look around nervously. I sense that they are ready to bolt, and that if we don't do something quickly, they're liable to run regardless of the mission. I have no idea if the group we're supposed to escort is even still alive after all of this.

I watch as Dham raises his hands, bells cradled in between his fingers. His arms sweep down, but the sound they make is drowned out by an even deeper tone. A shiver runs through the lesser demons gathered. The effect the sound has on the greater demon is more startling. The thing throws back its head and howls, as if it's being assaulted by the sound. It turns to run, hoping for escape down another tunnel, but another resounding knell stops it.

The demons surrounding us are watching the proceedings, and I see an opportunity. I sink my blade into the nearest one, and my actions jolt my staring companions into awareness. They respond in kind, falling upon the demons with blessed weapons. In a few moments it is just us and the corpse-wrapped demon left in the tunnel.

The sound of the bell comes again, closer now. I can see movement from the tunnel that we were supposed to follow to get to our meet point. I creep closer, but now I split my attention between what might be coming out of that tunnel and the corpse-demon.

The demon has dropped to its knees, hands braced on thighs. The noises coming from it sound more like gurgling, almost like a sink or toilet backing up, and less like someone being flayed. Shudders rip through it, dead muscles convulsing spastically. I turn away, unwilling to watch that and take another look down the corridor.

What emerges is not what I am expecting. A small girl, not much more than five feet tall, walks into the light, holding an enormous bell in both hands. The bell looks worn and very old, not to mention extremely heavy. I wonder how someone so slight can carry it, let alone swing it. She's got long, almost white-blonde hair pulled up into a tight tail high up on the back of her head. I would say the word to best describe her is cute, except for the look of powerful determination on her face. With a look like that, cute would be an insult.

She stalks over to the demon. It is still reeling from her last ring, half-upright. She marches up to it, stopping right in front of it. When she speaks, her voice is thick with a heavy Scottish brogue. "Get gone, you foul thing." She hefts the bell and the booming ring sounds once more, and its voice will not be denied.

The corpse pitches forward on its face, writhing beneath the girl's pitiless gaze. Oily, dark blue smoke begins to ooze out of the thing's mouth, twining out in serpentine patterns. The girl glowers and rings the huge bell again, muscles in her forearms standing out in stark relief. A faint shrieking can be heard, then the smoke swirls quickly and dissolves into nothing.

"That's that, then." She sets the bell down and half-leans, half-perches her foot on it. "I take it you are my escorts?"

I nod. "Is it just you, by yourself?"

"No." She shakes her head, then calls in a loud voice chock full of derision, "Okay, boys. It's safe to come out!" She turns her attention back to me and Dham, who's come up beside me. "I'm Catriona. You can call me Cat."

"I'm Amaranth." I jerk my thumb at Dham. "He's Dham. Another Ringer."

"What are you swinging?" he asks. We both look at her curiously.

Cat stands up. I hear the sound of running feet and swing to face the tunnel, tense, with blades at the ready. She waves at me to relax. "Don't trouble yourself. It's just my bodyguards." She says the last word with such scorn that I smile. Cat turns to Dham, answering his question in a more pleasant voice. "It's a deid bell."

"A what? I've never heard of one of those." Dham leans forward, inspecting the iron work.

"That's what we call it in Scotland. It's a dead bell. We use it all the time in my village." She sighs when she sees our blank expressions. "It's rung to protect the recently dead from being possessed. But it can also drive out a spirit from a dead body. You saw me do it just a few seconds ago." She explains it to us slowly, like we're soft in the head.

Cat swings the bell back up to her chest, holstering it in some kind of harness she's got rigged there. I turn to check on the state of the rest of the group. The remaining men have dealt with those who didn't make it, destroying the bodies with fire so they can't be eaten or possessed. Two older men stumble out of the tunnel and make their unsteady way over to Cat. She ignores them and walks alongside Dham, a small smile playing along her mouth as she looks up at him.

Abruptly she turns to me. "Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to do something useful and lead us out of here? I'm starving!" Cat's voice is tinged with musical laughter. I mutter a curse and gather everyone up, then hurry after the retreating pair of Ringers.

Chapter Nine

Dham takes off almost as soon as we got back to the main warren. I make sure that Cat and her handlers are squared away before making myself scarce. There's something about her that makes me edgy, like I have toothache that won't go away. Instead, I decide to find out where Dham disappeared to.

His foray into the tunnels did not go well, that much is obvious. I want to ask him what happened with his bells; I've only had occasion to see him ring once before—when he first saved my hide—and the sound of the bells had worked. But today they did practically nothing. I don't know if that's normal, but it doesn't bode well for his trip to the Gate.

The Gate. As I walk down the streets in the early afternoon sunshine, I think about the slip that Dham made. Ryland hasn't mentioned this discovery to me at all. It's odd. I don't expect to be invited to go on the mission; there are far more capable people than me to go with Dham and the others, but I do find it odd that I am so in the dark about it all. Perhaps it's for safety reasons—the less people that know about it, the less likely it is to be leaked to the Inquisition.

I climb the steps to Auntie's, still preoccupied with thoughts of gates and bells and secret meetings. And Patrick. I wonder if Ryland will be able to find out anything about him. And I wonder what I'll tell Mrs. Bowen if he doesn't.

I knock on the door to Dham's room and wait there for several minutes with no answer. I trudge up the stairs to drop off my bag and jacket and throw myself on my bed. I'm not even sure where Dham would go if not back here. He doesn't know London that well, but he's from a big city; he'd be able to find his way around with little problem.

My stomach grumbles at me. I check the clock and I still have a good while until dinner time, but clearly my stomach is seriously displeased as it raises a ruckus again. I try to ignore the rumbling, but after a few minutes, I give up and go get some tea and a couple of biscuits that Auntie keeps stashed for snacking.

The front room is already occupied, so I decide to take my tea out in the back garden. I am not feeling up for company—there's too much on mind for me to relax and be pleasant company. I let myself out through the kitchen. Two steps down and I'm in a small oasis of deep green grass and ornamental winter plants. Spring hasn't quite taken hold yet, so the flowers haven't sprouted, but I can see the telltale sign of new growth. The tree in the corner has begun to show green leaves.

Dham is sitting on the bench beneath the spreading limbs. His head is tilted back, resting against the back of the bench. His eyes are closed and I take a moment to stare at him without him knowing it. His hair is dappled with sunlight, making it turn a dark gold. His face is calm. For once he looks to be truly at peace.

I sit down on the bottom step and put the napkin with the biscuits up on the next step. I don't want to disturb him, but I don't want to go back inside either. I take a sip of my tea, letting the stillness of the garden wash over me. I can understand why Dham's fallen asleep here—there is something very private and removed about this place. The sounds of the city are muted back here, almost unintelligible. The walls of the garden help block out the noise of city life.

But what the walls do not block out are any number of the neighborhood cats. A large black and white one winds around my legs, seeking attention. Loudly. Its meow seems to echo off of the brick walls to bounce like a children's ball around the garden. I shush it gently, stroking its head, but that just seems to encourage it. The cat meows again, insistently, putting its paws up on my knee. I check to see if Dham's still sleeping, only to find him looking over at me and smiling.

"Looks like you made a friend."

I nod. "A very loud one, apparently."

Dham waves me over. I watch as he puts his hand down, beckoning to the cat with light snaps of his fingers. It sashays over to him, waving its tail like a plume and I trail in its wake like some kind of crossbred handmaiden. It hops up and settle into Dham's lap. I sit down on the opposite end of the bench and watch as he scratches behind the cat's ears.

"I've been replaced," I observe after I've gotten settled. The cat is purring contentedly on Dham's lap, eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

"Nah. It's just because I've got a trout stashed in my pocket." I laugh and his smile grows wider. "What are you doing out here? I thought you preferred the roof?"

"I do, usually. But today I felt like I wanted someplace green. It seems you did too."

He doesn't respond to that statement, instead choosing to focus on scratching the cat's chin. I wait, watching his face for a reaction, but he's calm and steady. Finally I say, "Actually, I was looking for you."

He raises his eyes to my face, the green fringed by heavy dark lashes. "Yeah?"

Why do boys get the lovely lashes? It's heartily unfair. I swallow, suddenly very conscious of his eyes on me. So not fair, this effect he has on me and my breathing. "Yes." I force myself to straighten up and act like a sensible human being rather than a moony child. "I wanted to talk to you about what happened back there. In the tunnels."

His face closes like one of those snap fans children play with. His eyes drop back down to the cat. "What about it?"

I ignore the sullen tone in his voice. While he might make me a bit weak in the knees, I still need to be practical. "The bells. They didn't work." I try not to sound accusatory.

He shrugs, but still doesn't look at me. "Sometimes they don't." As if it's no big deal.

"Dham." I channel my mother's tone—the one that she used when she knew I was lying.

He ducks his head again. "What?"

I give him the look that accompanies that tone even though he isn't looking up at me. "Really?"

He sets the cat down on the grass. I think he's going to get up and leave; instead he turns so his face is in profile. He seems to be looking out at the garden, but I don't know if that's what he's really seeing. "What's going on?" I watch him carefully.

Dham rubs at his knee absently. "Sometimes the bells fail me."

I frown. "I don't understand."

"I don't either. I can't predict when it will happen—it just seems sort of random. Sometimes, when I ring them I can feel the power of them. And other times, it's like nothing I do is right. I know it doesn't make any sense."

I pick at a rough spot on my cuticle as I try to suss this out. I don't know enough about how the bells work or the differences between the types to be of much help. But this doesn't seem like normal behavior. "Perhaps we can figure it out together," I say reasonably. "Tell me how the bells are supposed to work."

He runs a hand through his hair, a frustrated look on his face. I add, "Maybe it will help to talk things out a bit. Sometimes that works for me."

"Fine," he huffs out. He won't look at me as he begins. "So I have to tell you a little bit about the history of bells for you to understand things, okay."

I wave my hand at the garden. "I've got the whole afternoon free. Enlighten me."

Dham takes a deep breath. "Okay. So back in the Middle Ages, the church bells didn't just call the faithful to prayer. The bells were blessed in a pretty intense ceremony before they were hung in a church. The sound of a blessed bell could put a demon to flight. It was a form of protection." He paused to take a look at me to see if I was following.

I nod. "So church bells could be use to banish demons. Got it." I chew my bottom lip. "No wonder they wiped out all of the churches."

Dham absently strokes the cat. "Right. It was for their own protection. Imagine what a giant bell in one of the cathedrals could do. And it wasn't just the baptism of the bells that made them a powerful force. My father," here his lips twists as if he'd tasted something awful, "believes that the older a bell, the stronger it can be."

"I don't understand. What has the age of a bell got to do with anything?"

Dham fidgets. I wonder what happened that makes him so uncomfortable when talking about things relating to his father. "Imagine centuries of belief, of worship, of faith from all of the people attending a church. Now imagine that bell above them absorbing that same belief, that same faith. The bell drinks it in, soaks in it, and it might gain power from it."

I look at him askance. "So bells marinate in belief and then get more powerful? Is that what your father thinks happens?"

"It's not a pot roast," Dham answers sourly.

"Sorry," I say, grinning at him. When he manages a weak grin back, I continue. "Has he ever been able to prove this theory?"

Dham shakes his head. "No. I mean, how could he? Every church that used to have a bell has been demolished."

I sit back and think on this bit of news. It makes sense that the demons would eliminate any and all threats to them, and supercharged church bells would certainly qualify as a threat. "What about hand bells? Does the same hold true for them?" And what about Cat's deid bell? That thing looked monstrously old--perhaps that's why she had more success with the corpse-reviver demon than Dham.

"I would think so," he replies, also leaning back.

He still isn't looking at me. I risk my next question. "Does the person ringing have anything to do with it? Like how they feel? Do the bells draw anything from the person holding them?"

Dham shrugged. "We're getting into a lot of theory here. There's no way to prove anything."

I try another tack. "Has it always been like this for you? Did you ever run into times when the bells just didn't work?" I try not to feel weird that I'm talking about bells as if they are alive.

He shakes his head. "No, that's what's so weird. I don't remember having this problem when I was younger. And my sister Victoria never had anything like this happen to her." His voice takes on a bitter quality.

"Any ideas what might be causing it?" I keep my voice neutral rather than trying to root around in his familial problems. Those are his and his alone and it sounds like he doesn't want to share. I can appreciate that.

"I suck?" He bangs his fist on his leg in frustration.

"Hey now." I wait until he's met my eyes before I continue. "That's not it and you know it." I think for a moment. "Maybe the other Ringer can shed some light." He snorts in disbelief, throwing his head back. I put my hand on his knee. "We'll figure it out."

Dham goes still beneath my hand. I can feel my face go hot as I realize what I've done. I go to snatch my hand back, but Dham's hand falls on it, holding it in place. My eyes skitter up to his face, my gaze drawn to his like metal to a magnet. He has a lopsided grin on his face as he stares at me. I don't know what to do, but feel like I should do something, say something, but I find that my mouth is dry. I've never been this tongue-tied and easily flustered around a boy before.

The cat's disgruntled meow blares out at our feet, causing us both to jump. It stares up at us grumpily. I take the chance to pull my hand out from under his and chuckle weakly. "It's not happy about being ignored."

"I don't know of anyone who is," Dham says, leaning back against the bench again. He's put some distance between us, which I don't know if I'm unhappy or relieved about.

I haven't forgotten the conversation we were having, but wonder if it's best to let it lie. For now. "So what about the Gate?"

He picks the cat back up. It settles in between us, furry body soft against my thigh. He won't meet my eyes. "I swear I thought you knew."

I shrug, determined not to show how much it bothers me to be excluded. Ryland made the call. He must have had a good reason to keep whatever is going on to himself. "When did you find out?"

Dham looks at me strangely. "I was told back in New York. I wouldn't have been sent over here otherwise." He pauses, rubbing the cat's chin. "I only know that they think they may have found THE Gate, and they might need a Ringer to help close it."

I hope my surprise isn't evident on my face. That would be even more embarrassing and pathetic. So Dham knew, or at least suspected the mission's goal the whole time. The logical part of me knows that it made sense—asking someone to risk their life is much harder to do if you have absolutely no details to offer them. But that part is having a hard time being heard over the feeling of hurt that fills me. I had _really_ been kept out of the loop. And here I thought that I was an important member of the Resistance—that I was Ryland's go-to person when he needed something done.

How stupid was I?

"Amaranth? You okay?"

I blink, yanking myself out of my bad thoughts. I put on what is probably the fakest smile in the history of fake smiles and nod. "Yes, yes, sure. Just thinking about things."

The dubious look he throws my way makes me wonder what my smile actually ended up looking like. "Right." He draws the word out for longer than necessary. I know he doesn't believe me.

I meet his eyes. "Do you know anything else about it? About how they think they can close it?"

He shakes his head, returning most of his attention to the demanding cat on his lap. "Not much else. We're supposed to get briefings once everyone gets here."

I narrow my eyes. "Cat's one of them?"

"I assume so. It makes sense anyway."

I chew at my lower lip. So two Ringers in town, plus a host of other unknowns on the way, and all for a possible try at the Gate. I wonder how they came by the knowledge of the Gate's location; the Resistance had been searching for it for decades. For all the cell leaders to be called in, Ryland would have to be positive about its location. But, as far as I know, we still don't know how to close it once we get there. Unless that's changed too. I could just go ask Ryland about it, but already feel too beholden to him for his help with Patrick.

"Why two Ringers?" I can see the advantage in having a backup, but Ringers are rare; putting multiples in one basket just means an easier set of targets.

Again the head shake. "Don't worry about it, Amaranth. When we're supposed to know, they'll tell us."

"Doesn't it bother you?" I stand up and begin to pace. I need to think and movement helps. "I mean, you've been sent across the bloody ocean for a mission you know next to nothing about! Don't you want to know what's going on?" I turn and face him. "How can you be so..." I'm having trouble finding the word. "...casual about it?"

He stands as well, upsetting the cat who protests loudly at being upended from her comfy perch. "What do you think I should be doing, Amaranth?"

I flap my hands. "I don't know—anything? Don't you think it's kind of important to find out why?"

"Of course I do," he says mildly, unperturbed by my outburst.

"Then why are you acting like this is some kind of vacation?"

He looks at me, an unreadable expression on his face. "Because I don't know what's going to happen when I get to the Gate--if I get to it." He runs a hand through his hair. "I don't even know what's going to happen tomorrow." He looks around the garden. "So I might as well enjoy today."

I stand there, gaping at him. He tugs at my hand and pulls me back down on the bench. He says, "How about you enjoy it with me? Stop stressing before you tear yourself apart."

We sit in silence for a few minutes. As time passes, I can feel the urge to move, to fidget rising inside me. I try to keep from bouncing my knee or jiggling my leg, but can't stop myself. Dham puts his hand on my leg to still it.

"I'm not very good at this," I say, doing my very best not to think of the pressure of his hand on my knee.

He smiles. "I can tell."

"So how did you get lucky enough to score an all-expense paid trip to London?" I look at Dham out of the corner of my eye. "Draw the short straw?"

His face freezes, eyes wide and staring at me. Pain and anger flash across his face so quickly that I almost miss them. I'm not sure what I said that was so terrible, but I can see his jaw tense as he clenches his teeth together. He obviously didn't appreciate my lame attempt at humor. Brilliant.

His voice drops low, and I can tell it is only through a lot of self-control that he maintains even a little calm. "My father assigned me this mission--I wasn't given a choice. He wanted me gone, so he didn't have to look at me anymore."

I can feel the color leave my face. I had no idea. "I'm sure that's not it, Dham." No parent would do that to his own child.

Dham won't look at me. "He told me so himself."

Before I can say another word, he's disappeared back into the house.

I wander the garden, dazed. Dham's admission has rattled me. I never expected that this mission was actually a kind of banishment for Dham. Instead, I made light of something obviously very painful to him. Patrick was right. I shouldn't be let loose among regular folk without a keeper.

"You are an utter idiot," I say aloud to no one in particular.

The cat meows, as if in agreement.

Chapter Ten

After another fruitless afternoon of chasing down Patrick's friends and teachers, I return to Auntie's in a mood. No one has seen Patrick since the night he disappeared. His teachers haven't heard from him, just as they told Mrs. Bowen. I feel like a demented hamster in an exercise wheel, running in circles. Ryland hasn't gotten back to me with any information yet, but I know I can't expect results so quickly. Still it has been several days since I first brought the problem to him; I would think he would have gotten in touch with his contact by now.

I feel like time is ticking away and there's nothing I can do but sit around and wait. I am not used to feeling helpless. I need to do something to take my mind off of my futile search for Patrick before I tear myself into bits. Except I have no idea what. I'm tired of sword practice, I'm tired of being underground, but I'm unsure if I'm really fit company. Truly, I can't decide what I want, except for the one thing I don't have: Patrick back safe.

I turn to troop back up the stairs, my mind and body worn out with fretting. Several small groups of people pass me, on their way to the dining room where Auntie serves the official supper for everyone. I can't imagine sitting in a roomful of these people, some of who know me very well, and trying to put up a façade of normalcy. I decide that I'll wait out the hour in my room and then creep down after everyone is finished to nab a bit of leftovers.

"Amaranth!" Dham's voice jolts me into awareness of the people around me. I turn my head to see him and Cat standing in the parlour. They must have been sitting in the front room for me to have missed them. "We're going to grab a bite. Want to join?"

I think about saying no, but then I see the look on Cat's face. She looks like she tried to lap up some cream only to find it sour. I'm clearly not welcome as far as Cat is concerned.

I think about that look and about my lonely room. Then I look into Dham's eyes and my decision is made. I want to be with Dham, even if it means sharing some time with Cat. I'm going out to dinner. "Let me grab something from my room. Be right back." I give him a big smile, darting my eyes at Cat to gauge her response. She looks like she wants to claw my eyes out, her eyes spitting blue flames in my direction. Heh. I put some money in my pockets, grab my jacket from its place on my bed and meet them back downstairs.

Cat doesn't look any happier up close. I have to fight a small smile, sure that it will do nothing but antagonize her. I probably should have stayed in, but I'm tired of obsessively thinking about what might be happening to Patrick. I need a break. Maybe getting out in company will do me some good.

"What do you feel like tonight?" Dham asks me as I join them.

I shrug. "I'm just a tagalong." I ignore Cat's nodding head and crossed arms. "Anything you guys decide is fine."

Cat picks Italian and leads the way out of Auntie's. She and Dham begin a pretty lively conversation about music, one that I lose interest in once I realize that I have absolutely nothing to contribute. I much prefer books to music, having only a passing interest in songs I hear that I like and certainly no band faithfulness of my own. Both music and books are closely monitored; anything suspect is destroyed and the offending artist punished. As such, there's a thriving black market for music and books that have been outlawed by the Inquisition.

We amble over to Clerkenwell, to a restaurant I know by reputation from others in the boarding house. I use the time to watch the other people walking down the street.

We haven't gone but a few blocks before I notice something isn't quite right on the street. People seem to be walking faster than would be normal at twilight, glancing behind them a bit too often. I wonder if there's been a demon sighting aboveground—though rare, it wouldn't be the first time—but we'd have heard something about it by now. Still, there is a feeling of tension in the air.

I pay more attention to my surroundings. On every corner we pass, there seems to be someone hanging about, but in a way that doesn't seem casual. I've been running operations for the Resistance long enough to know when one is being run right under my nose. I pay close attention to the next man we pass at a corner and come away with a clue. His sleeve rides up a bit from his hand, revealing the brand of the Inquisition.

So the Inquisition is out looking for someone. Or waiting for something to happen. Or possibly both.

I'm grateful when we finally come to the restaurant, an out of the way little place that serves excellent freshly made pasta. I request a table near the window so I can keep a lookout for trouble. I'm doubting tonight's op has anything to do with us personally, but I don't want to be caught napping. When we're finally situated with our menus, I lean forward to my two companions.

"Did either of you notice how many Inquisition forces are out in the streets tonight?"

Dham nods, but Cat just rolls her eyes. "Can't we just have one night where we don't have to leap up and save the world?"

I blink. I've suggested nothing of that sort. I ignore her and look at Dham. "They're at every street corner. I saw one's mark as we passed by him on our way here."

"I noticed more people out than seemed usual. What do you think is going on? What are they all doing?" His eyes shift from me to the window and back again.

I shrug. "No idea. But I'm guessing it can't be something good."

"We can investigate it later if you both want to," Cat chimes in, picking her menu back up to peruse the selections. "But I'm hungry, so any snooping we're doing will take place AFTER dinner."

"Sounds fair." Dham smiles at me. He leans over and whispers, "Enjoy the moment, Amaranth. We're safe enough right now, so let's at least get some dinner before we find out what's going on."

I nibble on one of my fingernails, dinner pretty much forgotten. I stare out at the street, watching the people hurry by, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. A waiter comes and takes our orders; I request a plate of carbonara absently.

"Come on, Amaranth. Stop staring out the window." Dham pokes me in the side with his elbow. "It is okay to just relax for a few minutes."

I grin half-heartedly. I shouldn't have come; I'm not good company tonight. It was stupid of me to come with Dham and Cat, especially since it was only out of a petty impulse to get on Cat's nerves.

"What's your favorite part of New York?" Cat asks Dham. I tear my gaze from the window, forcing myself to pay attention to his words.

His voice seems deeper, more resonant in the low light of the restaurant. I stare at him as he speaks, my eyes tracing the lines of his face, the sweep of hair across his brow, the feather duster of eyelashes as they touch his cheek with each blink. He's a study in light and shadow as he sits in his seat and talks about his home.

Dham is quiet as he thinks. "It's a toss-up between Central Park and the food."

"Central Park? Why?"

"Before it was closed off completely, there used to be a small section where people could go and picnic, catch a nap, whatever. My parents used to take us out there on Sundays when the weather was nice enough. Peter would sometimes come along too. It was pretty great." He's wearing a half-smile, eyes lost in memory.

"Peter?" I ask, startled. "How long have you known him?" I'm curious about the man since I've gotten next to no time to learn more about him since he got here.

Dham nods. "He's been friends with my parent forever. He took it really badly when my mom died."

"So what happened to the park?" Cat asks before the mood can turn bleak. She rests her chin in her palm and watches him, a proprietary look on her face.

He shrugs. "The Mayor blocked it off on orders from someone high up in the Inquisition. Nobody's allowed on the grounds anymore." He looks down at his hands for a second. "A couple of kids from my school tried to sneak in after they'd closed it up. They...uh...never came back out."

"Did anyone on your team ever go in?" I figured Dham would understand I was asking about his Resistance group.

"A few recon parties were sent out." He shook his head. "We learned enough to know that it's not a good idea to muck around Central Park anymore."

I nod slowly, realizing how lucky we were to still have access to Hyde Park. "What about your subway?" I pause while the food is delivered to our table. I take a bite, closing my eyes to savor the bacony goodness. "Is it as bad as here?"

Cat expels a frustrated breath. "Is it possible for you to have a conversation that doesn't center on death, demons, or generally unpleasant topics while I'm trying to eat?" Her eyes bore into mine and I can feel myself redden, embarrassed. I glance at Dham, but he's busy shoveling a meatball into his mouth.

The sad thing is that Patrick would probably agree with Cat. He's always teasing me about my lack of social graces. I miss him so much that I feel like I might cry right here at the table.

I can see the slight smirk on her face at my discomfort. I'm angry. I feel like an ungainly moron, like someone who shouldn't be let out in social situations without a keeper of some kind. Cat can talk to Dham about anything, no matter how shallow or ridiculous and seem perfectly comfortable with him, whereas I'm flailing about like an idiot for something interesting to say. Why can't I be more like her?

I go back to eating my pasta as she asks him about the food he misses most. See, so easy for her. They're talking about bagels for goodness sake! She's so utterly normal, so undamaged. I can't compete with that. And she's a Ringer. I'm not even sure _why_ I wanted to tag along when they are so well-suited for each other.

My gaze drifts to the window once more. Less people are passing as dusk gives over to true night. The streets are fairly well-lit, so I can make out the faces of passerby. I mindlessly eat while I watch the scenes passing outside the window like a particularly boring play.

A group of men pass by in a tight knot. I sit up, eyes following them, looking for something familiar. There are five of them, most of them unknown to me. But everyone with any sense of self-preservation knows the man in the lead. He's a tall, imposing man, in his forties, with ashy blond hair going to grey, giving it a look of silver and gold threads commingled on his head. His mouth is drawn down in a tight frown, the lines on his face etched in stark relief against his flesh.

His name is Raulston. Geoffrey Raulston. He's the head of the London branch of the Inquisition. The Grand Inquisitor for all of England.

I can feel cold sweat break out all over my body. Raulston is probably the most powerful man in the British Isles, wielding an enormous amount of influence through fear of his organization. People disappearing off the street or in the middle of the night, public executions, torture—it all began and ended with him and his office.

My mother's face flashes in my memory; not the wrecked beauty that survived Inquisitorial confinement and everything it held, but the lovely face that I knew through my childhood. The healthy and sane person she was before she was taken from me. The woman she was before she came back to me in pieces.

I drop my fork to the half-empty plate with a clatter, dinner forgotten. My eyes track their progress through the streets. They are moving quickly, not stopping for lights or traffic, heedless of the cars that swerve to get out of their way. Wherever they are going, it must be for something important. I need to find out what.

"Excuse me for a moment." I get up from my seat.

"Amaranth? You okay?" Dham is looking at me with a worried crinkle between his eyes.

I nod, swallowing. He wouldn't know about Raulston, not yet. And he and Cat should enjoy their meal. But I need to see where he's going with so many men and bring back any information I can.

So I lie. "I'll be right back."

He nods and goes back to his food. Cat eyes me warily, almost as if she doesn't believe the words coming out of my mouth. I force a painful grin at her, enough that she rolls her eyes and looks away.

I walk quickly to the back of the restaurant, but instead of turning to enter the WC, I continue back into the kitchen. All kitchens have a second entrance—it comes in handy when accepting food deliveries or throwing out trash. I head towards it now, ignoring the cries of protest at a diner being back in the kitchen. I slam through the heavy door and find myself in an alley that smells of rotting food, urine and wet cardboard.

I take off in the direction that I last saw Raulston. I catch sight of them a block ahead, but the distance between us is lengthening. I need to catch up. I put on a bit of speed, feet skimming over the sidewalk, dodging the few people around that get in my way. I draw closer to them, but still far enough away so that it won't look like I'm following them specifically.

They are moving slower now. I notice that the Inquisition members I was seeing on our way to the restaurant seem to be gathering en masse for something. Raulston is collecting new members of his group as he passes, not unlike a child collecting rocks or stuffed animals. I slow to match my pace with theirs, keeping about a block between us.

Before I realize it, they're off running. I walk as fast as I can, trying to keep up with them without running and calling unwanted attention to myself. I'm able to track their progress by the eddies of their passing among the onlookers and pedestrians as I hurry after them. I pull up my hood and pull it tightly closed, so that the video cameras won't be able to get a clear shot of me.

I can hear shouts, screams, and the braking of cars up ahead. I pick up the pace, moving along with the curious onlookers who always enjoy a good show. We come up to a set of cross-streets, my little group and I, and I see the wavering chaos from behind the backs of people closer in. It never ceases to amaze me--as much as people wish to avoid the Inquisition, they're still people. If there's a spectacle, there's a crowd, especially at a public execution or flogging. I begin to elbow my way forward. Finally I crouch through, pushing through legs and past people until I have a clear view of the scene.

A large group of Inquisitors has surrounded two young men. Both look to be in their twenties but it is hard to nail down their age with all of the commotion. Some of the Inquisitors are trying to keep people back, while the rest—including Raulston—close in on them with shackles. There's nowhere for them to go; the press of people on the street is too thick for them to be able to push through even if they weren't surrounded.

Raulston walks up to the darker of the two men and reaches out towards his neck. I can't see what he's looking at—I'm too far away—but I see his hand close and then his whole arm jerk. He pitches something away; I catch a glint of metal as it passes beneath a streetlamp close to me. I edge over to my right, trying to keep an eye on where it landed. I can see a faint glitter. I scramble over, desperate to reach it before anyone else can get to it. I see a hand reach down to pick whatever it is up and I can finally make out what it is. A crucifix.

My eyes flick to the two men. They are struggling against the Inquisitors. I can also hear the pounding of feet as police begin to filter into the scene. I think about the crucifix. Ryland is expecting more Resistance to arrive. Could these two be some of those arrivals? And how did they get caught?

One of the men is frothing at the mouth; he must have secreted poison somewhere on him. Whistles are shrieking, cars are honking, making the street alive with cacophony. Raulston's shouting orders to take the body. It's total chaos, but that might work for me. I stand and step out of the crowd. If he is Resistance, I have to do something. I look around and see a clod of dirt near my feet. I reach down and pick it up, hoping that my aim is still good, then heave it at the remaining man.

It hits him in the side of the face. His head immediately turns to where the mud came from: me. "Scum!" I shout, then flash a complicated hand symbol at him. It's one of the signs we use to identify other Resistance members. He nods, then does something completely unexpected.

He reaches around and pulls his shoulder bag from his back. Gripping the strap in his hand, he swings it in an arc and then releases it, throwing it straight at me. It hits the ground near my feet as I stare at him in stunned silence, and then he's grabbing a gun from a nearby policeman and firing it at the Inquisition members closest to him.

That shakes me from my stupor. I dash forward and snag the bag, slinging it crossways across my body and begin to push back through the people. I hear someone shout, "GET HER!" but I don't stop. I slide through the crowd and finally break free of the press and take off, the bag bouncing at my side. I hear more shouts ordering me to stop. I ignore them. I put my head down and run.

The sounds of pursuit follow me. I don't have time to think. I just follow my instinct, taking turns at random. I try to keep to more populated streets. I want to use the crowd as a smokescreen, another obstacle between me and the Inquisition. I see the startled looks of people as I flash past, but no one stops me. I dare to glance behind me and see three on my trail.

I push myself faster. I need to find a hiding spot, somewhere I can shake them off my tracks. My heart pounds in my chest. My feet pound against cement. The bag at my side bangs into me in time to my footfalls. I hear my breath in my ears, whistling out in deep gasps. I can feel the sweat slide down my face and neck. I keep going. I can't get caught. I _won'_ t get caught.

I skid around a corner. I take it too fast and almost lose my balance. Someone grabs my arm and pulls me backwards, clapping a hand over my mouth. I struggle wildly, elbows flying. I raise my foot to kick my heel into a shin if I can before I make sense of the voice in my ear.

"It's me. Calm down!" Dham is still dragging me backwards.

I turn my head to make sure it is indeed him. I nod and he drops the hand from my mouth. "What are you doing here?" I hiss. My hammering heart is making it hard for me to speak.

"Following you. Come on." He keeps a firm hold of my arm and pulls me along in his wake. He knocks three times on a door. Cat opens it and we are inside a shop of some kind. Dham pulls me down into a crouch and the three of us slink along the perimeter of the room.

I take a quick look at my surroundings. We're in a dark room. It's a large, relatively open space with shapes in the center of the room. When my sight adjusts I can tell we're in some kind of kitchen. I can see rolling baking racks and a wall of convection ovens. We must be in some kind of bake shop or cafe or something.

"How did you get in here?" I feel ridiculous whispering, but it seems wrong to talk at a normal level.

"Dham picked the lock when we figured out where you were." Cat is the one leading the way through the kitchen.

I stare at Dham who shrugs, a mild look on his face. "You're full of surprises," I say.

"Just one of those skills you pick up."

"How'd you know where I was?" There's the sound of sirens and commotion outside, audible even in here. I feel my shoulders tense.

Dham puts a finger to his lips. The three of us wait in silence, ears straining for the sound of anyone trying to get into the shop, or anything else that might tell us our hiding place has been discovered. I can hear someone trying the front and back doors, but finding them locked, they move on. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding as the sounds of the search move farther away from the shop.

When everything is quiet, Dham leans back against the steel cabinet we're hiding behind. Cat plops down cross-legged on the floor, pushing blonde hair out of her face. Then she glares at me. "You maybe want to tell us what all that was about?"

"How...did you know?" I spread my hands, at a loss for exactly what to ask.

"When you didn't come back from the bathroom, we figured you had done something monumentally stupid. And hey! We were right." Cat crosses her arms over her chest. I take a moment to wonder how one learns to sit emphatically. Cat has clearly mastered it.

"Cat," Dham warns. She subsides into a minor snit. "We saw all the activity pick up pretty quickly and when you didn't come back, we decided to check it out." He looks at me. "We came at the end of things, after the chase had started so we figured we'd find a safe place and then I'd go look for you."

"Good thing you did." I smile at him. Cat clears her throat, and I look away.

"You plan to tell us what happened?" She still sounds annoyed.

I stare down at my hands for a few minutes, trying to gather my thoughts. What should I tell them? How much? I'm sure I can trust Dham, but Cat is an unknown. I know she doesn't like me—will she be willing to follow my lead in this? I put my hand on the messenger bag. I don't even know what's inside it.

I decide to keep that part to myself for now and hope they don't notice I've somehow acquired a new messenger bag. "I saw the Grand Inquisitor pass by the restaurant with a group of men, and I decided to follow him. After a couple of blocks, I saw what all those guys posted at the corners of streets had been up to." I pause to steady myself. I can feel the shakes beginning now that the adrenaline is starting to fade, so I clutch my hands together to still the tremors. It's almost like I'm praying.

"There were two men—young, maybe twenty or so—and they'd been surrounded. One was wearing a crucifix. I saw it when Raulston—that's the Grand Inquisitor—yanked it off of him and threw it away. I figured out they were Resistance. One of them took poison or something as soon as they were captured. But the one with the crucifix grabbed a gun and started shooting."

"But why were they chasing you?" Dham's got his head cocked like a spaniel, kind of like he's listening for what I'm leaving unsaid. "Did something happen?"

I shrug, hoping I convey uncertainty with my face and body. "I don't know. Maybe one of them saw the sign I flashed at the guy to see if he was Resistance. All I know is they shouted at me to stop, so I ran."

He looks dubious and I know he doesn't quite buy it. I rush on with the story. "I don't know what happened to the other man, whether he was taken alive or not. And I don't know what they were doing here either. I think they may have been here for whatever meeting brought you two here—I didn't recognize either of them so I'm guessing they were from out of town."

Cat has finally stopped looking sulky and has turned serious. "I can't imagine him wanting to be taken alive."

I shudder, remembering my mother. No, I can't imagine anyone wanting to be taken alive. Dham says, "That's probably why he grabbed the gun—to force them to shoot him." I don't say the other possibility: that he took the gun so he could shoot himself. The thought is simply too bleak to think about for long. But when I meet Cat's eyes, I can tell she's thought of it too.

"What now?" she asks, pulling her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

"We should stay here a while longer." Dham looks towards the front of the store. "Make sure they've given up on this area. Then we hightail it to Ryland and let him know what's happened."

"He probably already knows. He's got eyes out for this sort of thing." I don't want to see Ryland, even if this information is important.

"We've still got to assume he doesn't. Protocol." Dham grins, some of his good humor returning. "And since it looks like we're going to be here for awhile, anybody want to play poker?" He fishes in his jacket pocket and produces a deck of cards.

"We don't have any chips." Cat holds out her hand for the deck.

"That's not the kind of poker I was talking about."

"Perv."

Chapter Eleven

I close the windows and the curtains and make sure the door to my bedroom is locked before I even think of looking inside the messenger bag. It took nearly all the willpower I had not to run into the bathroom of the store we hunkered in for a couple of hours while Cat and Dham played an endless game of gin rummy and open up the bag just to see what those Resistance men had been carrying. But I'm finally back at the boarding house where I have some privacy. It feels like it should be dawn soon but the clock still reads that it is before midnight. I want to get at least a cursory look in before exhaustion claims me.

I turn on the small bedside lamp and sit on the bed. First I examine the bag closely. It's scuffed dark brown leather—very soft--looking well worn and almost colorless in spots. It has two buckles on it, but those are for adornment only; the buckles hide magnetic snaps that hold the flap closed. It looks like something a university prof would carry to class rather than something a Resistance member would be toting around. But maybe that's the point.

I see nothing else of note on the outside—no wardings or sigils or anything else that indicates protection on the bag—so I pop open the snaps and fold the front back to get into the bag's interior pockets. It's divided into two compartments and both are filled with papers. I reach in and pull out one of the stacks and begin to sift through it. The contents are mostly maps, directions, stubs of receipts. There are a few pages written in what looks like Italian. I set these aside.

I pull out the rest of the articles in the bag. I spread everything on the bed, then drop my head in my hands. What am I doing? What am I _thinking_? I should have taken this bag directly to Ryland; there might be something in here that is vital to his plans. I have an obligation, a responsibility, to protect the Resistance.

But don't I also have an obligation to Patrick? What if there's something in here that might help him? Something that Ryland won't ever let me see? I turn back to the pages, my jaw clenched. Ryland betrayed my trust. Do I really owe him anything after that?

More paper to thumb through, most of it gibberish to me. I do see a list of names and locations; it looks like a list of safe houses in cities throughout Europe. If that's the case, then I'm very glad this didn't fall into Inquisition hands. I take another handful of pages, planning to glance through them, but beneath those papers is a book. I put the stack off to the side and stare.

The book is small, perhaps the size of a journal, bound in brown leather and fastened with leather string and closed with a frog and loop clasp. I work the stiff stuff loose, afraid that the leather has grown brittle from disuse. It finally comes free and I carefully open the book, unsure of what I'll find inside.

The pages are yellowed but in surprisingly good condition, only fraying a little at the edges where the cover didn't protect them well enough. I flip through carefully, feeling the smooth paper with my fingertips. It's heavy paper, not like parchment, and seems to have held up well. I'm not sure how old this journal is, but there seems to be some age to it.

I come to the first page with writing on it. The handwriting is bold and scrawling, written in heavy black ink. It's hard to make out the words of the script at first, but then I realize it is in English, but the handwriting made it difficult to make out. I pull the book closer to the bedside light and try to make sense of the words.

"The Key of Solomon the King," I read in a low voice. I skip over the presumably Latin subtext and go on to the next line. "As first translated and edited by S. Liddell MacGregor Mathers. 1888."

I sit up, stunned. Obviously this journal didn't come from 1888, but it looked to be a copy—hand done—of the translation of the Key of Solomon. Whatever that was. The only Solomon I ever heard of was the wise king Solomon from the Bible. It couldn't be that guy, could it? And how was a book a key anyway?

I flip the next page and feel my breath catch in my throat. Drawn with painstaking detail is a Grand Pentacle, like the ones in the room where my mother had been taken. I quickly turn the page again, hoping for some explanation of what this book is. My eyes devour the words on each page, flashing through the lines of writing, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. After a few pages, I look out at nothing, my brain processing the words I've read to understand exactly what I hold in my hand.

I've apparently intercepted a book of Qabalistic magic that specifically details how King Solomon—yes, _that_ King Solomon—summoned and controlled spirits. Demons.

Of course he did. _Bollocks_.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady hands that are now trembling. I will not be giving this to Ryland, at least not until I have a better idea of what exactly I'll be giving away. There might be something in here that could help me free Patrick when I find him.

I grow still, as a thought washes over me like ice water. Why on earth would the Resistance risk transporting something so dangerous? These kinds of books are outlawed and any person found with one is punished horribly before finally being executed. The Inquisition had confiscated all magical texts long ago, locking away or destroying anything that could be used to banish demons. The Ritual Romanum, the codex of the Catholic Church that contained the rites of exorcism, had been summarily put to the torch, as had many Jewish, Hindu, and Muslim spiritual books. Bootleg copies of arcane texts still abounded, but the Inquisition hunted them—and their owners—down without mercy.

So how did this copy of the Key of Solomon come to be in London? And why was it brought here to begin with?

I'm startled by my jaw-cracking yawn. The adrenaline of the chase and subsequent hiding has worn off and I feel done in. I kick off my shoes and lay back, the book in my hands. I should be able to read a few more pages before I really can't stay awake any longer. I prop up my pillows in their normal reading configuration. I shuck off denims and jacket, and only clad in a t-shirt, I climb into bed.

I have the best of intentions. But once my head hit the pillow, all thoughts of demons, Solomon, books, magic, and the Inquisition are forgotten in favor of deep, dreamless sleep.

****

I'm not certain what wakes me, but one minute I'm sound asleep and the next I'm staring up at the ceiling tiles, a sense of wrongness filling me. I take stock of the room before moving, letting my eyes have first crack at determining what's off. My room looks the same: bedside light is still on, clothes still rumpled on the floor, a freaky grimoire still on my chest. I look over at the clock and see it is just past midnight, so I haven't been asleep for very long.

I turn out the light, convinced that maybe I imagined whatever it was that sent me from sleeping to waking in a nanosecond, when I hear it. I sleep with my window partly open; I like the fresh breeze and often enjoy the sounds of the city at night. Through it I can hear the sounds of scuffling footsteps in an odd cadence and the muted voices of people on the street. It's not loud enough to be the usual drunken stumble home of the area's residents.

I slide out of bed quietly. I make my way over to the loose floorboard beneath the rug in front of the dresser. Auntie has made sure that every room has a hidey-hole for things we'd rather the Inquisition not find in case of a random search. I pull up the plank and stash the book in there with my rosary. Then I creep over to the window and peek out.

The curtains are fairly sheer so I can crouch down and still see out of them. Across the street and to the left of Auntie's, three men have gathered. They look to be with the Inquisition based on the insignia present on the arms of their jackets. But it is the fourth figure with them that makes me draw back in fear.

It probably was a man, once. Now it crouches down at the feet of one of the men, almost like a dog. It's a Sniffer: a human that has been possessed by a special demon that acts as a tracker for its masters. A supernatural bloodhound. Once they get the scent they're searching for, nothing on this earth can call them off.

I look out the window again. The men seem to be arguing. The Sniffer slinks lower, obviously upset by the heated conversation. Its ungainly limbs, unsuited for running on all fours, stiffen, and its head turns to follow a conversation it doesn't understand. I think back to earlier in the evening. I was in a crowd of people, so it shouldn't have been able to pick out my scent, although it might have gotten a faint whiff once the chase began. It depends on what streets I ran through—strong scents can confuse a Sniffer sometimes—and how quickly it had been deployed.

I chew on my bottom lip as I watch the men below. They seem to have reached some kind of agreement. The Sniffer's master gestures and the Sniffer takes off, bounding away on all fours like some awkward doggie hybrid. The three follow at a distance. I risk a better look once they're past, trying to see which way they are headed as they reach the end of the block.

One of the men turns and looks behind him at Auntie's. I pull back quickly, hoping that I was fast enough to avoid being seen, and slide down the wall, breathing like I've just sprinted up ten flights of stairs. I don't why they were out, with a Sniffer no less, but I have a bad feeling it has to do with the events of earlier this evening. I look over to where the book lays hidden beneath the floorboard.

In the morning, I'll get a smudge stick and try to eradicate any lingering scents that might lead them back here. If I do it now, that would just tip off the Sniffer that it was on the right track. And I'll tell Auntie what I just saw so she can warn the other boarders that this could mean an unexpected visit from the Inquisition. Then I close the window and lock it, not that it will be much help against anyone really wanting to get in. I climb back in bed, suddenly chilled, and I pray that I haven't made a huge mistake that will endanger us all.

Chapter Twelve

It's been days since I told Ryland about Patrick. Ordinarily that wouldn't bother me, but I've been waiting for word of his search turning up anything. I've been searching on my own in my spare moments, but I'm coming up with nothing. I've staked out our old building in the evenings, just in case Pat—or whatever is inside him—might be drawn back there, but so far I've had no luck. My best hope is Ryland. I understand that Ry's busy putting preparations in place for the upcoming gathering of Resistance members, but his avoidance of me is odd. And avoidance it is too; it seems like every time he see me in the corridors and tunnels he remembers some business and walks in the other direction. Dham told me I'm being paranoid, but things with Ryland feel off.

Something is going on.

I intend to stay down in the tunnels until I can corner Ryland and find out what's going on. I need to tell Patrick's mother something other than I'm working on it. If Ry is worried about what I'll do if he hasn't found anything out yet, then he's being ridiculous. I don't expect miracles, but an update would certainly be appreciated, even if that update is of the nothing new to report variety.

I've got my swords on, in case I have to follow him into the Underground proper. I head first to his office, but he's not there. I ask around a bit until finally someone directs me to one of the rooms commonly used for meetings. I stake out the corridor in front of the room and wait for him to emerge. As I wait, I begin to creep closer to the makeshift door, trying to hear what's going on inside.

I'm not usually so nosey, but I'm bored. I can hear voices discussing the upcoming meeting. There's Ryland's. I try to hear what he's saying but most of it is muffled. But I catch a faint mention of acquiring the final piece. Whatever that means. I head back to my original place so it won't be so obvious I've been snooping.

Ryland and a few others come out a short time later. Kevin and Peter are among them. I wait to see if Dham follows them out, but there's no sign of him. I'm surprised they'd have a meeting without him. But that's a concern for another day; Ryland is continuing on down the corridor without looking in my direction. He may not have seen me, or he may be avoiding me, but either way, I won't be put off.

I hustle after him. "Ryland, wait a minute." He turns, a look of surprise on his face. "I need to talk to you."

"Oh, Amaranth." He looks down the hall almost wistfully. "Look, I'm quite busy. Can you catch me later?"

_Oh no you don't_. "This'll just take a second." He keeps walking and I follow along. "I just wanted to see if you'd heard anything from your people about Patrick."

"No, nothing." His pace quickens and I have to almost jog to keep up.

"Well, can you at least tell me where they're searching? Maybe I can take a look in some other areas..."

"Amaranth!" Ryland whirls around, causing me to skid to a stop unless I want to crash into him. "I told you I don't have time for this now!"

I pull back, embarrassed that he's yelling at me. The group from the meeting watches closely and I can feel a blush climbing up my face like roses on a trellis. I hadn't expected this kind of reaction, no matter how busy he is. I search his face to try and see what's the matter and find he's glaring at me. "Ryland, I just wanted to see if there was anything to tell Mrs. Bowen." I try to sound apologetic even though I'm unsure what I've done that I need to be sorry for. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

He sighs, also looking back at the men from the meeting. I think for a moment he's going to apologize for snapping at me, but then he says in an even voice, "I'm very busy right now, Amaranth. And I don't have the time to spare looking for your Patrick." He pauses to take a deep breath. "There's a great deal more at stake than just you and your friend."

I can feel my face growing hotter at the sting of his rebuke. "I won't trouble you again," I mumble before scurrying away like a puppy with her tail between her legs.

I don't stop until I'm in the locker room, in front of my steamer trunk. I pull my sheathed swords off with shaking hands. I hang them in the trunk then sink to the floor and sit, staring at nothing. I never expected such a reaction to a simple question. I don't know what to make of it. I don't feel like I'm being selfish—I'm trying to help out a friend and his mother after all—but maybe I have been.

I shake my head. That doesn't seem right. None of this does, especially not Ryland's avoidance over the past few days. And then there was this whole cell meeting thing. I hadn't even known about it beforehand, and I wasn't being included in any of the meetings, even those dealing with the safe passage of the attendees to our doors. That made no sense. It feels even more like I'm being kept away from something, but what? And why?

I climb back to my feet, closing and locking the trunk. Dham's bells aren't in there which must mean he's out in the tunnels or possibly somewhere practicing. Probably with Cat. I rub my eyes with a tired hand. I should go by Patrick's mother's house and explain to her about my lack of progress.

I retrace my steps, then duck down one of the lesser used corridors. There's a hatch that opens up closer to Patrick's flat than the exit I usually take, but it is down some of the older tunnels. Most of them aren't used much outside of storage. I pull out my torch, but hesitate before turning it on. It looks like there's a light coming from down one of the other passages, but it's fading, as if someone is moving farther down it.

Without thinking, I follow the light. I keep my torch off and creep closer, using all of my skills to move silently. I feel ridiculous; whoever it is is probably just going to one of the storage rooms to get some extra supplies or something. There's probably no need for this cloak and dagger nonsense.

Then we turn down another passageway, and my blood runs frigid in my veins. This is one of the oldest and least used of any of the passages. I've only been down it once, the night of my mother's death. Why would someone be going down here?

I duck into the last storage room, keeping the door open the merest crack so I can know when whoever it is passes by again on their way out. I know where this tunnel ends up, which room the passage stops at. I can hear my breath coming fast and loud in my ears and I sit down, pulling my knees up so I can rest my head on them and try to calm down. I'm not eleven anymore. I've killed demons, fought off the Inquisition. I'm not a scared child.

And yet I suddenly am. I'm transported back to the time of that little girl's walk down this same passage. I can feel the fear, smell the musty earthen smell again as eleven year old me walks behind Ryland. He's warned me, tried to prepare me for what waits in the room at the end of the hall, but all I know is that he's found my mother. That I have her back. I'm equal parts afraid and elated, wishing I could run towards the door in equal measure as running away from it. Something about Ryland makes me nervous; I've become very good at reading grown-ups in the weeks since my mother disappeared. Even though Ryland and Mrs. Bowen are watching out for me, I still need to be careful that no other adults find out I'm now on my own. Children have a way of disappearing if not looked after.

We come to a heavy wooden door that's got a metal bar across it as well as a padlock. I've never seen this before. I watch as Ryland unlocks the padlock, then lifts the heavy bar and sets it to the side. Before he opens the door, he kneels down and looks me in the eyes. This frightens me more than anything else that's happened so far.

"Do you remember what I said, Amaranth?" His face looks so sad. "Your mother is hurt very badly, so you must be very careful with her. I know you might be scared when you see her but your mother loves you very much. Just remember that." He runs a hand down my cheek. "I love you and your mother too, my girl. I'll be there with you both, okay? Can you be brave?" At my nod he smiles. "Okay."

He takes my hand, then pushes open the door. At first I don't know where to look: at the two pentacles--one on the floor and one on the ceiling--at the markings and squiggles incised in the walls, or at the heap lying in the middle of the floor inside the pentacle. It wasn't until the heap moved and moaned that I realized it was my mother.

I'm shaking when I bolt back to the present. I don't want to remember it, don't want to relive what the Inquisition had done to her. It took a long time for the nightmares to fade, for me to remember my mother as she had been, not what she was when we'd found her. It's why I hate the Inquisition, why I fight demons, why I'd do almost anything to put them back where they belong.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and try to ignore the weight on my chest. I manage to get my breathing under control after a few minutes. I put my eye to the crack in the door and watch to see who comes by. Sooner than I expect, the light from a torch illuminates the corridor. I angle myself better so I can get a clear view of the person carrying it.

It's Ryland. I've got no idea what could possibly bring him down here after all of this time. I think about confronting him, but decide to hold off. I don't know if there is anything to confront him about except his busy schedule. No, if there is something in that room, I need to see what it is before I can plan anything.

I wait until his light has faded from the passageway, then continue to sit in the darkness of the storage room for several minutes more. When I am sure he's gone and won't be returning, I slide out of the storage room and continue in the dark down the hall. I keep the wall under my right hand, feeling my way as I go. It's absolutely black in the tunnel, but I know there are no further branches in this section of the underground.

The tunnel ends in a door. I risk a light so I can see what I'm dealing with. My torch illuminates the door. I train it on the handle and see a new lock on it; after seven years, I imagine the old lock must have rusted away. The bar is still there as well. Most everything is how I remember it. I take a closer look at the lock. I'm pretty sure I can pick it, but I'll need my tools which I didn't bring with me.

I stand back up and shine my light around the rest of the door. As I raise the beam higher, I can see something that hadn't been here the last time. A small door has been embedded in the larger door, almost like a peephole, but much larger. A kind of viewing window. There's no lock or anything on it. I reach up and grab the metal knob, pulling the small door back. I stand up on my tiptoes and take a look inside.

The room is surprisingly well lit and it takes a moment for my eyes to become accustomed to the brightness. On the floor is a Grand Pentacle carved into the stone; another mirrors it on the ceiling. They're unchanged after seven years. In the center of the two pentacles I can see someone sitting in a wooden chair. The person's arms and legs are bound to the chair with heavy rope.

"Is someone there?" The voice is male. He raises his head, shaking thick dark hair out of his eyes and I reel back from the door, my stomach dropping like I'm on a rollercoaster. I lean back against the wall, feeling my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest. The voice isn't familiar, but the face—I'd recognize that face anywhere.

It's Patrick.

I put my face back up to the viewing window to be sure. A feeling of utter betrayal knifes through me and I have to grit my teeth to keep from screaming. Ryland found Patrick. He'd found him, and he had locked him down here. He kept it from me.

I study the face I know almost as well as my own. We've known each other since we were three, we've watched each other grow up. I can see the familiar face, the eyes and angles of chin, jaw and cheeks. But there's something strange about the cant of his head. And the look in the dark brown eyes is all wrong. Patrick doesn't look like that, ever.

His mother had been right to be afraid. That isn't Patrick in there. It's something else. I feel a tightness gathering at the back of my throat; an overwhelming need to shriek out my anger that can't be voiced right now. I try to swallow it down, but it takes a few minutes before I can bring myself to speak without fear of shouting. I blank out the litany of my failures that keep running through my head—I'm going to need all of my focus to deal with this and Ryland's double dealing.

"Who are you?" I keep my voice calm, solid. I watch as the thing controlling Patrick's body narrows the eyes, turning the mouth down in a frown.

"I could ask you the same thing." There's a clipped precision to the tone. It speaks of age; it is not the voice of a sixteen year old boy. Yet for all of that there is something of Patrick in it. I can't decide if that makes it worse or not.

"You could, but you won't get an answer." I take a steadying breath. "I know you're not Patrick."

He inclines his head in acknowledgement. "But as you can see, I am wearing him like a cheap suit. So, technically I am for the time being."

I want to pound my fists into the door. I clench my hands so hard that I have nail marks in my palm. I can't let the thing in there get to me. "What are they planning to do with you?"

"They?" A slight smile plays around his lips. He's enjoying this.

Hatred fills me—no, it's more than that. Loathing. That's what it is. "The people that brought you here."

He approximates a shrug, the closest he can come bound as he is. "I have no idea. Probably something vexing and stupid. It usually is with your kind."

"My kind?"

"Humans." He sniffs dismissively.

A wave of burning anger flows through me like magma. "If we're so stupid and vexing, it's a wonder why you demons still bother possessing us at all."

"Well we could always kill you, but where's the fun in that?" His voice is mocking, sarcastic.

I lean my head against the door, grinding my teeth in frustration. He knows he's getting to me. I need to stop reacting to him. It won't do me or Patrick any good. I center myself with a few deep breaths and then look back at the demon possessing my friend. "If I release you, will you get out of Patrick?"

He blinks, startled. I can tell from the expression that crosses Patrick's face. "Why would you do that? What's in it for you?"

"I want my friend back. I want you gone from him. That's what's in it for me."

He cocks his head, looking in my direction with a strange expression on his face. If it were really Patrick, I would have taken it for uncertainty. With a demon running the show, I didn't know what to make of it.

When he doesn't respond, I ask, "So what would I have to do? Break the pentacles or something?" If the demon agrees to vacate the body of its own accord, I wouldn't need to perform an exorcism. I would just need to make sure I was in a protection circle so it didn't try to possess me.

"That's where we run into a problem, sweetcheeks." His voice is back to mocking.

"Don't call me sweetcheeks."

He flicks his hand up in a _whatever_ sort of gesture. "Look luv, you've got a bigger problem than just the wards in here." His gaze locks with mine. "They've bound me into this body, see. I'm not going anywhere unless you can break that binding."

I put my hands against the solid wood of the door, leaning against it, suddenly glad for its support. "The people that brought you here did this?" He nods, face serious. I close my eyes for a second, trying to make sense of this information. Why would they bind a demon into Patrick? It makes no sense. Why would they do that to someone?

I open my eyes once more to find him watching the viewing window curiously. I need time and space to think. "I'll be back."

Again, the slight shrug. "As you like." He looks away briefly, then back at me. "Although I'd encourage you to hurry. They did mention something about a timetable. I'm not sure how much time I've got." Then he closes his eyes, looking for all the world like he is completely unconcerned with his future.

****

I'm in a haze as I make my way back to the main tunnels. I don't care who sees me come out of the lesser used tunnels, don't care if someone reports it back to Ryland. At this point, I'd welcome it. I'm itching to confront him about what he's done. I asked him for help thinking he actually would, and instead he's using Patrick as some permanent housing for a demon. After everything he's seen, everything he's done, I can't believe he could sanction something like this.

I vaguely register someone calling my name, but don't stop or turn. All I can think about is that room, of that thing squatting in Patrick's body like some kind of obscene toad. I need to find a way to get him free of both the binding and the pentacles, and before whatever timetable the demon had referred to is up. Of course, that's always assuming the demon was telling the truth in the first place, although why he'd lie about being bound when I was offering him a get out of jail free card is a deeper game than I'm willing to play.

A hand on my upper arm pulls me out of my thoughts. I look up at the person holding me. It's Dham. I try to shake myself loose, but he isn't interested in letting go. His brows draw down in concern, making me wonder what I look like.

"I've been calling after you," he begins, his eyes searching my face. "Are you okay? You look...just wrong."

There's a lovely compliment. I probably look like a raving lunatic escaped from some bucolic asylum to frighten the straights. I school my face into an expression that is less _I'm going to murder you with a cudgel_ and more like I am completely in control of my faculties. "Sorry about that. Lost in my own head."

He gives me the fish eye.

I smile what I hope is not a psychotic smile in order to put him at ease. "Just a lot on my mind."

"Did you find Ryland? Did he have any news about your friend?"

I can feel my smile slip, so I plaster it on more firmly. Oh yes, I found Ryland and his little secret. I'm not going to tell Dham though, not yet anyway. I'm not sure what I'm going to do yet with this information or what I plan to do about Patrick. And pulling Dham into it right now is too big a risk. It surprises me that I've already decided I will tell Dham at some point, and I wonder—not for the first time—when I began seeing him as a friend. When did he become someone I trusted?

"No. No news." I rub my eyes, suddenly feeling very tired. What was I going to tell Patrick's mother?

His hand drops to my shoulder, kneading the tight muscles slowly. I sigh, enjoying the feeling of his strong fingers massaging my flesh. He could really do that for hours and I wouldn't mind. "It will be okay, A. We'll find him."

My eyes flash open. Dham can feel the tension in me beneath his hands and frowns. "Geez, A. It's like handling bridge cables. What's wrong?"

I pull away from his hand, giving him a flat smile. "Like I said, just a lot on my mind." I glance down the hall and see a crowd of people coming our way. I am not up to pretend all is well any longer. "I've got to go." I take a few steps down the hall.

"You'll come see me later?" Dham's request stops me.

I turn back to him. The group of Resistance people are close now. "Yes, sure. I'll catch up with you later." Then I all but run down the hall and to the nearest exit to the surface.

Chapter Thirteen

I have to wait until the middle of the night to go and see Patrick again. It's touch and go since I'm out after curfew, but it's the only time I can guarantee that I won't run into Ryland or Dham or anyone else that might want to tag along with me, and the guards and people in the halls will be few.

I've left the Key underneath the floorboard in my room. I don't want to be caught out with it and I certainly don't want to risk the Inquisition getting hold of it. I am wearing my rosary, tucked safely in the pouch around my neck. Even though the demon is bound inside the circles, I don't want to be totally unprepared in the unlikely event he should escape.

I have my lockpicks with me. I can only imagine Ryland's regret in teaching me if he knew what I was using this particular skill for now. I take the torch in my teeth and hold it steady while my hands get to work with the tools. In a few moments the lock snaps open and I remove it and the heavy bar from the door. I check one final time down the corridor, then let myself inside.

The room looks to be exactly as it was the first time I saw it. The two pentacles, one inscribed on the ceiling and one on the floor, contain the young man strapped to a heavy wooden chair by thick ropes. His head turns to follow me as I make my way around the perimeter of the room, close to the earthen wall.

"I was wondering if you'd come back," the demon says conversationally, as if we're only discussing the weather and not possibly negotiating its freedom. Its voice is even less like Patrick's than before. I wonder what else could be going on in his body the longer the demon is inside it.

"I've been a little busy." I decide to stand directly opposite him, facing him head on. Anything else would be a position of weakness; it would look like I was afraid to confront him.

"Have you given any further thought to my predicament?" He sounds curious, but detached, as if he couldn't care one way or another whether I can free him of the binding.

"I have." I swallow, mouth suddenly dry. "Has anyone come by to see you since we last spoke?"

He closes his eyes as though weary. "Yes. There is someone who brings me food and water every day or so."

"What about the people that brought you here? The person that performed the binding? Have you seen them?"

He gives me a questioning look. "It was only one person that performed the binding, and yes, he has been by."

My stomach twists into a knot. I can only assume that Ryland is the only one who knows about Patrick and this demon right now since there are no guards posted and no one else is visiting. That will make busting him out a little easier. "Did you recognize the rituals he used?"

"No. I have never been bound in this manner before." He's silent for a moment, eyes raking over me. "You are awfully full of questions, aren't you?"

"Do you want me to try to get you out of this or not?"

"From what I understand, sweetness, you're just as invested in this venture as I am." His smirk is repellent. He could never pass for Patrick, not to someone that knows him.

I sigh and lean against the wall. It's too early to be verbally fencing with a creature that probably has eons of practice. "Do you have a name I can call you, or should I just call you bummonkey?"

His eyes go wide and he rears back as far as his bonds allow. Then he laughs, a deep rumbling chuckle so different from Patrick's laugh that I jump in surprise. He trails off after a few moments. "You are surprising, human."

Bully for me. I _adore_ being surprising. "Amaranth."

"Pardon?" He raises an eyebrow.

"My name is Amaranth."

The smile fades. "For my kind, names are power. I will not tell you my true name."

I frown. So names are jealously guarded among demon-kind. I wonder what kind of power knowing a demon's name grants? Still, it makes no difference to me; I have no intention of keeping this thing around in Patrick's body. "Bummonkey it is then."

"Trick."

"Beg pardon?"

"You can call me Trick. Should be easy enough for you to remember."

I stare at him carefully, trying to decide if he's playing with me, but he appears perfectly serious. Finally, I shrug. "Trick then." He nods at me in acknowledgement. I release the breath I wasn't aware I was holding. "So back to the question of who bound you..."

Trick cuts me off. "His name was Ryland."

I can almost feel the blood freeze in my veins. It takes me a second to find my voice. "You're sure?" Demons lie, that I know, but he wouldn't know who or what Ryland is to me to be able to play some kind of game.

He nods. "I heard him mentioned by name when I was captured and I recognized his voice when he was in here performing the ritual." His eyes narrow. "Is this really that important?"

"Yes. If Ryland did perform the ritual, then you've told me who I should search. He must have a copy of the ritual somewhere and maybe I can find a way to reverse it." This is a longshot at best, but it is the only plan I have right now.

"Are you a magician?" Again the eyes pass over me, more calculating this time.

"Um, no." I purse my lips as if the idea is very distasteful to me. I wouldn't be a magician if you gave me all the money in the world. These days it's a death sentence. The Inquisition hunts down or recruits any magicians it finds, and that's if they get to the magician before the general public. Magicians aren't looked at with favor ever since the gate that allowed the demons access to our world was opened by one. "But it's the only shot I've got, so I'm going to try."

He looks thoughtful, as if he just considered something. "I am confused by you."

"That makes two of us."

He shakes his head. "No, no. Don't be a ninny." He meets my eyes, and it is all I can do not to look away. He makes me uncomfortable, especially because this meeting has not gone at all the way I had expected. Trick was practically...likeable. But that wasn't right. It was an act, it had to be. Demons were monstrosities, enslaving those they possessed. Trick may possess charm but that didn't mean he could be trusted.

"Do you have any idea how difficult it is to properly cast something like a reversal spell?" He sounds skeptical.

"Obviously not." I want to bang my head against the wall.

"It isn't something to be undertaken lightly."

"Not to be rude, but DUH."

He ignores me. "You need a powerful will to control the forces you're going to be conjuring up. You must be absolutely sure of yourself and what you want the outcome to be."

Terrific. I'm sure of absolutely nothing. "Why are you bothering with all of this Introduction to Spellcasting?"

His eyeroll takes my breath away with its derisive perfection. "Because, you simpleton, you could do far more damage to me than you can comprehend if you get even the slightest syllable of the incantation wrong--not to mention the damage you could do to yourself. And as much as I'd enjoy watching you implode or suchlike, I enjoy my existence far too much to jeopardize it."

"You're concern is touching." I can't believe I'm considering trusting a demon, but at the same time I can't deny that I feel drawn to him.

He smiles. "Isn't it just?"

"So teach me."

Trick looks relaxed. "Why should I tell you anything?" His voice is curious more than challenging.

"Then why should I free you?" I scoff. "You want me to cut you loose after what you and your kind have done to humans? To the world?"

Trick leans forward, at least as far as his bonds will allow. "And what have we done, exactly? Treated humans for a mere fifty years the way that you have treated my kind for millennia?"

I rear back, afraid of the hate in his voice, the venom in his words. He's changed mood so quickly; there's none of the charm left in him now. "I don't..."

"Where do you think all of those symbols and spells came from? How do you think the knowledge of the gate came to be? It is the enslavement of spirits that brought about all of this!"

I recover my voice. "So all of this is just what? Revenge? A way to get back at the miserable humans?"

Trick smiles and his eyes hold no humor, just dead blackness, like a shark's. "Treat us like slaves and we'll use what we learned from it."

We glare at each other for the space of a few moments. Finally I say, "Now what then? You've won. We're in shambles. I think you've taught us our lesson."

Trick barks out a laugh, hard as whetstone. "You are joking, right? Do you actually think that if we just went away tomorrow that you lot wouldn't start making slaves of us all over again?"

"So destroy the gate yourselves and all of the knowledge to conjure you or whatever. You've already made a fine start."

He looks amused, like a professor might look at a particularly eager but dim pupil. "That kind of knowledge doesn't just stay hidden. There will always be someone greedy enough or power hungry enough, or even just stupid enough, to seek it out." He looks at me thoughtfully. "And if it was found again, can't you imagine what our imprisonment would be like?"

I shift uncomfortably. I can imagine only too well what angry, vengeful humans might do or order be done to a summoned spirit. But I say nothing, unwilling to admit the demon might be right.

Trick continues. "We can't leave. And we can't trust you to use the knowledge responsibly or to honor your word. So we have to stay until the last of you are dead and gone and you are no longer a threat."

I think of Patrick, evicted from his own body. "Forgive me if I don't feel sorry for you."

Trick's grin is feral. "Forgive me if I say the same to you."

****

It's morning. I'm on the roof, watching the sun slowly brighten the sleeping city. I haven't been able to sleep, not after speaking with Trick. If I'm going to do this, I'd better be damn sure I'm willing to go through with it, whatever the consequences. I lie back, pillowing the back of my head in my hands, searching the sky for the rapidly fading stars. I wish I could just float up there and leave all of this behind.

I hear footsteps against the metal of the ladder. I don't turn around. I don't want to see or talk to anyone. I came up here to get away from everyone, not to hold bloody conventions. Maybe I should booby trap the fire escape.

There's still so much I have to figure out about Patrick. I feel like I've failed him. Maybe if I had told him what I was doing, or about the Resistance, I could have protected him. I could at least have been watching over him when I wasn't down in the tunnels. He was--is--my oldest friend; I could have done _something_.

And I'm still no closer to figuring out how to free Pat, or even what to look for in the Key. What I do know is that the guilt inside me grows with every passing hour that Trick is in residence. But as much as I loathe it, I need Trick if I hope to save Patrick. He's the only one who can help me find the right spell. If there is one.

A pair of battered boots stops in front of me. I look up. It's Ryland. I look back down, unwilling to meet his eyes. He squats down in front of me, so I scoot my body away from his. Tiring of my evasions, he puts his hands on my knees to still me. "I know you're upset with me."

I say nothing. I can't think of anything _to_ say. When I remain silent, he sighs. "I'm trying to protect you, Amaranth."

My eyes flash up to his. His eyes are a warm brown, like the pelt of an otter. Those are the eyes that have watched over me for the past seven years, the eyes I thought held no surprises. Now when I look at them, I see only secrets. "From what, exactly?"

His face goes stiff for just a second and I can tell I surprised him with the question. Then he smiles sadly. "I want to keep you safe; I promised your mother." His eyes get a faraway look, a look they always get when he thinks about her. "You remind me of her more and more."

It makes me uncomfortable, him saying that. As the years have passed, I suspect that there was more than just friendship between my mother and Ryland. She never mentioned it to me and he won't talk about it, but now that I'm older I can see the signs, at least on his part. What she may have felt, I'll never know.

"What about my father?" It's something that I haven't asked him about since my mother died. I don't know who my father is--or was--and my mother never talked about to me. But I have always suspected that she talked to Ryland about him.

He starts at the mention. I see something flicker in his eyes, quickly gone. More secrets. I feel anger rush through me. I was beginning to feel bad about keeping the Key from Ryland, but the thought of what else he might be keeping from me strengthens my resolve.

"Your father?" His voice has a catch in it.

I simply stare at him, waiting for him to say more. When he doesn't after several minutes, I sigh. "Why won't you tell me anything?"

"Because I don't know anything." Again the flicker in his eyes. I know that's not true. "Your mother didn't talk much about him."

_But she must have said something to you. You just said mother didn't talk_ _much_ _about him. What do you know that you're not telling me?_

"Just let it go, Amaranth. Your mother had her reasons." He sounds lost, and very, very sad. For a few moments he seems far away from me.

I shift my weight and Ryland comes back to the present, and changes the topic. "There's going to be a meeting--that I've told you about. What I haven't told you is that it is for a mission, a very dangerous one."

"The Gate." The Gate is the last thing I'm concerned with. Ryland looks startled.

"How did you..."

"Dham let it slip."

"I don't want you anywhere near this." His eyes catch and hold mine. "You'll come to the mission meeting, but to watch only. This is one time where I want you out of things, do you understand?"

I shake my head. "No, I don't. You've never kept me from a mission before." And Patrick is the reason why he's holding me back now. I want to confront him with what I know, but stop myself. Ryland doesn't know I know. It might be better for me if I keep it that way.

"This time is different. Please promise me when the time comes you'll stay out of it." When I look at him skeptically, he shakes my knees. His eyes are hard. "Your word, Amaranth, or you won't go to the meeting at all."

I glare at him. I hate the thought of not being able to attend the council, of not knowing what's being discussed or going on. Ryland knows this, using it to his best advantage. "My word," I grind out.

Ry relaxes somewhat. I pull back slightly, wanting some space between us. I am unhappy and want to be left alone again. He's watching me cautiously, like I might suddenly grow horns and fangs and attack him. Finally he smiles at me, ghosting his hand over my hair. I've let it hang down, the sides tucked behind my ears. It isn't long enough anymore to put into a braid. "With your hair short, you look more like your mother." He pushes himself to his feet. He takes a few steps, then turns back to me. "Trust me on this, Amaranth."

He waits for my response, which I refuse to give. With a half-heard sigh, he turns and disappears back down the way he came.

Chapter Fourteen

I stand in front of the phone, staring at it like it is an alien that will twist around and attack me if I take my eyes off of it. The hallway is quiet right now, but it won't be for long. It's almost supper time; if I don't call Patrick's mother soon, the place will be too busy for a quiet conversation. I know I should probably go by and talk to her in person, but if I do that, she'll be able to tell when I'm lying.

I pick up the receiver and dial Mrs. Bowen's number. I'm hoping I can leave a message for her to call me, but after four rings she picks up. "Hello?"

"Hi, Mrs. Bowen. It's me. Amaranth." I keep my voice low in case anyone walks by.

"Amaranth! Have you any news about Patrick?" Her voice has an edge of hope to it, and I suddenly find it hard to swallow around the lump in my throat.

"I may," I hedge, my voice tentative. I don't know what to tell her or what will be more painful. "I need to check it out, but I may have a lead on his location."

"Do you know if he's been..." she can't finish the thought.

I close my eyes, steadying myself. "It's likely." I hold my breath, listening intently for her response. I hear a sigh and then nothing else for a few moments.

She's almost inaudible when she speaks. "I thought that might be the case." A pause. "Have you seen him?"

I chew my lip. "No." It's a lie, but I can't bring myself to let her know what I've seen, especially not when I don't have a clue about how to get him out. I need more time to come up with a plan. "I haven't. But some people that I trust think they have."

Again the small sigh, like air escaping a balloon. I wait a beat, willing her to say something. When she does, it isn't what I expect. "Thank you so much for this, Amaranth. I know it can't be easy for you."

I open my mouth to respond, but I can't think of the words. If she knew what I knew, I doubt she'd be so thankful. I have seen her son and I know where he was being held; I just have no idea what to do about it. There's part of me that wants so badly to tell her, to have her make the decision and leave me out of it completely. But then I think of how cruel that would be to just dump this mess in her lap without any kind of hope for a solution.

The sound of voices and the gallop of footfalls on the stairs let me know that I'm almost out of time and privacy. Time to get off of the phone. "I have to go, Mrs. Bowen. I'll call as soon as I find out anything." I hang up before I can say anything else.

I knock on Dham's door, nerves making me shuffle. He's been spending more time with Cat since her arrival—and our ill-fated night out—so I haven't gotten to see him much. I hope he's not mad at me for haring off after the Inquisition. He hadn't seemed angry, but I'm not terrifically good at reading people, either. And Cat's been around him a lot lately; maybe she's helping him with the ringing problem. Every time I try to talk to her though, she finds an excuse to leave fairly quickly.

Still, there is something that I've been wanting to show Dham and now seems as good a time as any. It seems like a proper way to make amends ruining dinner.

Why I want to is something I'm not comfortable delving into. Since that first night on the roof of the boarding house, I've felt awkward around him. I'm not used to revealing parts of myself to people. Patrick is probably the only person I've felt at all close to, besides my mother and Ryland, and we've grown apart as the Resistance has taken up more and more of my time and studying for university takes up more of his. Dham is nothing like Patrick though. He seems lighter, brighter than anyone I've known, even if he is prone to small bouts of darkness of mood. There are definitely certain topics that are off-limits with him, but then again, the same holds true of me. I can't be too upset about it.

The door opens and he stands in the threshold, blinking owlishly in the light. His room is dark, and his hair is a haystack mess of dark blond. He bites down on a yawn. "Hey Amaranth."

"Sorry I woke you. I didn't realize you were asleep." I duck my head. I feel embarrassed, although why I don't know. "I can come back later." I move to leave.

He grabs my hand before I can get out of the doorway. "It's fine. I needed to wake up anyway." He lets go when I turn back around to face him. "What'd you come by for?"

He stretches. I see his t-shirt ride up as he raises his arms and note the smooth, muscled skin on his stomach. I can feel a flush creeping onto my face, but I can't seem to stop watching him as he twists and cracks and pops. I might miss a flash of his flesh. "Um..." I wrench my mind away from the thought of his skin beneath my hands and try to focus. "I wanted to show you something. If you're up for a little walking." I look at his face, but he's rubbing sleep out of his eyes. I'm hoping that means he didn't notice me staring at his body.

"Sure. Give me five."

"Meet you out front." I turn away as he closes the door.

It's bright outside, the afternoon sun warming the air to the point that I almost don't need a sweatshirt. Almost. I take a seat on the front steps and wait, idly watching the sparse foot traffic that passes by. It feels good to have some time to do nothing but what I want to do. There's a pull to check with Ryland to see if he has any news of Patrick, but I do my best to ignore it. I don't want to be underground on an afternoon this nice; sometimes I'm afraid I'll turn into one of those mole people that shriek and run from sunlight if I spend any more time belowground.

I hear the door open behind me and stand up, ready to be moving. "I thought that we might..." I stop in midsentence as I turn to see Cat standing beside Dham.

"I ran into Cat coming down the stairs. Thought she might want to come along with us. You don't mind, do you?" Dham's face is perfectly serene.

I hope I manage to school my features into something resembling a pleasant expression. Cat's wearing a strange little smile that makes me feel like I'm the intrusion, but I try for calm and say, "Oh, not at all. This wasn't a private excursion or anything like." I manage to tamp down some of my irritation. It wasn't meant to be just Dham and me to the exclusion of everyone else, not really anyway. I tell myself that it doesn't matter one way or the other whether she comes with us or not.

It also doesn't matter that Dham is quite possibly oblivious to the fact that Cat and I clearly aren't meant to coexist in the same place too often.

Then I see his half-hidden smile. And I realize there's a very good chance he knows exactly what he's doing. The ass.

I zip up my hoodie, even though the weather doesn't particularly call for it, and put my hands in my pockets. Dham is wearing a t-shirt in the mild weather. Cat has on a long-sleeved shirt with a vest over it. Her long blonde hair is down for once, causing me to grind my teeth at how girlie she looks. I suddenly miss my long hair.

"So where are we going anyway?" Cat's voice has an edge to it that puts my back up. I have to remember to control myself so I don't snap at her. I can't help but feel like she's some kind of interloper.

"It was going to be a surprise," I manage to get out, plastering a false smile on my face.

"I hope it's not somewhere stupid." I'm glad I'm in front so neither Cat nor Dham can see my expression at her comment. I ignore the rising need I feel to wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze until her head pops off.

I hear Dham mutter something to her, but don't bother to make out his words. I'm trying too hard to resist the urge to push her in front of a bus. My hands are even twitching. Wasn't it a medical fact that people didn't remember the last ten minutes of a near death experience? Even if she survived, she might not remember what actually happened and I could get away with it being a horrible accident. The idea does have a certain appeal.... I rip my mind away from this train of thought before I go too far down it.

"Is it far?" Dham's trying to be a buffer, a human Switzerland. If he wanted to avoid the unpleasantness, he could have _not_ invited Cat.

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak politely. I know I'm being petty. Cat isn't bad--I hardly know her. I'm just angry that Dham chose to invite her along, and I'm taking it out on her. It's not her fault. As much as I might wish it were.

Eventually I get tired of being separated from their chatter, so I drop back on the other side of Dham. Cat shoots me a look that could wither greenery, but I ignore her. I do notice that she's touching Dham an awful lot: brushing his arm with hers, putting her hand on his arm when she's saying something, bumping shoulders with him. Cat's talking up a storm, although Dham doesn't seem to be paying much attention. He nudges me in the ribs when I fall into step beside him. "Are we almost there?" he whispers while Cat chatters on.

"Getting there." I spare him a sideways glance. He's smiling at me.

"Do I even get a hint about where you're taking me?" His voice is teasing.

"You'll just have to wait for your surprise," I answer, leaning forward so that Cat won't hear.

"Will I like it?" His eyes are a very pale green in the sunshine, almost like the sunlight bleaches the color a bit.

"I hope so." I think he'll like where I'm bringing him. The largest bell in the British Isles once rang there.

When I feel the ground rise beneath my feet, I know we're getting close. Ludgate Hill was once the highest point in the city. And on it once stood St. Paul's, one of the most spectacular cathedrals in all of Britain. Even the ruins are astonishing. It's funny; the demons, once they took power--or rather the bodies they possessed took power--set about destroying all of the holy sites on earth. Temple Mount, Mecca and Medina, the Blue Mosque, Notre Dame, St. Peter's—you name it, it was blasted to dust and ruin. But there is still something here, something that speaks to the worship that went on at this location. It's peaceful. And powerful. Maybe you couldn't completely eradicate centuries of faith.

"Oh, great." Cat looks around in mild disgust. "More mouldering ruins." Where has she been hanging out?

Dham is quiet, eyes wide, drinking in the sight of the wreckage that was once St. Paul's Cathedral. I ignore Cat in favor of watching him. His face is a marvel: completely unguarded in surprise and pleasure. The planes and angles of his face are strong and form a very pleasant looking whole that I find I enjoy looking at. I'm very glad I brought him.

The great architect of London, Christopher Wren, rebuilt this church after the Great Fire five hundred years ago; it survived the Blitz during World War II. But it didn't survive the second Inquisition.

"Welcome to St. Paul's Cathedral." I draw close to Dham so I can speak softly, without interrupting his reverie. "Or what's left of it."

"I...it's amazing." His voice is hushed, reverent. Cat rolls her eyes at the two of us.

"I thought you might like to see this. St.Paul's had seventeen bells, including Great Paul, the biggest bell in all the Isles."

"Will we have to run from the cops if we take a look?" Dham smiles slightly when he says this, as if at a fond memory.

I find myself grinning. "Not here. I think they've given up trying to keep people away from this place. But we still have to be careful." I try for a light tone. "Nothing too rowdy."

"Rowdy?" Cat's voice cuts shrilly through the quiet. "Who'd want to get rowdy here? This place is like a bloody tomb!" But she begins to follow us as we pick our way deeper into the rubble.

Large portions of the cathedral are still standing—probably more than any other church in London, maybe in all of Britain. The domes are all gone, as are the towers, but the transepts are in decent shape and the nave is still standing in most places. All of the furnishings and glass and gilding are gone, as is the roof in most places, but you can still stand inside the quire and be shielded from prying eyes. And the crypt is still intact, protected as it is by being underground. Obviously, services can no longer be held here, which seems to be all the Inquisition wished to accomplish with its destruction. And, if Dham's father is correct, remove the threat of the bells too.

We walk in slowly, cautiously feeling our way. Just because this is the most visited—and allowed—of all of the ruined cathedrals, doesn't mean it's exactly safe. Huge stones can become unstable and crush you in an unexpected fall if you're not careful. The rubble of the domes is scattered about, some of it higher than our heads.

There's a hush as we walk into the cool darkness of what remains of the nave. Bars of sunlight filter in, illuminating the dust motes and other detritus that dances in the air. There's a feeling of peace, of deep, abiding quiet here. Even Cat seems more subdued than usual. At least she's no longer complaining and the sour look on her face as been replaced by something much more benevolent.

Dham stops suddenly, so suddenly that I bump into him since I'm looking around the room. "What is it?" Even my whisper feels loud in this place.

"What's over that way?" He's pointing in a southwesterly direction.

I try to remember what I was able to look up on the cathedral. It's been a long time since I did any real reading on the place; I did most of my research on St. Paul's after I took my first trip here when my mother brought me on a holy day when I was maybe nine or ten. Where Dham is pointing once held some of the bells.

"Do you feel something?"

Dham shrugs. "I don't know, maybe. It's hard to get a read with all this other stuff around." When I look at him, his eyes are a little unfocused.

"What? What is it?" Cat demands from where she's inspecting some shattered wall ornamentation. She walks up on the opposite side of Dham.

"The bells are over that way," I say. "At least some of them once were." Dham is already moving, almost as if he's pulled on by invisible threads.

"What's wrong with him?" Cat has her head cocked and is watching Dham cautiously. Maybe she's having second thoughts about whatever it is she's trying to be to him.

I hurry to catch up to him, afraid he might fall into a hole or walk into a rockslide without realizing it in his distracted state. Cat follows. "Sometimes he can feel the bells if they're still around."

"He can _feel_ the _bells_?" Cat shakes her head in disbelief. "That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard."

"You can't?" I guess it's not a skill inherent in all Ringers then. I need to find out more about how they do whatever it is that they do. "It doesn't work that way for you?"

"Nope." She glances at me out of the corner of her. "I just swing a bell because I was the only one in my town that could—that it worked for. I don't have any extra _feelings_ about it." Her gaze shifts to Dham's back. "I wonder if it means anything."

I shake my head even though the question is rhetorical. I have no idea if it means anything, but it would be curious if that talent is something that only runs in Dham's family. Still, talking with Cat rather than at her is not that bad. "How did you get stuck with bell ringing?"

Her blue eyes flash in annoyance. "I just told you—I was the only one the bell worked for."

I grit my teeth. Okay, maybe it isn't all just me. I try again because I am curious about her. "What, did you just wake up one day and think, _hey I should really try swinging a huge iron bell because it might be a nice change of pace_?" I let the sarcasm flow freely. That seems to be the only kind of answers Cat responds at all well to.

She turns her head in my direction so quickly that her hair almost whips my face. Her eyes are narrow, searching my face for what I don't know, then she answers in a surprisingly reasonable tone. "My town was attacked by night shamblers. They'd raided the cemetery looking for fresh bodies. Very few people get buried anymore in our village, even though the Inquisition has outlawed cremations, but those that can't afford the fee get planted." I nod. We've got the same issues in London.

"It was a mess. People running and screaming in the streets, houses being broken into, then burned, sometimes with the families still in them. The local Ringer was trying to drive them away with the Deid bell—I could hear the tone of the bell below all of the screaming, but it wasn't doing anything. Then the shamblers attacked him. Someone else grabbed the bell out of his hands and tried to ring it, but it still didn't work. A few more of the men tried, then some of the women." She's looking down at her feet while she talks to me. I can only see the top of her head, her scalp showing pink through the white-blonde of her hair.

"And then I just walked up and grabbed it away from whoever had it. I remember being angry, so angry that they had dared come into my town, my home and kill my people. I didn't see anything really, just focused on the bell. It was heavy—it's made of old iron after all—and then I lifted it like it was a feather. I remember pouring all of my anger into my arms so I could swing it." She looks up at me finally and her eyes are a fierce, blazing blue. "The bell rang out, louder than any of the others had been. It rang true too. I remember the shrieks when the shamblers heard it. I just kept ringing it until someone took it from my hand."

She took a deep breath. "From that day on, I was the town ringer."

I stare at her, in awe. For all of her unpleasantness, Cat doesn't lack for courage or fierceness. "That's amazing." I wonder if she's told Dham about it and what he makes of her story in relation to his father's theories.

She shrugs. "It had to be done. I wasn't going to let them hurt my family or friends. They have no right to it."

"Is that why you came here?"

"Nah." She flips her hair back over her shoulder and for a moment I miss the weight of my long hair. "One of your folks came and talked to me. Told me what was going on, told me that I was needed." Cat frowns, pink lips turned down in a sour pucker. "I had no interest in it, not at first. But my mam talked to me, and my da. And my friends. I didn't want to leave them without protection, but they all said this was the best chance for everyone. So here I am."

"Come over here!" Dham's shout interrupts anything else I might ask. We scramble over to him. The broken stones are deeper here. We have to climb over them to get where he is. I can feel some of the smaller stones shift beneath my feet and I move upwards quickly.

I stand next to Dham, winded from the climb, and stare down at what he's looking at. I can see the curve a giant bell, most of its bulk hidden beneath the rubble. Most of the smaller bells have been melted down for scrap, but the really big ones are too heavy to move and are usually too badly damaged to ring anyway. Dham crouches and puts his hand on the metal. "Can we move some of this rock off it?"

Cat begins chucking loose stones off of the bell. "I'll take that as a yes." Dham levers up a large chunk and pitches it over the side.

I proceed a bit more cautiously. No need to start a small rockslide and wind up with a broken or crushed arm or leg for our troubles. I pick up manageable pieces and try and put them somewhere out of the way. I don't know what else might be buried under here or how unstable the foundation is that we're standing on so I'm not quite as enthusiastic in my clearing as the other two.

We work in silence for several minutes. More of the bell is being revealed, but all that we can really tell about it is that it is enormous. But most of the sides of it are buried by rock. Even if we could get the top cleared, we'd still have a ton of debris to clear away from the rest of it to be able to see the whole thing.

Dham must have had the same thought because he calls a halt. "Holy crap. How big is this thing?"

I sit down gingerly on a fairly clear part of the metal, my arms tired and hands scraped from hoisting and throwing stone. "It might be one of the really big boys. Maybe Great Paul or Great Tom even." Not for the first time, I regret not being able to see the cathedral in its glory. "Can you feel anything?"

Dham nods emphatically, sweaty hair flopping in his face. "Oh yeah. This one is practically humming beneath my boots. It wants to wake up."

Cat plops down in a graceful heap. "It wants to wake up? Is it talking to you?" She pulls her hair up off the back of her neck, fanning it with her hand.

"Not like that," Dham answers, annoyance in his voice. "It's just this thing almost everyone in my family has. We can sense which bells are...live--I guess that's the best word for it--and which ones won't ring, no matter what you do to them."

I turn a little, so I can see the two of them. This is the best Dham has ever been able to explain what it is he feels or does or whatever. I've always wanted to understand more about his bell sense. "What do you mean by the ones that won't ring? I don't get it."

He runs a hand through dark blond hair. "I can usually put my hand on any bell and tell you whether it will ring true--whether it's live or not. The ones that aren't just feel like metal--there's no...presence?" He shrugs. "We'll go with presence. There's nothing you can do to wake those bells. I think they'd need to be recast or something, and as far as I know, there's no production company still in operation anywhere."

"So the ones that are dead just stay dead." I try not to shudder. It's weird talking about inanimate things like they're alive, especially when you're sitting on top of one that could easily crush you if it had a mind to.

"Pretty much, yeah. They'll just clank and clunk until they drive you crazy." He looks out over the horizon. "My dad has been collecting those old bells for years and storing them away. I guess he's hoping he can find some way to melt them down and recast them or find some other use for them."

"Your da can feel the bells too, then?" Cat has been watching Dham from beneath lowered lashes. I notice she's also crept closer to him.

Dham nods, but I can see the muscles in his jaw ratcheting down. His expression from where I sit is unhappy and tense. Cat can't see it from where she's sitting, but I have a clear view of him. "He can't ring, not as well as me and my sister, but he feels them better than either of us. He's got a knack for it."

He fiddles with the small pebbles and rocks that still decorate the surface of the metal. The conversation, or lack of it, stretches out awkwardly between us. I remember the last mention of his family when we were eating supper and how well that went. Any mention of his family is a conversation killer, but Cat doesn't know that.

"What about the ones that are awake?" Cat asks, and I'm almost grateful to her for ending the silence.

Dham starts, as though coming back from some place only in his head. He was very far away for those last few minutes. I wonder what he'd been remembering. Whatever it was, it didn't look like it had been particularly pleasant. His face is drawn and his color is a bit paler than before. He shakes off whatever the funk was to answer her question.

"What about them? It depends on the bell--some are more awake than others."

"How about this one?" I put my hand on the metal, stroking it lightly. _Good bell, nice bell_.

"This one is pretty lively. Most of the ones I've come across have been sluggish, slower, their hums infrequent. It's like they're sleeping and they need to be woken up. I know how weird that must sound." He pauses, as if making up his mind to continue. "But this guy here, well, he's awake, more awake than any other bell I've ever touched."

"I wonder why that is." I'm brushing off the faint layer of rock dust, trying to feel something beneath my hands, but all I feel is hard metal.

Dham lays his hands flat against the bell's surface and closes his eyes for a brief moment. "I don't know," he breathes. "But he is. He wants to be cleared, to be heard."

"Can you communicate with it? Like tell it things?"

Dham turns his head to Cat, but keeps his eyes closed. "It's not like that, Cat. It's more one way communication. I can't tell it anything. It's not even speaking in words--it's just a feeling or more like a sensation."

"You just know it," I offer.

Dham opens his eyes and smiles at me. "Exactly. Trying to explain it is like trying to explain what love is or the color blue."

"You keep saying he." I tuck the stray hairs that have escaped their tail behind my ear. "Why?"

Again, a smile paired with a shrug. "Because the bell is male. Or its energy is."

"You mean to tell me that bells have genders?" Cat sounds incredulous.

"Sort of." Dham slews around on his knees to survey the rest of the ruined landscape from our vantage point. "Again, it's more of a feeling. Some bells feel male and some feel female."

"You're just saying that because this one's so bloody huge." Cat sounds miffed. I have to bite back a snort of laughter.

"Since neither of us can exactly prove him wrong, we'll just have to take his word for it." I cut my eyes at Cat.

"Oh sure. Of course the big ones are male. Think he might be overcompensating for something, Amaranth?"

I burst out laughing and can't stop, especially when I see Dham's offended look. Cat's laughing too, falling backwards and pointing at Dham as she convulses. "You should see the look on your face," she howls.

He looks at me. I try to control my laughter with limited success. "She's right. You look like you just swallowed something, and it moved in your mouth."

He shakes his head. "You two are impossible."

"Don't be mad," Cat teases. "All in good fun. You want me to tell Amaranth what a sour stick in the mud she is? Will that make you feel better?"

My laughter stops, but Cat's continues, growing in hilarity. "Now you look just like him!" She rolls over, holding her stomach.

"Think we should push her off?" Dham asks.

"You have no idea how tempting that is." I wipe the rock dust from my hands onto my jeans and stand up. I tilt my head back and stretch, getting a look at the sky. It's late afternoon now. We should be getting back. I begin to climb down. Dham follows me.

"Come on Cat," he calls.

She finally collects herself, still letting out the occasional chuckle. She slides down the last few feet, landing unsteadily. Dham steadies her. "Where now?"

"Anyone feel like Indian?"
Chapter Fifteen

I start the smudge stick in my room, the sage-scented smoke dancing on the light breeze from my open window. I've been smudging like a mad thing since the Sniffer's appearance on the street. I don't want to risk the Inquisition coming back, so every other day I take out another bundle of string-wrapped herbs and use the smoke to cleanse the boarding house. I'm not sure what the Sniffer might have caught scent of--me, the book, the messenger's scent from his bag--but I'm not going to risk being unprepared.

I wave the smoke at each of my windows, at my door, and then move to the outside of the building. Out in the open I have to be more careful, so I put the stick in a votive holder and carry that around to the front of the building. I smudge the front steps and door before going through the house and into the back garden.

I'm almost finished when I hear Cat's voice behind me. "What are you doing with that?"

I complete my circuit of the top of the back wall before I answer. "It's a smudge stick."

She walks over to inspect it as I hop off the wall. I hand it to her and she turns it in her hands, watching the smoke drift lazily away. "What's it do?"

"You don't use them in your village?"

She takes tentative sniff of smoke up close. "Gah," she says, rubbing her nose. "Never smelled that before." She hands it back.

"It's sage and other herbs. It's used to cleanse an area. Great stuff against Sniffers." I lay the smudge stick in a bowl under the tree to burn out.

"We don't have Sniffers where I'm from. Guess we're too small to warrant it." She shrugs. "Until the night shamblers came, we didn't really have much cause for any of this." She walks over to the bench and sits.

I follow her. "Do you miss home?"

She looks out at the garden, suddenly looking very small and alone. I think about how hard it must be for her to come to somewhere so completely unknown to do such a dangerous job. Again, I'm grudgingly impressed by her courage.

"Sometimes," she admits, tucking her legs underneath her. "I wonder how they're all doing."

I don't have an answer for her and I don't think she wants one. I'm not sure what to say next. I've never been good with people or conversations. Probably why I have so few friends. Still, Cat _is_ talking to me. I should at least try to come up with something. "What's it like--your home?"

Cat glances at me, as if trying to figure out if I'm serious or not. I sit, waiting, until she finally says, "Small. A quiet little place. Not much to recommend it, but I love it there." Her mouth quirks up in a private smile. "My friend, Margaret, was so jealous that I was getting out. She didn't speak to me for a whole week. She so wanted to come along to London."

"She did know that you were coming here for a mission, right? One that you might not come back from?" I can't understand how anyone would envy a job like Cat's.

Cat frowns. "I'll make it back." She glares at me, daring me to deny it.

I've offended her. No one wants to hear that they could die, even if the possibility is so very real. I shouldn't have said that to her, shouldn't have brought it up. I incline my head in silent apology.

"Besides," she continues, as if I've never said anything, "she should be jealous. I get to see the world outside of our village. And I plan to enjoy it."

It reminds me of what Dham told me days ago in this very spot. We don't know what the future holds for us, so why shouldn't we take advantage of the time we have now? I wasn't raised with that attitude; for me, it's about mitigating risk and protecting myself. The few enjoyable moments of the last seven years have been with Pat or on the roof of the boarding house. I have a hard time thinking of Rome as a pleasure trip.

She and Dham are more suited for each other. They have far more in common than he and I do. It makes my chest feel strange to admit that, like I'm short of breath after a sprint. "That's sounds like something Dham would say."

Cat nods, eyes again on the garden. "The world's dark enough, Amaranth. And it's getting darker. I want to enjoy as much light as I can while I have it."

I sit in silence next to her until the sage from the smudge stick burns away completely.

Chapter Sixteen

I need some time to clear my head after my first lecture with Trick. Between his admonitions and what I was able to read in the Key so far, my brain is so full that I'm certain grey matter will begin to leak from my nose. I head to my favorite quiet place, hoping that some peace will ease my headache and my frazzled nerves.

Part of me wants to give up and just tell Ryland what I know. I should hand over the Key and the other papers from the messenger bag and be done with it. But he lied to me. He used my information to do something horrible to someone he knew, to someone I care about. I don't want to keep things from him--it feels wrong and selfish--but the thought of Patrick down in that room stops me from saying anything.

I'm not sure how long I sit on the roof before Dham finds me. The wind is cold up here. I've tucked my knees up under my coat and raised the collar up to shield my face, but I am still shivering. I feel as though I will never be warm again. My mother's rosary is wrapped around my hand, my fingers mindlessly rubbing the silver filigree beads over and over again. The tears I shed have dried, the wind drying the tracks they made.

I feel hollowed out, like a canoe. And also like I want to vomit if I even think about the things Trick told me. I don't want to do this, to cast the spell. I want to unknow everything he said. But I can't if I want to free Patrick.

I don't look over when Dham sits beside me. He sprawls his legs out, unbothered by the cold wind, even though he's only wearing a hoodie. "I thought I might find you up here."

"Congratulations." My voice sounds strained and choked, not really like my voice at all. My throat hurts from the screams I've been keeping inside.

I see him glance at my hands. "What's that you've got there?"

I unwind the rosary from around my stiff fingers and let it dangle in between us. He leans in closer for a better look. "Blessed by the Pope himself." I sound half-dead, all emotion leeched from me.

"Wow." He lightly touches the beads, draping the chain so that the crucifix rests against his palm. "It's amazing. They're so rare these days."

"It was my mother's." That's the reason I'm allowed to carry it outside of the Underground. It's not just a holy relic, it's a family heirloom. It's my mother's legacy.

"Is she..." he trails off, like he doesn't know how to ask his question. I just shake my head in response, letting my hair fall across my face. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want to talk about it."

It has been a long time since I've spoken to anyone about my mother's death, either the circumstances surrounding it or my feelings about it. I don't want to start now. I have too much else to think about. Everything Trick said roils about in my head. Ryland, the ritual, betrayals--both his and mine--all of it. I'm not sure what is the best path to take anymore.

"Hey, you in there?" Dham waves his hand in front of my face.

"Sorry. I've got a lot on my mind."

"Anything I can help with?"

I sigh. I'd love it if he could. But this has to be my decision and I need time to suss it out on my own. "I need to think." I hate what I'm about to say. "And you're kind of distracting." I smile to lessen the dismissal.

"I can take a hint." He drops his hand to my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "If I can help, just come and find me." And with that he leaves me to my solitary thoughts.

****

It's barely dawn when I set off for the underground tunnels. I'm several hours ahead of schedule for the cell meeting that's supposed to detail the mission to the Gate, but I'm right on time for a serious talk with Ryland. I'm not sure either of us is going to enjoy it.

I hurry down empty streets, a paper to go cup of tea clutched in my hand. I crack an enormous yawn for one of the video cameras, knowing I look like nothing more than a bored teenager off to a job at far too early in the morning. I walk down an alley bordering an disreputable looking grocer's and press the buzzer for deliveries. The door slides open, and I flash the sign that I need to get through. From the cellar, I'm able to make my way through the tunnels.

I head to Ryland's office first. I see him there, his head resting in one hand, as he flips through some papers. No one is with him. I knew getting up at such an ungodly hour would be worth it. I wrap on the open door and wait for him to beckon me in. When he looks up, I almost back away. His eyes are puffy from lack of sleep and the dark circles beneath them make him look like he's been punched repeatedly in the face.

I ignore the stab of guilt and walk inside, closing the door behind me. Ryland's mouth sags into a frown, his eyes darting to the now-closed door. He shuffles all of the pages in his hands together and sets them aside. "I don't have a lot of time right now, Amaranth," he says, and even his voice sounds tired.

There's a part of me that wishes I could spare him this confrontation, but I know that's not possible--not if I want to get what I want. It has to be now, before the meeting. "We need to talk." When he opens his mouth, I cut him off. "It won't take long. In fact, I'll talk. You just listen."

Ryland closes his mouth with a snap, his eyes narrow. I'm poking a bear and I know it, but there's nothing to be done about it. He won't let me go on the Gate mission otherwise. "You're putting me on a team. I'm going to the Gate."

He pushes himself to his feet, anger and a sort of bone-deep weariness on his face. "You gave me your word." His voice is low.

"So did you." I shoot back.

Confusion muddles his features. "What are you talking about?" He waves a hand, as if that will silence me. "I promised your mother I would look after you. You are not going anywhere near it."

I swallow the hard lump that's grown in my throat. How dare he bring my mother into this? How dare he try to use that guilt against me, especially after what he's done to Patrick. My body feels like it might burst into fire with all the rage it's trying to contain. "Hypocrite!" I spit the word at him. "You seem to have no problem sending me into tunnels to fight your battles, so how is the Gate any different?" I'm not going to play Patrick, not yet. Not unless Ryland forces me to.

Ryland steps closer, looming over me. If he thinks physical intimidation is going to work, he's clearly not been paying attention. I'm too angry to care. He grabs me by my arms, but I just stare into his eyes, daring him to do more. "You have no idea..."

I break in, hissing through his words. "My mother would want me to go, and you KNOW it. So stop using her as an excuse! She died for the Resistance!" She'd expect me help, and to watch out for Patrick if I can.

"And I don't want you to do the same thing!" he shouts in my face.

I jerk away from him. "You can't stop me. I'm a big girl now and I can make my own decisions. And you, Ryland, are not my father."

He drops my arms as if I've stabbed him with one of my blades. The light dims a bit in his eyes. I've hurt him. A part of me feels awful, like I'm some kind of a monster, but a larger part feels vindicated. He deserves to hurt.

"There's something you don't know." Ryland sags back, off balance. I can see him searching for the words, and I think I know what he is going to say. It's why his voice sounds dead.

"What?" I don't want to make this easier on him, to tell him what I already know.

"One of the...there's a demon...." He looks away as if he doesn't know what to say.

I finish the admission for him. "It's Patrick." My voice sounds cold in my ears and I wonder what I must look like to him.

He looks thunderstruck. "How?"

"I followed you after you yelled at me and found the room. Remember? From all those years ago." He looks like I stuck one of my blades through him. Again. "And I found Patrick."

"Amaranth, I'm...."

"Is that why you didn't want me on this mission? Were you hoping that I wouldn't find out?" My voice rises with my anger. I trusted him and he betrayed it when he locked that demon in Patrick's body.

He's suddenly right in front of me, pushing me backwards. He leans into me, holding me against the wall with his body. It makes me uncomfortable, a little scared even, especially when he looks so angry. I glare at him, swallowing my fear. For as much as he betrayed me, I know Ry would never hurt me.

He shouts in my face. "We didn't have a choice, A. I wish we could have found someone--anyone--else, but we have to work with what we have. We're running out of time!"

And I shout right back. "It's Patrick, Ry. You know him! And you know what it does to people to have a demon in them. How on earth can you justify doing that to him?" To me? Again?

His eyes widen and flare with light. "Would you sentence us all to death, Amaranth, for the good of one person?"

I rear back, my head striking the stone with a dull thud. Ryland continues on in a voice pitched for my ears alone. "The Inquisition is moving in. It's only a matter of time before they root us out--and they're doing it in every city we have a cell. We need to close that gate, to at least stop more demons from coming through. And if one soul has to suffer to save the souls of millions, that's a price I can live with."

I glare at him. "I can't."

"If it wasn't Patrick, you could," he shoots back.

I rear back in anger. "Maybe I could," I hiss at him. "But that doesn't matter. It _is_ Patrick."

His eyes are hard when they catch mine. "The needs of the many, Amaranth." His mouth pulls up in a hard line. "They outweigh those of the few. We've always believed this. It's why we do what we do."

"Depends on the few," I shoot back.

"Patrick is just one of the weapons that we can bring to bear. And I will use ANY weapon I have!"

His voice softens. "That's why I didn't want you on this mission. You're too close to this." He sighs and his eyes lose their hardness. "I wanted to save you the pain of it. You've already seen what happens. I didn't want to put you through it again."

"And you don't trust me."

Ryland shakes his head. "It's not that. I don't trust him—the demon." He pulls back farther, to look at me head-on. "You're vulnerable, Amaranth. Your friendship with Patrick is a weakness that thing can exploit."

_Too late_ , I think, but I keep it to myself. Instead I say, "I can handle it."

"Amaranth, please, I'm trying to—"

I interrupt him. "Don't you think it should be my choice, what I can go through?" _Don't you think it should have been Patrick's choice?_ Just because you care for someone doesn't give them the right to make decisions for you. To take away your options.

Ryland steps away from with a frown on his face. "It's done. You're not getting near him again."

I stalk past him, done with this conversation, with the tunnels, with him for a while.

I need space to think. I pause though when he speaks once more. "Amaranth, I'm sorry, but you can't for a moment think that Pat's still in there. You have to be prepared."

I walk away slowly, weighing Ryland's words on the balances in my head. Demons sense weakness and exploit it. I will need to be cautious. But he's wrong. I believe Trick. Patrick _is_ in there. And I intend to bring him back.

Chapter Seventeen

The meeting, is not what I expect. I'm not sure what I expected actually, but possibly something more formal, more important looking. Instead it's a bunch of people shoved into a large room that has trouble containing everyone. I at least expected a table of some kind for the leaders to sit behind. Instead they stand at the front of the room while the rest of us find convenient spaces to sit or stand.

I can pick out several cell leaders, along with various religious representatives. I spot at least two rabbis, an imam, a Greek Orthodox priest, and several Buddhist monks that I've helped guide through the tunnels over the course of my years with the Resistance. I'm glad to see so many still alive.

Dham is sitting beside Cat. They've been together almost nonstop since her arrival. From what I've been able to gather, she's not as musically inclined as Dham and his family, but her strength of will is formidable. Musical ability may not count for much when you only have one bell to ring. The two of them watch the men at the front intently, and I can understand their interest. This is the biggest gathering of the international Resistance.

I am at the opposite end of the room, leaning against the wall. I try not to look in their direction, but find my eyes drawn over to them anyway. Dham sees me and waves me over, but I shake my head. My place here affords me a good view of the front of the room and the doors.

The room is filling up and growing hotter with the press of bodies. I hope that this won't be a long meeting because I can't imagine any of us being too comfortable if it drags on.

I notice Peter, standing off to the side, a worried scowl on his face. I'm surprised he's not at the front, as a representative from the cell in New York. He looks between Dham and Ryland and the other men at the front of the room. I wonder what's going through his head.

Finally, Ryland calls for order. Two of his lieutenants are up front with him, along with a few new faces I don't recognize. I assume them to be out of towners because I know everyone in our own cell. This is confirmed when they are introduced as representatives from France, Germany, Italy, Spain, India, and Turkey. I settle in to listen.

"I'll try and keep this brief." Ryland's voice fills the chamber, carrying to everyone in the room. I see Cat whisper something in Dham's ear and he chuckles. I turn my attention back to the group of men at the front. "We're all here because we want the possessions to stop. We want the Inquisition disbanded. We want our world back, we want to know we are safe walking down the street; that we'll still be us when we walk back in the door— _if_ we walk back in the door. The demons have been in power for decades now and they show no signs of leaving. They keep the Inquisition running to keep us from asking why they are here in the first place, what they want, why they stay."

He begins to pace. "Unfortunately, we no longer have the luxury of speculating their motives. We are running out of time." He stops and surveys the room, letting his words sink in.

I look around as people start murmuring and low hum of whispered conversations fill the air. Ryland lets it build for a few minutes, then raises his arms for quiet. "That is why we've decided to act. We're undertaking an important mission: two, in fact. For over a century, the demons have been among us, inhabiting bodies that aren't theirs. The Inquisition grows more ruthless in its attempts to find dissenters. Our ranks dwindle as more demons come through the gate. Over the years, countless groups have been sent on missions to find the location of the Gate and search for a way to close it."

The Gate. The thing that started all of this. An inexperienced magician was dabbling in things he shouldn't and he decided to get creative. Instead of using a set of pentacles or other protected casting area, he somehow created a gate, intending to summon just one demon to him. He did and a greater demon came through. Unfortunately, though the Gate was strong, the magician's casting circle wasn't. There was a flaw in it, one that the demon found and exploited. Instead of killing the magician though, the demon was able to possess him. Using the magician's body and life force, he was able to keep the gate open, making it permanent, which allows the demons to come and go at will without needing to be summoned. And without needing to be summoned it meant that none of them had masters to control them. So here we are.

The location of the Gate has been a mystery. We know it is somewhere in Europe, but that's it. The demons guard the secret well. The resistance groups have been searching for it for decades with no success, and very few survivors. If we could find a way to close the gate, we'd stop the influx of demons into this world. With that taken care of, we could focus on getting rid of those left on this plane without the worry of them just being replaced.

"We've determined the location of the Gate. This information came at a high price--countless soldiers have died so we could gain this knowledge." More than murmurs now. He speaks over the rising din. "Now we have to close it."

I glance over at Peter. His face holds no expression, but his eyes have taken on an intense quality as he studies Ryland and the others. I shudder. I don't know why he gives me the creepy-crawlies, but he does.

Someone in the back raises their hand. Ryland acknowledges him with a nod and the man stands and speaks. "How can you expect to close it? And how can you even hope to get there? It has to be well guarded. There are all kinds of wards and traps that only a demon can see."

My stomach clenches. I understand now why they needed to bind the demon into Patrick. Without a demon guide, the group would never make it. And with the demon bound to flesh, with no way to escape, his fortunes are tied to that of the group. It makes the demon portable. It's not like you could drag a grand pentacle around unobtrusively.

"We've got a solution to that problem." This from the Italian cell leader. "That was actually the last thing we were waiting for. But the British team has secured a demon guide, so the mission is a go." He paces at the front of the room. "We were waiting for the delivery of a special package: a grimoire useful in dealing with demons. Unfortunately, the courier was intercepted by the Inquisition."

Dham shoots me a quizzical look. I never mentioned a package to him. I attempt to look innocent and surprised as much as everyone else and ignore Dham. Instead, I watch Peter, whose face registers a look of fear. He notices me watching him so I look away quickly.

Ryland continues. "The package has not been recovered. We can only assume that the Inquisition now has the grimoire in their possession."

I swallow the guilty lump in my throat. I have the package and I've been keeping it from Ryland. There may be other information in it that he needs. But I can't just hand him the pages from the packet and still keep the book. And how do I explain just how I came to be in possession of it in the first place, not to mention why I didn't hand it to him right away?

He's still speaking. "This doesn't change our plans. We still have the guide, and the spells to compel it are in place. We've lost a small security measure, nothing more."

Ryland's lying. His mouth is pulled down on one side, like the lie tastes bad on his tongue. He needed the Key to further bind Trick. He has no idea that I'm in possession of the one thing they still need.

He continues. "As for the Gate itself, the less everyone knows of the plans, the better. Suffice to say that we have a number of diversionary ops in place and several teams ready to make a try for it."

While I'm caught up in my thoughts, more questions are being posed to Ryland and the other cell leaders. Nobody asks what we'll do if we fail. I have no idea of the number of groups, or the people making up those teams. I know Dham and Cat will be on them, and obviously Trick, and probably Ryland, but other than that, it could be anyone in this room. I need to be on the team that handles Trick. I don't trust anyone else with the job of protecting the body the demon is currently residing in.

"What about the guide?" I don't even realize I'm asking the question until it leaves my mouth. I'm curious how Ryland will answer. "What happens to him when we close the Gate?"

Ryland stares at me, as if stunned I can even ask that question. But I wait. I want to hear the answer. To hear what they are condemning Patrick to. But it isn't Ryland who answers me. It's the head of the Italian group. "Once he's fulfilled his purpose, the demon will be eliminated and the poor possessed soul will be set free."

I nod, though the answer doesn't satisfy me. There are two ways to "free" a possessed person: exorcism which drives the demon out, or killing the possessed, which forces the demon to find a new host. I notice the Italian didn't specify which it is to be, but I think I have a pretty good idea. And nobody is saying boo about it, or about the fact that we're trapping a demon inside a human's body with—if what Trick said is true—a human soul trapped with it. That's the problem with possession; no one knows what damage is being done to the poor soul that's caught up in it.

The meeting continues with more questions being asked and answered. I listen with half an ear. I don't know what to feel about what they are doing to Patrick. I understand how vital this mission is; how important and what it could mean to everyone. No more possession, no more fear of body snatchings, no more Inquisition. We get our futures back. But he's my oldest friend. How can I let him be used this way? Used and then discarded?

Ryland raises his hands for quiet. Eventually the conversational murmurs cease to mere whispers. "Those on teams have already been notified. Instructions for your first meeting with your team leader will be following shortly."

I know these meeting messages will be in some kind of code, making it difficult for anyone just coming across the message to be able to make sense of it. I wonder when I'll get my message and what team I'll be on. I look over at Ryland, but he's speaking with the Greek representative.

Dham and Cat come over to me as the meeting breaks up. Peter has disappeared and I say as much to Dham.

He shakes his head. "Who knows where he's off to. Ryland's been keeping him pretty busy. I hardly see him anymore."

"Don't you think that's odd?" I ask, unsure why I'm still feeling this little niggle in the back of my mind.

"We're planning a full on assault of a demon stronghold. No wonder he's a little on the busy side," Dham answers, a small smile playing around his lips.

Ryland appears directly behind him. His face is thunderous. I wonder briefly what I've done now that's made him so upset. It's not like he's in the right here. "Excuse me, I need to borrow Amaranth for a moment."

"I'll catch up with you guys later." I wave to them as Ryland grabs my arm and practically yanks me out of the room and down the hall to his office.

"Don't think I don't know what that question was all about in there," he growls once he's slammed the door behind us. "What are playing at, Amaranth?"

"I'm not playing at anything," I nearly shout, yanking my arm from his grip. "It's Patrick you all were talking about. I wanted to know." I glare at him. "I want to be on his team."

"What? No. Absolutely not!" Ryland's face turns red.

I go still. I manage to get myself under control because I know arguing with Ryland will serve no real purpose. It would be nice to have his concession, but I know I can find out what I want to know in other ways. He taught me himself.

In a quiet voice, I say, "I'm the only one who has a vested interest in seeing Patrick come out of this alive. I'm either on his team or I'll go around you and find a way on it anyway. How hard do you want to make this?"

"You're not going to stop, are you?" He sounds sad.

"Short of you tying me up and shipping off to Abu Dhabi? No." I pause, then say, "And probably not even then."

"Very well, Amaranth. You're on the team." Ryland turns away as he says this, so I can't read his face.

I step around him, determined to look him in the eyes, to read if he's telling me the truth. "I am?" That was surprisingly easy. I expected more of a fight.

He nods. When I don't move, he looks up and I can see the pain in his eyes. The pain I put there. The pain we both put there. I don't know what it is costing him to put me at the forefront of the mission--because that's where Trick will be--but it is costing him something.

"I'll be careful," I say as a way of reassuring him.

All he says is, "Dham's on the team too. You can keep them both safe." He walks over to his desk. "You can close the door on the way out."

I do.

Chapter Eighteen

After I leave Ryland's office, I make my way to Trick's cell. I might as well try and make some headway on the binding spell while I have the time. I have the bad feeling that free time is going to be in very short supply very soon. I know I might be endangering the mission's success if I do manage to reverse the binding spell and figure out a way to release Trick, but I am not going to think about it right now. I would have to get lucky in so many ways that to contemplate is ridiculous.

"Back again so soon?" Trick's voice is less mocking, or maybe that's just my imagination.

I slump down the wall just inside the door so that no one will see me if they look in the window. "It's the only quiet place I've got." I'm tired. I don't feel up to another lesson from Trick, but I've got no choice. I feel like I'm being hounded by things I can't see. At least here I can hide for a little while.

Trick surveys me with disbelieving eyes. "Well that's possibly the saddest thing I've ever heard." He looks around the room. "Although I suppose I must admit it is quiet in here. And I was beginning to think you might have taken a liking to me or something silly like that."

I snort. "Hardly."

He sits back. "Excellent. What kind of a world would it be if spirits and humans actually got along?"

I rest my head against the wall, closing my eyes briefly. I want to fall asleep. The Inquisition have been out in force the past few days and nights and it's getting harder to walk around undisturbed. I've seen Raulston on three separate runs and every time, I feel like he's watching me long after I've passed by him. It's unnerving. I find him more odious than I find demons in general. I'm wondering if it's because he's human—or at least has the semblance of one, even though there's nothing even remotely human inside him anymore. How he can order the tortures done to innocents and retain any hope of humanity is lost on me.

Trick's sarcasm is not lost on me either. Nor is his reference. "You keep using the word spirits to refer to yourself and your kind. Why?"

"Because that's what we are." He sounds like his talking to a particularly dim child and I give him the stink eye. "Perhaps if I say it enough, the fact will sink into your incredibly thick skull."

I make a rude hand gesture. "Oh yes, that's endearing you to me." I reopen my eyes to skewer him with a glare. "So then tell me, since I am apparently so hopelessly dim, what's the difference?" I've been going through the Key of Solomon slowly and have any number of questions for him, but I don't want him to know I have the book. If he brings up the subject though, my questions can pass for a natural curiosity.

"The difference, dear limited human, is semantics. There is nothing remotely demonic about my nature, nothing infernal. I simply am, as I have always been. There is nothing particularly good or particularly evil about us; it is the use to which humans put us that makes us so."

I sit up, wide awake now. I need to understand what he's saying if I hope to unravel the secrets of the book. If I ever hope to free Patrick. "What, you just hung around amongst the clouds or wherever, contemplating the great meaning of it all until humans came along and ruined it?" I don't try to keep the incredulity from my voice.

"That is a bit simplistic." He smiles benignly at me, a complete innocent. Which is also a complete sham. "But yes."

"I don't buy it."

"You don't have to. That doesn't keep it from being the truth." His smile is positively beatific.

I sigh. "Okay, let's say for a moment that I believe you. You are a spirit." I try not sneer, and am actually somewhat successful. "Why does exorcism work on you if you aren't demonic in origin?"

Trick raises an eyebrow. "Oh, exorcisms are successful, are they? You've seen one work?"

I've only seen one exorcism, at least a partial one. It was not successful. "Not personally, no," I answer, keeping my voice level. I do my best to keep my expression neutral and calm, even if I don't feel that way inside. "But there have been instances." I cock my head as I think of something. "And if they didn't work, why would you lot burn all copies of the ritual or lock it up where no one can get to it?" I lean back, satisfied with my argument.

Trick sits in his chair, completely still. It almost looks like he's having some kind of debate with himself. I wait him out, watching the subtle shifts of emotion on his face. It's kind of fascinating to observe someone you know so well have entirely different expressions of mood.

When he finally does speak, he sounds resigned. "I'm on the horns of a dilemma here."

"Do tell."

He looks me in the eye, Patrick's familiar brown meeting with my muddy blue. "If I stand a chance of getting out of this muddle, I have to tell you something we spirits would much rather you humans NOT know. But if I do tell you, you will no doubt use it against me." He sighs dramatically. "Which is the correct path I wonder?"

I resist the powerful urge to roll my eyes. "You could just stay bound here forever." I smile sweetly.

Trick sniffs disdainfully. "You needn't be so blunt. I'm coming to it." He adjusts his position by a minute degree and begins. "It's not the words that drive the spell. It's the force of will behind it."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't." He shakes his head. "Let me finish. Let's take an exorcism, for example. The words give the priest something to focus on, a way to enforce his powerful will that is bound to his faith. Because he believes in his God, he is capable of a great many things. The force of will behind those words is what really causes a spirit to leave a body. We're compelled to do so by the driving will the priest possesses."

I think on what he said. "So the same would hold true for a holy person of a different faith, right?"

"Exactly. And that's why the spirits removed those safeguards from this plane of existence. Religion is only one of many ways that people can use to focus their strength, but it is one of the most effective."

"But willpower isn't only possessed by religious leaders." I watch his face to gauge his reaction. "So, if what you are saying is true, then anyone would be able to work an exorcism."

Trick grimaces, as if this entire conversation causes him pain. "Yes and no." He raises a finger as he lectures me. "One has to be very clear and focused in spell casting. Most people have too much noise going on in their heads to accomplish very much, let alone force a spirit like me out of someone if I don't want to go. Most of the time, the attempt will fail because they are unable to tune out all of the distractions and only think about the outcome that they want."

"So you spirits don't want anyone to know this because then anyone could resist you." My words start slow, but pick up speed as my brain begins to see the possibilities. "And that's why they've destroyed or hidden anything that might be used as a kind of reference."

"I think they went a bit overzealous if you ask me, but basically, yes." He shrugs. "It was to throw you all off the scent in a way."

I chew my lip, thinking of something else. Something that Cat said when we were at St. Pauls. "What about bells?"

He jerks just the tiniest bit. "What about them?" He sounds nonchalant, but I don't believe him.

Now I'm in the position of revealing something that I would rather keep hidden. But this information might be able to help Dham somehow. "Bell ringers, does it work the same for them?"

Trick's eyes narrow. "I take it this is not some kind of hypothetical question." He pauses a moment, as if weighing his options. "It does work in much the same way, yes. Force of will plays a great part in how the bell is rung."

I sit back again, thinking about what he just said. Dham was able to ring just fine when he first got here, but the next time we were in the tunnels, the bells didn't work. I wonder what was going on with Dham that made him lose focus. He'd had an argument with Peter right before we headed into the tunnels. Could that have anything to do with it? I wonder if I should tell him about what Trick said or if I should wait until I understand it better myself.

Trick's voice interrupts my reverie. "So now what?"

I meet his eyes. "Now it looks like I've got to find a ritual to focus my will."

Chapter Nineteen

I open the door to the back room of the pub and shuck off my raincoat. It's pouring buckets out there, but at least the weather is good for keeping the Inquisition presence sparse on the streets. As I strip out of my wet jacket, Dham hands me a bar towel so I can dry off a bit. I smile a thanks, then take a seat.

It's our first meeting as a team. I know Dham and another young man from the British arm of the Resistance named Michael, but the rest are strangers to me. We introduce ourselves, and I meet Sergei from the Russian front, Anatole from Greece, and Lyle from France. We're a regular cavalcade of nations sitting in this room. The only one missing is Trick.

Ryland comes in, bone dry. He must have been here for a while. I wonder if the other teams meet here or if Ryland just decided to come early to make sure the meet point was clear of Inquisition bugs and soldiers. Probably the latter.

He comes straight to the point. "A number of teams have been formed, each with a different objective. Three teams will make a combined assault on the Gate--this team is one. However, this team will have one member who isn't currently present."

Ryland's eyes catch and hold mine. I take a deep breath. Here it comes. The reveal that we'll be the team traveling with the demon. "Your team will be the advance guard, and, as such, you will be responsible for the guide."

There are several moments of silence as the rest of the team comes up to speed on what this means. I see the realization dawning on several faces. Dham seems relatively calm, but the Russian and Greek envoys look none too happy.

"You would have us work with a demon?" Sergei asks angrily, rising halfway out of his chair. Anatole nods.

Ryland frowns, slashing his hand to indicate quiet. "This team member is vital for the success of this mission. I expect you to accept it as such and follow Amaranth's directions regarding it."

All eyes turn to me. I stare at Ryland, understanding that he has placed me in charge of dealing with any and all fallout relating to Trick and the problems he might cause. Well, I had blackmailed him to come on this mission; I shouldn't be surprised to draw the short straw. Although he has done me a favor--he's enabled me to look out for Patrick in an official way, and I bet he did it on purpose.

I give Ryland a faint smile. His face is stone. "What's our target?" I ask, wanting to move the meeting along rather than get sidetracked on the finer points of practical demonkeeping.

"The Gate is located here, in London. More precisely, at Christ Church Spitalfields."

Another outburst from the small group. I look to Dham. His brow is furrowed--Spitalfields means nothing to him, but to a Londoner, Christ Church has a somewhat sketchy reputation.

I think of the rubble of what was once Christ Church. It was rumored that there were rooms hidden among the catacombs there, rooms that were once used for Black Masses during the age of Bloody Jack. Nicholas Hawksmoor, the man responsible for Christ Church Spitalfields was also known as the "the devil's architect" because his churches were supposedly full of occult and pagan significance. I suppose it makes sense that the Gate would be housed in the ruins of such a place.

"The other teams have been told of this location?" Dham asks, his fingers idly tracing the knife scars on the table.

"The three going in and the Sweeper teams have all been informed, yes. We have several diversionary teams, but they do not need to know the exact location. This information is being held in the strictest confidence. Secrecy is key to this mission. If one team is compromised, the other teams will still be able to achieve their objectives."

"What is our objective?" Anatole asks.

I look at Ryland, mulling over his words while he answers Anatole. Yes, compartmentalization is all well and good, but a few people in the upper echelons of the Resistance have to know the entire plan. What if one of those people were compromised? What would happen then?

"Amaranth will be responsible for the guide and for leading your team in and out of the tunnels. Michael will handle the demolition. Dham is a Ringer--he'll be one of the lines of defense against anything demonic you run up against. Sergei, Anatole, and Lyle, you three will guard the explosives until they are set. Once you've gotten through, set the charges and return the way you came." Ryland looks around the table, meeting everyone's eyes. "Understand?"

When we nod, he manages a slight grin. "Good. We'll meet again--I'll send a message with the details." He turns to me and Dham. "I have a special assignment for you two."

He waits for the other members of our team to leave the room and then turns back to us. "We've got a pickup."

I nod, knowing what kind of assignment he means. I've run pickups in the past; it's easy work and not too dangerous.

Dham looks confused. "Pick up what?" he asks.

"There are some items that have been smuggled into key locations. I need you two to go and retrieve one of them." Ryland is all business. He's still angry with me then.

"Sure," Dham replies. "When and where?"

"Two days time. I'll send more later, but be ready." Ryland turns on his heel and walks out of the room.

Dham sits still for a moment, then turns to me. He searches my face for a moment, then he says, "Okay, what the hell is going on with you two?"

Chapter Twenty

I can't put it off any longer. I have to find the incantation Ryland used to bind Trick inside of Patrick. Our attack on the gate is only in a few more days. I am out of time and options. Mrs. Bowen still calls me, waiting and hoping for news. I need to have something to tell her. I need to at least try to help Patrick before, well, _before_.

I walk the tunnel leading to Ryland's small office as I normally do, as if nothing is wrong. Everyone knows I sometimes come in here to get some quiet. I try not to act suspicious, even if what I am about to do would probably be considered treason, or at least extremely rude.

I slip down the corridor, trying to keep an unobtrusive eye out for Ryland. He's busy organizing the other groups tasked with the Gate mission, but that doesn't mean I'm in the clear. Without knowing where or exactly when he's meeting with them, or for how long, I could still get caught. Ryland is already suspicious enough of me; I can't take the risk that he'll put guards on Trick, or worse, move him before I can undo the binding.

I round the corner leading to Ryland's small office and I notice his door is partially closed. Odd. It's either fully closed or fully open—Ryland usually doesn't leave it half-open. It's not like him. I slow my pace and begin my approach on silent feet. When I'm next to the door, I push it open lightly and get a look inside.

Peter sits at the small table Ryland uses for a desk, poring over a set of papers. What on earth does Peter think he's doing? I push open the door all the way and step inside. Peter looks up at the sound of my footstep, something I did deliberately.

"What are you doing in here?" I ask, suspicion thick in my voice.

He stands up, putting some space between him and the table. I tense, knowing that's a sign someone is ready to fight. I glance down at the pages, but I can't make out what's on them. I focus on Peter, watching his expression carefully. There's something nervous in his gaze but otherwise he looks calm.

"Ryland asked me to get him some information on the lesser used tunnels," he says, taking a step closer to me.

The air feels charged suddenly, like I'm standing in a lightning storm. I stand my ground, but it takes everything I have not to look away. There's something alive with malice in the room, like a snake poised to strike. I raise myself up as straight as I can and say calmly, "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Peter nods, his face stern.

"Good. Then perhaps you should get him the information he asked for."

I watch Peter walk out of the room, turning my body so I'm always facing him. There is something about the man that I just don't trust and finding him in Ryland's office without Ryland is not helping that. It doesn't matter that I was coming in here to snoop myself; I don't like the thought of Peter being in here looking at heaven alone knew what. What if he found out about Patrick?

I wait until he's disappeared down the corridor, then I return to Ryland's office and shut the door. I take a look at the papers Peter was going through first, but nothing seems amiss. They are old plans for the tunnels that used to house the underground river that ran beneath parts of London. I head over to the small end table that the holds the lamp and reach underneath the drawer to find the key that Ry stashes there. He thinks I don't know about it, but I'd have to be blind to miss where he keeps it. Either that or he knows I know about it and trusts me with that knowledge.

Maybe we both should have been more careful in who we trusted.

I get the key and take it over to the large metal cabinet. It's not locked—it never is—and it is where Ry keeps gun chits and paperwork, maps and messages. And it's where he stores his lockbox, where all of the really important stuff goes. Most everything that's sensitive gets shredded and burned across various locations, but there are a few things that need to be kept on hand. I'm hoping that the binding ritual is one of them.

I get the lock on the box open and pull out a stack of pages. Shielding the light of my torch with the doors of the cabinet, I begin to flip through them, trying to read their contents quickly. There are a few notes from other Resistance cells in Europe, a few receipts and then a sheaf of pages in a language I don't recognize with handwriting in the margins. I look closer and see a scrawled note about bindings at the top of one of the pages. Jackpot.

I stuff the pages into the waistband of my jeans and pull my shirt down over them. I put everything back in its proper place and then return the key. It looks as if nothing has been disturbed. I make one more survey of the room to make sure I haven't forgotten anything then I hightail it out of the tunnels and back to Auntie's.

I don't actually take a good look at the pages until I'm on the roof. The sky is threatening raid, the clouds grey and ominous. The wind has died so the air feels oppressive, like it has been weighted down by those clouds. I'll go inside at the first drop of rain, but for now, the roof seems the most likely place where I can find enough privacy to go over what I've found.

Now that I can see, it looks like the writing is in a very old style of Latin. It's a copy of whatever the text was, probably copied many times over if the fuzziness of the type is an indicator. I squint at some of the words, unable to make out clearly what they might be. I have a rudimentary knowledge of Latin at best, so I don't spend too much time trying to decipher the words.

Instead I turn my focus to the notes in the margins. It looks like someone has translated most of it and written notes about their thoughts on the ritual or whatever it is. The notes call for candles and a silver knife. I can get both of those items fairly easily at Auntie's. Other notes make less sense and I flip through the pages trying to get an idea of what exactly the incantation is supposed to do.

It appears to be what I'm looking for: the ritual that I overheard Ryland mentioning. This must be what they had used to bind the demon to Patrick. I sift through the other notes, trying to get an idea if the process was reversible or how one would go about breaking the binding. What I find is not encouraging; it's the bare minimum of instructions and a brief incantation with question marks beside it. I copy down everything I can find relating to breaking the binding spell into a notebook of my own and jot my own notes and questions.

A fat drop of water hits the top of my head. I quickly gather up my things and climb back into my bedroom. I'm going to need to go back underground to gather more information from the small library we've got, but also to return the pages I borrowed before anyone can notice they're missing. I had planned to stay indoors and ride out the weather, but I can't wait. I have no idea when they might move Patrick or what their plans are for him. I need to cut him loose as soon as possible or risk losing my chance to free him.

I throw a set of spare clothes in my backpack along with the ritual notes and grab my slicker. The rain is pelting down, the skies going a dark grey. I pull the hood of the slicker over my head and dash through the downpour and back to the closest entrance to the Underground. I stop only to change into my spare clothes, leaving my soaked ones to dry atop the valise, and continue on to what passes for our library.

It's a small rounded room with stacks of books piled haphazardly around. Some are paperbacks, some hardcovers, and some are just collections of pages placed in protectors that have been shoved into binders. I'm not sure where to start looking, so I gather up all of the puck shaped lights in the room and start sorting through the piles, grabbing whatever looks like it will be most useful.

The useful pile is not what anyone would consider large. I pull out the largest book and leaf through it, trying to make sense of what I see. I jot down anything that looks remotely helpful, completely out of my depth. I am not a scholar or a much of a reader—that was always where Patrick excelled.

I'm finishing up the last book when I feel someone watching me. I look up to see Dham leaning in the doorway, eyes curiously scanning the room. "What are you doing?"

"Just some research," I answer, closing my notebook so he can't get a glimpse of what I had written.

"Really? Is it for the Gate?" He steps into the room, eyes glinting curiously.

"Some stuff for a friend, that's all." I sweep everything into my pack, leaving the books I'd been looking through in a random stack. I stand up and stretch, muscles stiff from sitting hunched over for too long.

"Find anything interesting?" His lips are curled in a smile as he looks at me. I wonder if I've got ink on my face or something like that to make him smile in that way.

"Not much." I sigh, swinging the pack over my shoulder before I remember. I still haven't dropped the pages back into the lockbox in Ryland's office. Crap. I can't very well do it with Dham looking on. "I need to be getting on—I've got to swing by the range to see if I can find Ryland."

"I was just there and didn't see him." He pauses, digging his hands in his pockets. "I'll find him with you, and then we can walk back to the house together."

Of course. Now he'd offer—the one time when I need him to go away. "That's really not nec--"

"There you are!" Cat's exasperated voice echoes from farther down the hall. "I thought we were going to get some food after practice." I can hear her footsteps stomping closer. She stops in the doorway and pokes her head into the room. When she sees me, her cupid bow lips draw down in a dark frown. Even that looks adorable and girlish.

For once I'm grateful for Cat's presence. She's just what I need to get Dham going in the opposite direction from me. I turn to Dham to tell him to go ahead, but he speaks first to Cat. "I just ran into Amaranth." He raises his eyebrows at me. "Come with us to grab some dinner."

I see the positively sour expression that crosses Cat's face and have to refrain from immediately saying yes just to spite her. "No, you guys go ahead. I'll catch up with you back at Auntie's."

I ignore Cat's look of glee. Dham doesn't see it, or if he does, he's a much better actor than I thought. "You sure?"

"That's really too bad," Cat jumps in, words bubbling from her mouth like champagne from a bottle. "But we need to get going." She tugs on his arm and begins to all but drag him away from the library.

"See you later," Dham calls before Cat pulls him out of sight.

I rub my tired eyes. I wonder, not for the first time, if Cat had put some kind of tracking beacon on Dham so that she could find him at a moment's notice. It made it difficult to get any kind of time alone with him—although I was being ridiculous to think about alone time with anyone. I had too many things to worry about as it was. I didn't need to add him to the list.

I hurry back down the corridor, hoping that Ryland's office would still be empty. Ryland has usually headed home at this hour, but that doesn't mean that one of his lieutenants wasn't using it; I wasn't the only one with an open invitation. Thankfully it's clear and I manage to replace the ritual pages in the lockbox without interruption. I speed back the way I came to collect my things and return to the house to try and puzzle out a workable ritual to break the bond and free Patrick.

Chapter Twenty-One

It's time for another lesson.

Trick is awake; he's always awake. I wonder if he ever sleeps—if he even needs to. Or maybe he just knows when someone is coming and so is never caught sleeping. I shake my head to clear it of these unwanted thoughts and close the door behind me.

He's watching me, his expression guarded but curious. He waits, as he always does, for me to say something. I lean against the wall and look everywhere but at him. I slide down the wall to a sit, crossing my legs in front of me. I am so tired of coming down here, of feeling torn between telling Ryland what I'm doing and freeing Patrick.

"Why are you here?" I don't realize that it's slipped out, but it is too late to take back the question. I've always wanted to know why the demons come, but also—more importantly—why they choose to take over bodies. Why they seem so insistent on staying in our world.

"Because some mangy git decided to throw a burlap sack over my head and put me in this lovely room inside a bunch of magic squiggles." His tone is one usually reserved for particularly slow children.

I rub my temples. His attitude is not helping, although I shouldn't be surprised. "Never mind." I lean my head back against the wall, tired beyond all imagining. I was stupid to think Trick would provide an honest or helpful answer about that.

"That's not what you wanted to know, is it?" He pauses, then his voice takes on a lecturing tone. "Look, if you're going to insist on communicating with me, there's some rules you need to know." I watch as he twitches a finger upright. "Number one: always be very specific when asking a question."

My smile is tired. "Telling me things that I shouldn't know?"

He cocks his head, like a parrot. "Yes. No. I don't know. I'm bored. You amuse me. It's better than staring at the walls. Pick one."

"The truth. Please."

I notice that his eyes widen. Patrick used to get that look in class whenever I would say or do something guaranteed to get me into trouble with the instructor. It's strange to see it deployed here. "You'd figure it out eventually. You're not as dim as you look." He pauses, pursing his lips. "And I don't know what to make of you." He sounds legitimately confused.

I shake my head. He's not the only one. "Is that your answer?"

"Yes."

"Okay." We sit in silence for a few minutes. It takes me a while to come up with the phrasing of the question I want to ask him. I'm hoping for a truthful answer. "Why did you pick Patrick to possess?"

He chews on his lower lip thoughtfully, a terribly human gesture. I am beginning to separate in my head the differences between Trick and Patrick. I suppose I'm thinking of them as multiple personalities housed in the same body; looking at them in a detached, clinical way.

"No particular reason." His voice is matter of fact. "He was there. He was available. No charms, no wards, nothing to keep me out."

"That's it? Just wrong place, wrong time?" I shake my head in disbelief. That can't be all there is to it. Poor, careful Patrick. "But why do it at all?"

"Because it's fun." Trick stretches as much as he can with his arms and legs bound. "Look, sometimes it's nice to have corporeal form, to feel things, to have sensations and experiences so different from what you are used to."

"But aren't you limitlessly powerful in your own form? I mean, you used to be called up to do your master's bidding and could use magic to perform wonders. You lose all that in a human body." Why would anything pass up cosmic power to spend time in a flesh suit? It didn't make sense to me.

"Some of us are. It varies by spirit." He looks intensely at me, as if willing me to understand.

"Okay, fine, you're all unique, special snowflakes. But that still doesn't answer my question as to why a limitless spirit would want to lock themselves inside a human." I watch him carefully, trying to work out when he's lying and when he might be telling the truth. Everyone has tells—maybe demons in human form have them too.

He leans his head back against the chair. "You know, it would be very nice if I could stretch out." He raised an eyebrow at me hopefully.

"You're stalling." I frown. My patience only extends so far.

He lowers his brow with a long-suffering sigh. "It was worth a shot." He wriggles a bit in his seat. "Why would one of us want to be corporeal, you ask?" For a second I feel like I'm in school, skewered by the professor for giving an answer so wrong-headed that I should be taken out and shot. "Let me ask you this: why wouldn't we?"

I open my mouth to reply, certain I know the answer, then stop myself. I've been looking at this through one kind of lens for so long that the pat answer comes easy, but it may not be the right one. I broaden my view, trying to think about what it would be like. It's hard; despite the history--some accurate, some so very not--we don't have a lot of information of what goes on beyond the gate. I can only work with what I know for a fact, which isn't much.

I try and come at from the reverse. I'm human, yes. What would make me want to be a demon—or spirit, as Trick insists? I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them, trying to make my brain work. But it isn't necessarily my brain that engages. Something inside me, buried deep maybe, says, _To know what it's like_.

I sit up fast, as if hit with an electrical prod. "You lot want to know what it's like to be human."

He tuts. "Not quite, but close. Good effort." He smiles slyly. "Not necessarily human though. More to feel, to touch, to taste, to experience everything the flesh has to offer." He inspects his fingernails. "It can get remarkably dull after eons of insubstantiality."

"I would think you'd welcome the binding then. You don't seem at all happy about it." I think I know the answer, but I want to see if he'll confirm it.

He frowns darkly, his dark brows pulled low over his eyes. "Would you be happy being locked in a box forever and ever? No matter how nice and new and comfy the box is, it's still a box." He closed his eyes, tilting his head back. "As a vacation, it's great. Being stuck for the duration? Not so much."

He leans forward suddenly. "I may want the sensations that being flesh can offer, but getting sick, growing old, eventually feeling the organs and whatsits stop and die? No thank you. That experience you can keep all to yourselves."

"What would happen to you? If the body died and you were still locked in there?" I have a morbid curiosity about this subject.

Trick shrugs again. "Not sure, exactly. But I have my theories." He goes silent for a second, thinking. "I mean, I suppose I could reanimate the body, but who wants to gad about clad like a shambling monster with bits of themselves falling off? It's terribly off-putting, not to mention unhygienic." He shakes his head in disgust.

I am horrified that I have to bite back a giggle. He's not supposed to be funny! But he sounds so completely offended by the scenario, like it's an affront to his good breeding or something that I can't help myself.

Trick smiles, but there's something in it, something beyond pure mirth. There's a craftiness present in it that makes my stomach twist. "So now you see why I'd like to bust out of this charmingly elaborate cage sooner rather than later, yes?" He pushes his head forward, almost lizard-like. "Have you made any progress finding which ritual was used on me?"

I shake my head. "I'm going to need to get into Ryland's office, but I can't do it while he's in there."

"Tick tock, tick tock, my girl. You're running out of time to help your little friend in here."

I recoil from his direction like he just tried to rip my head from my neck. "He's in there? With you?" My voice comes out softly, a breath, a hope.

"In a sense, yes. He never left." His face grows long and serious. "To put it in language you'll understand, it's like he's been shoved into a cupboard. He's stuck in there until I decide to let him out."

"Does he know what's happening? Out here, I mean." I blink back the sudden warmth of tears. I'm not sure I've relieved or horrified at what Trick is telling me.

"Hard to say for sure." He shrugs. "I've never really given it much thought, to tell the truth."

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming at Trick. The casual tone in his voice, the utter unconcern for what it is he does to people, makes me want hit him. I'm glad I don't have my blades with me. I might be too tempted to use them.

"I have to go." Before he can say another word, I spin on my heel. I close the door harder than I mean to and restore the bar to its rightful place. Then I run down the hall, getting as far away from Trick and the image of Patrick huddling in the dark as possible.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Night has just fallen when Dham and I set out. Ryland had given us the details only hours before our retrieval assignment. He's playing things carefully, giving very little lead time in case there's a mole in our midst. I memorized the coordinates before we left. We're heading to the ruins of a small church near Bunhill Fields. Bunhill Fields has been a burial ground for over a thousand years. More importantly, a columbarium was installed there before cremation was outlawed.

The Resistance had worked out a special way of smuggling items we couldn't risk the Inquisition finding a few years ago. A columbarium held the urns of people who had been cremated in what amounted to sealed cubby boxes tucked into a wall. The Resistance had recognized the handiness of these niches: they fit most handguns and religious artifacts, people were still allowed to visit under the guise of respect for a loved one, and the location was relatively easy to put into a code. All one needed was a screwdriver or prybar and viola! You had a pretty secure way of passing along sensitive items.

I run a quick check of the perimeter before actually leading us into the church grounds. Dham follows quietly at my back. I'm glad Ryland assigned us to this pickup. As the Gate attack looms larger and larger in people's imaginations, dissension in the ranks is growing. Dham is steady. I have no doubts about Dham. I'm happy to have him at my side, bells or no bells. I slide through a partially open wrought iron gate, careful not to disturb it in case the hinges squeak. I hold it still, then beckon Dham through.

"This is completely cool," he whispers into my ear as he passes. I shiver and not from the tickling of his breath on my neck.

"Oh yes, grave robbing is insanely hip." Trick's sarcasm must be rubbing off on me.

Dham grins, walking beside me as I pick my way through the overgrown cobbles toward the back wall that houses the columbarium. "Well, if you want to be all morbid about it...."

He can't see my eyeroll in the murk, but it is epic. I put my finger to my lips and hurry along. It wouldn't do to be caught out here, and after dark besides. We reach a large stone building that looks like a mausoleum. It's actually where the columbarium is housed. I push open the door and step inside.

Dham hands me a torch. I flip the switch to its lowest setting and shine the light around the room. Row upon row of plaques adorn the walls. Some have cracked, but most remain intact. I step to the right hand wall and locate the third row from the bottom. Then I begin to pace out steps, counting as I go.

"What are you doing?"

"Hush," I admonish, stopping to answer him. "I'm counting." I continue on, counting off the columns I pass under my breath.

"Sure, but what are you counting?"

I ignore him this time. I stop in front of the 37th column of plaques and squat down. I hold out my hand for the battery-powered screwdriver. "Hold the torch steady."

I get to work and in no time have the front of the box off. I set it down gently on the stone floor and take the torch back to shine it inside the box. I shove aside the small urn still inside the box and the light picks out the silver embroidery on dark fabric. I reach inside and pull out the package. It's a black bag with masking symbols stitched on it in silver thread.

I hand it to Dham so I can reattach the plaque to the front of the wall. When I'm finished I sit down with him and we open up the bag. Inside are two automatic handguns and several boxes of ammo. There's also a small flask of what I assume is holy water. I tuck it all back in the bag and stuff it into my backpack. "Let's go."

"Are there more spots like this?"

I nod and pull my hood up. It is misting, making halos of water droplets around the lit street lamps. "Becoming rarer. This is probably the last drop we'll get before the op."

"I'm amazed that you trust me with all this. What if I'm a traitor." Dham pulls up his hood, so it's harder for me to see his face.

I stop and turn to face him. "That's not funny."

His face is serious. "It's not meant to be."

We walk in silence. Finally, I say, "Do you think there is one?"

"Not really, I guess. But the security measures are pretty intense. And there are a lot of people coming from all over--how can they all be vouched for?" He sighs and gives me a knowing look. "It wouldn't be that hard to put someone in place."

More silence. Dham doesn't know the half of the measures that have been instituted since the Resistance decided to meet in London. "Harder than you might think."

He ducks his head with a smile I more feel than see. "I'll take your word for it then?" He changes the subject. "How are things with you and Ryland?"

I had dodged his question at the pub, but I couldn't dodge it out here. "Not good. He's mad that I made him put me on the team."

"He wants to protect you."

"I don't need protecting," I snap.

"Is it so bad?" He glances over at me. "Being protected?"

Depends on what you're being protected from. But I don't say that. Instead I say, "Not always. Unfortunately, protecting someone tends to lead to taking away that person's choices. To me, that's not protection."

I look over at him again. He's a tall blot of shadow next to me in the murk. I can't make out his features at all; he kind of looks like a specter floating beside me. I notice something off to the side of him, almost out of my peripheral vision. I don't move my head, but I try to track it with my eyes. As the shape passes beneath a street lamp almost out of view, I spot a splash of crimson. Redcloaks. Only one group wears that color: Inquisition.

I tug his hand to get him moving again. He turns his head, and I can sense his uncertainty. "Inquisition." He nods. "Keep your eyes open, there may be more."

We quicken our pace, not running exactly. It's hard to see the periphery with our hoodies up, but it helps to keep our faces obscured. The mist has turned to a light drizzle and I hope we look like nothing more than some dumb kids that got caught out in the rain.

"To your left," Dham whispers. I resist the urge to look, instead squeezing his hand.

We skitter across the next street and I spy another Inquisitor trying to look unobtrusive as he stands in the narrow space between two buildings. Dham squeezes my hand and murmurs, "Right."

The streets seem to be full of Inquisitors. I can't tell if their presence is because of the raid on the tunnels or if they are actually watching us. Or worse, following us, because they think we can lead them to the remaining Resistance. But that would mean they know who we are. If that's the case, then why don't they take us in?

I know that we can't go any further, not like this. We can't lead them back to the others or to any of the few remaining safe houses we have. "Follow my lead," I tell Dham, keeping a tight grip on his hand.

I giggle loudly. I am not adept at giggling, so it comes out sounding rather, I suspect, like a goose trying to speak German, especially since Dham gives me a look like I've just turned inside out and am wearing my organs on the outside. I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. He puts his arm around me pulling me closer.

"Another on the left," he whispers in my ear, pretending to nuzzle it. We pass this one and I laugh again, trying to sound girlish and flirty. I feel like an idiot. I wrap both arms around Dham's waist, eliminating any space between us. We're still walking quickly, our feet nearly tripping over the other's.

When we come to an alley, I pull Dham into it. I don't think about what I plan to do next because then I'll be too embarrassed. Instead I push him against the brickwork once we're out of sight and kiss him. I keep my eyes open so I see the startlement on his face. I can feel the tension in his body as I press myself against him. I push his hood back so I can run my fingers through his hair.

He pulls away from me. The whole world's gone grey from the rain so that even the green of his eyes is lost to me. Tentatively, he raises his hand to touch my face, brushing away the raindrops that have decorated my skin like tears. Then he lowers his head to mine and kisses me back with a gentle intensity.

My stomach leaps somewhere around where my lungs ought to be. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He spins me and now my back is to the brick. He pushes down the hood of my sweatshirt and I can feel the rain pelting down on us, but I don't care because his mouth is on mine and his tongue is doing things that make me wish this all wasn't an act.

I unzip his jacket, my hands anxious for the feel of his flesh beneath my hands. He deepens our kiss and I feel a powerful urge I've never felt before. I want him now, his body pressed against mine, stupid clothes forgotten. I want all of him: to touch, to taste, to mark as mine. Screw Cat and Ryland and the trip and the Inquisition and this whole stupid, stupid mess. I just want to get lost in the feel of his arms holding me tight and his lips burning on mine.

I tip my head back, feeling the drizzling rain cool my face as Dham begins kissing his way down my neck. My eyes are closed and I'm rocketing between sensations; the rain chilling me, running down my face in icy rivulets against overheated skin, and the fire wherever Dham touches me. I pull his head back up so I can return in kind. My arms yank him closer as my leg rises to wrap around him.

"You two!" A loud voice interrupts from the mouth of the alleyway. Dham and I spring apart, like guilty kids. Which we are, just not about _that_.

"It's just two kids out for a bit of fun." The man who joins him has a wide grin on his face.

"After curfew." I can feel myself tensing at the first man's words.

"I remember what it was like at their age." He turns as if to leave. "Get going, you two. And keep it off the streets next time."

Dham and I nod, relieved. The plan worked. I rub the back of my hand across my mouth, already missing the feeling of Dham's lips. I feel cold all over. We walk, heads down, to the mouth of the alley, trying for contrite and ashamed. Inside, my heart is pounding with a strange mixture of excitement and fear. Suddenly it doesn't matter that it was all a hoax, a put-on for the Inquisition.

I _kissed_ Dham.

"Wait a tic." We're just at the junction of the alley and the street, when the first man stops us. "Let's have a look in that backpack."

"Come on, Brian," his companion says.

"They're out after curfew," the guard insists, a deep frown creasing the lines on his face.

My heart drops to somewhere around my knees. I stare at Dham, who slowly blinks. "No worries," I answer and begin to slide the backpack off of my shoulders.

I angle myself so that Dham is off to the side and behind me. He's got a clear shot out of the area. I swing the backpack off of my shoulders and fling it at Dham, who's ready for it. He grabs it and takes off.

I'm already spinning, dropping low with a leg sweep. My shin crashes into the first man's legs, throwing him to the ground. I use my momentum to keep spinning and come to my feet directly in front of the second man. He gapes like a landed trout. My fist smashes into his solar plexus. As he staggers back, trying to catch his breath, I hit his temple with a roundhouse that throws him to the side.

The first man is getting back to his feet, so I sidekick him in the face as he's pushing himself off of the ground. But I can already hear the sounds of more Inquisition heading this way. I sprint off in the direction that Dham went, hoping to throw them off. I hope Dham can find his way back to the Highwayman without me. I have a feeling it will be a long time before I'm heading back there. If at all.

My hood is back up. I'm sacrificing peripheral vision, but it's better than letting the video cameras get a clear shot of my face. Bad enough that two Inquisition members got a look at us. I skid down streets and fly past empty shops. The sidewalks are slick, but the rain is good for one thing: it will be difficult for a Sniffer to track scents with all this water. No matter how enhanced they are, they are still bound by some natural laws.

I crouch down behind packing pallets and crates and anything else where I can catch my breath. Sometimes I hear the sound of pursuit; other times it seems I've lost them. But I know better than to rest for long. I need to keep moving and hope I'm the target they focus on. I let the video cameras at some of the corners get a clear look at me so I can extend the chase—a bit of the carrot to keep the mule pulling in harness.

Hours pass. Shouts rise and fall around me, some closer, others much farther away. I pelt onward in a jog, winded from running. There's a stitch in my side and I press my hand to it as I stagger along. I am close to the Thames, but I need to lose them completely before I can risk going back to the pub. I hope Dham has gotten clear.

I keep to the shadows as I search for stairs that lead down to the water. If I can hide under a pier or something, I may be able to lose my pursuit and then slip away into the crowds during the day. With the curfew and the fear of being questioned by the Inquisition, few people risk going out at night. Right now, I'm far too visible. And vulnerable. I wish for the umpteenth time that I'd brought my blades.

I am close to a set of stairs. I dart across the empty street when headlights flash on, catching me by surprise. Two men exit a small car. They are only shapes, tall and dark, against the brightness of the lights in my eyes. I move closer to the edge of the road, toward the side where it drops into the river.

I keep my eyes down at their feet to keep from being blinded as the men walk closer. I see the flash of red lining in the taller of the two men's coat. I glance up and my heart begins beating triple time in my chest. Raulston.

"You've led my men on a merry chase." His voice is deep and soft, like worn denim. I do not expect that voice to come out of that man.

I say nothing, instead choosing to look behind me. The water of the Thames laps against the stone wall beneath me. I scoot back until my heels hang over the edge. I know better than to look at the Grand Inquisitor, but I feel my eyes drawn up to his. This must be what a fly feels like when it realizes it has flown into the spider's web.

The other man draws something from under his jacket. It's a gun, heavy and black in his hand. I look from him to Raulston and back again. The gun doesn't waver.

"Now, you are going to come with us and answer our questions satisfactorily. I don't think I need to elaborate on the alternative?" He waits a beat, then frowns when I don't answer. Not that I could even if I wanted to since my mouth has gone dry. I wonder why Raulston would be out at this hour for something as insignificant as a teenager out past curfew. Even taking the assault into account, it doesn't explain why a Grand Inquisitor would bother with it. He's got underlings for escapades like this.

I am in deep trouble.

He gestures for his companion to come forward. "Shoot her in the kneecaps."

I push off with my toes, sending myself careening into the empty air. I twist around, trying to launch myself as far out as possible so I don't land headfirst on the stone stairway that disappears into the water. The water is like black glass spreading out beneath me.

Shots concuss the air behind me. I tuck in tight, trying to make myself as small a target as I can. The water shatters in front of me as more bullets strike it. Pain lances across my back like summer lightning. I cry out before I can stop myself and take in a faceful of the Thames as I disappear beneath it.
Chapter Twenty-Three

I huddle in an abandoned rectory of a church near the Canary Wharf area. I'm alive and free, which is a whole lot more than I expected when I went for my little dip in the Thames. Still, I'm soaked through and I've got a bullet graze on my back and the marvelous beginnings of a massive head cold. I wrestle my way out of my wet hoodie and spread it out to dry on the cleanest spot of floor I can find. I wrap my arms around my body and try to stay as warm as possible until the sun rises.

I have to get back to Ryland and the others. I have to find out if Dham got away. My mind strays to memories of our kiss in the alley and I feel a pleasant heat rush through me despite the clamminess of my waterlogged clothes. Even if it was an act to throw the Inquisition off our true purpose for being out, it still was a kiss. My first, if you don't count clumsy attempts with Patrick in order to get it out of the way.

My chattering teeth distract me from my pathetic romantic musings. No sense getting all moon-faced about something that didn't mean anything, not when I could likely die from hypothermia or some kind of awful infection in the wound on my back from my unplanned swim in the river. Those are much more immediate and important things to dwell on rather than whether or not a boy likes me. Still, I can't help wondering if he felt anything like what I feel.

I rub my arms and legs and creep over to a broken window for a look out. I can see the faint glimmer of dawn just beginning to color the sky with the barest hint of rose. It will be light soon, and light means people. And people mean that I can try and get back to the Highwayman in the crowd. Of course, it doesn't help that I look like some kind of homeless person and probably smell even worse; I'll just have to hope that the Inquisition's actions over the past few days are enough for people to keep their heads down and mind their own business.

I wait impatiently as the city slowly wakes up. I can hear the faint sound of a few cars soon joined by others on the road running past my location. As the sun rises, foot traffic increases. I wait until the sun is fully up and the morning rush to work is in full swing. My clothes have dried on me and I move stiffly as the fabric chafes against my skin.

I turn my shirt around and inside out, hoping to hide the bloody mark on my back. I debate about putting my hoodie back on and then decide against it. The Inquisition saw me in it last night; it might be better if I don't look so recognizable. I shove it in a hole in the wall, then make my way out into the street.

The morning is bright; the sky a remarkable cloudless blue. I hurry along with the press of humanity, hands tucked deep in my pockets. I spring for a bus ride, keeping my head down in case there is a video feed on this route. I get out far enough away from the Highwayman that I can at least shake off pursuit if I have to. I walk down the streets, keeping to areas where there are lots of people to mill about with.

I'm passing a newsstand when the front page on one of the papers catches my eye. It's a grainy picture, blown up to take up almost half of the front page, of Dham. I'm beside him, but you can't see my face hardly at all because of the hoodie. I'm glad I left it behind. But Dham's face is clear. One of the street cameras must have gotten a shot before he covered up.

I scan the article quickly, ignoring the fish-eye I get from the clerk at the register. It says Dham is wanted in suspicion of terrorist activities and anyone who has any knowledge of his location is to report him to their local Inquisition headquarters or to the nearest police station. It also mentions he is probably armed and is extremely dangerous.

Crap. Crappity crap crap on a crap cracker.

I put a coin on the counter and take a copy of the paper. Ryland and Dham need to see this. I'm happy because this means that Dham wasn't caught. But otherwise, this article is the worst kind of news. I tuck the paper under my arm and continue quickly down the street.

When I'm positive I'm not being followed, I head to Auntie's. I'm exhausted and I need a place to shower and clean my wound. Wearily, I climb the steps leading to the house and let myself in.

I'm pulled into a bear hug that smashes the breath from my lungs. I can tell it's Ryland by scent—for some reason he always smells like woodsmoke to me. I hide a wince as he brushes against the wound on my back.

"We thought you were caught," he whispers against my tangled hair. "When you didn't come back with Dham...."

"I got away," I manage to choke out, "but not before I took a bath in the Thames." No need to tell him about the bullet; I've worried him enough.

He pushes me away to get a good look at me. I can see tears standing in the corners of his eyes, but they don't fall. He blinks quickly. "Is that what that smell is?"

I nod, a giddy grin on my face. For the first time since last night I feel truly safe. "Is Dham here?"

Ryland nods, pulling me close against him. "He came in with the bag last night. He wanted to go out looking for you right away—I practically had to sit on him to keep him in here. I think Cat and Peter finally convinced him to get some sleep."

As we pass the kitchen I see Auntie hovering. I can tell she wants to come over, but she's letting Ryland debrief me. He orders food for me, then leads me to Auntie's private office. I slump into a chair, exhaustion plowing into me like a lorry. The rustle of paper at my back reminds me of the important news I carry. I reach back, wincing as the graze pulls sharply, and hand Ryland the paper. "We've got a problem."

Ryland takes the paper from my hand. I wait in silence as he reads the article. Finally he puts the paper down on the desk and says, "Damn."

"No, Dham." Clear evidence that I'm beyond tired; that joke is terrible.

Ryland doesn't even crack a smile. "We're running out of time." He stands up and begins to pace the small office. The sound of his feet on the floorboards beats out a rhythm that begins to lull me to sleep. I force myself to sit up straighter.

Auntie knocks, then enters with a plate of food. It's just some bread with butter and marmalade and some cheese and salami, but I start wolfing it down as if it is the finest gourmet meal. I swallow a couple of bites before I speak. "We already were." I look at Ryland. "What do we do now?"

He runs a hand through his short hair, the ends standing up like bristles. "We need to move the mission up. As soon as we can."

"How?" I take a huge bite of bread and sigh.

He leans down beside me, his arm resting across the back of my chair. "You let me worry about that." Ryland pauses for a moment, eyes intent on my face. "Amaranth, are you sure you are alright?"

I nod, but it turns into a yawn. Ryland smiles, a genuine one that actually reaches his eyes. He leans over and hugs me again. "Go get some sleep." He wrinkles his nose. "And a shower. You reek."

"You really know the things to say to charm a lady." I manage to lever myself back to my feet with only a slight wobble.

He pushes me lightly toward the door, hands resting briefly on my shoulders. "Get going, you."

Chapter Twenty-Four

Unfortunately for me, sleep doesn't happen right away. I'm on my way up to my room, dreaming of nothing so much as a flat surface—mattress not required—where I can drop into oblivion for a few hours. The bullet graze on my back is a throbbing ache. As much as I'd like to rest, the Thames reek has got to come off before the wound becomes infected.

I head straight back to the bathroom and let the water sluice away the smell. I use one of the spare washcloths to clean the graze as best I can. When I'm finished, I find the spare clothes that Ryland left by the door.

Once clean and dressed, I head to the door to my room. It opens and I'm hauled into it by my wrist so fast that I doubt my feet even touched the threshold. I let out an indelicate _eep_ before I realize it's Dham that's dragged me inside. I let my eyes adjust to the light in the room and see him standing in front of me, eyes locked on my face. Cat is beside him, alternating between looking irritated and relieved.

"You scared the crap out of me!" His hands are holding my upper arms, kind of like he wants to shake me. "Don't ever do that to me again!"

"I think what he's trying to say is that we're glad you made it back." Cat grins at me.

I raise my eyebrows. "We?"

She shrugs as if what she said is no big deal. "What took you so long?"

I look at my bed longingly. All I really want to do is crawl into it before I drop where I stand. "I jumped in the Thames."

"Ew."

"Exactly." I notice Dham staring and look behind me. My shirt is bloodied from the bullet wound. It must have reopened in the shower.

"What happened out there?" His eyes flick back up to mine before returning to the blood staining my shirt.

"It's nothing," I answer, suddenly embarrassed.

"Let me see." His voice is harsh, almost like a raven's caw.

From the look on his face I can see it's better if I don't drag this out with an argument. I turn around and lift up my t-shirt so he and Cat can get a look. I don't bother to turn my head; the effort feels well beyond me. I feel his fingers prod at my tender skin and flinch.

"I need the first aid kit."

"How's it look?" I ask as Cat leaves to get the supplies.

"Nasty graze." Then he sighs and his voice returns to something like normal. "Not too bad though. You were very lucky."

"I know it." I look around. "Did you run into any problems?"

"Not many, thanks to you." He sighs. "You had them running a merry chase all over town."

"Good," I mumble, beginning to nod off on my feet.

Cat returns with a large white box and sets it next to Dham on the floor. I sit down on the bed, grateful to be off of my feet and lean forward to give Dham clear view. As he works, he tells me of his flight from the Inquisition.

"Most of them went after you." He presses something cold and wet against my skin. "I managed to lose mine by getting lost myself." I stiffen as the wound begins to sting. "It took me a couple of hours, but eventually I managed to find my way back here. With the backpack." He sounds proud of himself.

I feel him slather something cool and creamy on the graze and then cover it with gauze and tape. "I thought about trying to find you, but I honestly had no idea where to start looking. And then Ryland ordered everyone to stay put." He lowers my shirt. "How did you wind up in the river?"

I give them the abbreviated version. Dham's face grows darker when I mention Raulston's order, but he keeps quiet. As I'm recounting my adventures, I remember the newspaper article. "They have a picture of you, Dham."

"What? How?" Cat's eyes narrow into angry slits and she looks like she wants to take on the Inquisition all by herself.

"One of the street cameras must have got him." I turn to face him. "Your picture is all over the front page. You're wanted as a terrorist."

"Have you got it with you?" He doesn't sound particularly worried about being the center of a possible manhunt.

I shake my head. "I left it with Ryland downstairs." Quietly I add, "We need to get you out of London as quickly as we can."

Cat nods. "That goes without saying. All of us need to get out of here."

Dham stands up and reaches a hand down to help to my feet. I'm so tired that I take it. "I'll go talk to Ryland, see what our next move is going to be. But you," he points a finger at me, "need to take five. Go get some sleep." He gathers up the first kit and Cat and leaves the room.

Before the door even shuts, I'm asleep.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I wake the next morning with a horrible crick in my neck and a dull ache in my back.. I stretch carefully, mindful of my sore neck and back and think about what I have to do today. If Ryland is moving up the timetable on the Gate mission, I have to free Patrick now. I have an idea of what I'm going to need to do, but I can't do it alone. I need at least one more person.

I already know who I'm going to ask. I throw on fresh clothes before making my way to Dham's room. It's late enough that he should be awake. I think. I knock lightly, just in case. After a few moments, the door opens.

"Hi Dham." I stand there for a moment admiring his face before I continue.

"How are you feeling?" He peers over my shoulder, as if he can see through my clothing. "How's the back?"

"It's fine. Look, I was wondering if you had time to help me with something?"

"Sure, Am." He runs a hand through tousled hair. He blinks sleepily at me. "What kind of something?"

I hesitate. There's a part of me that doesn't want to tell him, not yet. But that wouldn't be fair to him—how is he supposed to make an informed decision if I don't tell him the truth? He's going to find out soon enough. And I don't want him tricked into helping me. "Come up to my room, and I'll show you."

He laughs. "Well that's an invitation I can't refuse."

I blush, realizing how it must have sounded. I begin to stammer out an explanation, but Dham stops me. "It's okay, Amaranth. I'm kidding. I'll be up in a sec."

I troop back upstairs, resisting the urge to beat my head against the wooden banister for being such a complete idiot. What is wrong with me around him? Okay, he's quite cute, but I'm so off-balance when I'm with him. If I'm not being unintentionally rude, I'm being ridiculously dorky. Couldn't I just stabilize to mildly geeky and be done with it?

Dham's as good as his word and follows after me a few moments later. When we get to my room I close the door and gesture for him to have a seat anywhere. I begin to pace as I try to think of where to start. "I need your help. It's about my friend, Patrick."

"Do you need me to help you look for him?" I'd filled in Dham about Pat's disappearance to explain my absences, but hadn't told him much else.

I shake my head. "I've found him actually."

"That's great!" He sees the look on my face and his happy expression fades. "That's not great." His brows draw down in confusion. "Do we need to bust him out or something?"

"Kind of." I chew my lip, then sigh. I gesture at the pile of paper sitting on the bed next to him. "I've been doing some research and I think I've found a way to get the demon out of him."

"Exorcism?" He sounds dubious, as well he should; exorcisms have been notoriously hit or miss when dealing with demons, and now I know why. Most of the time the demon would not be expelled at all, or the possessed would die during the process. Exorcisms were only used as a last resort, especially since there weren't enough holy clerics around to perform them.

"Not exactly." I take a deep breath. "He's had the demon bound inside him. I'm going to try to break that binding."

"I don't get—"Dham's eyes widened in horror. "Our guide to the Gate? Patrick's the one they got?"

I nod. "I didn't know when I asked Ryland to help me find Patrick that he'd use him for this." I drop my head in my hands, feeling betrayed all over again. My voice is full of anger and hurt.

"A, you can't be serious." Dham's voice is hesitant. "Have you tried talking to Ryland?"

I get up to pace. "I already have. He knows I know, but he doesn't care. That's how I got the assignment on your team. I blackmailed him."

Dham stands up and walks over to me. "Look, I know it seems harsh, but he's got a good reason for doing it." He puts both hands on my upper arms and forces me to look at him. "We need a guide to get into Christ Church. Think of the Gate, of the good we can do."

I meet his eyes, trying not to feel hopeless. "Dham, please. Patrick's not just my friend, he's my family—the only bit I have left. I can't just leave him to this—not after what happened to my mother." My eyes drill into his, serious and unblinking. "If it were your friend—your family—would you stop? Would you just let it happen?"

He blanches, skin growing paler and I see the hurt hovering behind his eyes. I remember that he's lost a sister and wonder the circumstances behind it. Did I just push him too far? Had he been faced with a similar decision and made a different choice?

We stand there in silence for what feels like hours, although logically I know it can't be more than a few seconds. I lower my eyes, positive that he's going to refuse to help now that he knows what I'm truly asking. "I'm sorry I ask—"

"Okay," he says at the exact same moment.

My eyes flash back up to his face. He doesn't look happy, but he seems decided and steady. "Are you sure?"

He nods. "I don't particularly like it. But you're right." He releases my arms to rub his face. "If it were my friend, I'd want to help. It isn't right what Ryland did." His hands drop to his waist, where the belt that holds his bells usually hang. "Do I need to get my bells?"

I shake my head. "I don't think they'll be necessary." And they might attract attention. I narrow my eyes at him. "We could get in a lot of trouble."

"Now you're trying to talk me out of it?" His smile chases the shadows from his face.

"Just warning you." I expected to be relieved if he said yes, but my stomach feels like it's tying itself in tighter knots. My voice comes out harsher than I want it to.

He leans in close, so close that his breath tickles my ear. "I'll tell you a secret." I can feel my breath hitching as my heart begins to race. I wonder if he can hear the staccato quicktime beat of it. "I don't mind some trouble if you're with me."

I can feel the blush creep up my face, the heat of it burning in my cheeks. My stomach clenches, the knots in it forgotten. I duck my head, hoping he won't see the effect his words have on me. I can't get a handle on him—one minute I think I'm imagining that he could possibly like me and the next I'm blushing at his attentions.

"I...uhm...okay," I manage to stutter out, sliding away from him. He straightens, looking completely nonplussed by my withdrawal. Could I have imagined the undertones in his voice? Had he just been teasing me? I grab my notes and shove them in my backpack. It's already loaded down with the supplies I'll need: candles, salt, knife. I sling it over my shoulder. "Let's go."

****

I lead Dham down the old corridors, stopping before the door with the bar over it. I lever it off once more, placing it against the wall, and turn to him. "Whatever happens in there, do not cross or break his circle, understand?"

Dham nods, looking chalky in the torch light. "You do know what you're doing, right?"

"More or less." I don't look at him as I push open the door.

Trick is in the same place as last time, still bound to the chair and seated inside the pentacles. Dham stops just inside the door, eyes huge. I shut the door and move past him, beginning to lay out the things I've brought.

"What are you doing?" Trick's voice, so much like Pat's but so subtly different, echoes in the round room.

"I'm going to try and break the bindings holding you inside Patrick's body." My voice is even and I don't look up from my work. I begin to lay out the salt circle and pentacle, drawing the sigils of protection around it in magic marker. I stop to consult my notes once in a while to make sure I'm doing it correctly.

"You need more of a squiggle on the end of that one," Trick remarks, pointing his chin at the one I've just finished with.

I meet his eyes. There's something in them, a kind of slyness, but I can't think about that now. He's watching everything I do with great interest, even leaning forward in his chair. He nods once and I correct the sigil. I'm hoping he wants to be unbound just as much as I want to free Patrick and he's not setting me up for an express trip to the cemetery.

"What do you want me to do?" Dham asks from his place by the door.

"Draw a protection circle of your own." I gesture to the area next to me on the other side of Trick so that we're forming a triangle. I point at one of the pages and drop a canister of salt atop it. "Use that as a model."

"Got it." Dham collects everything and takes it over to the spot I indicated.

I go back to readying myself for the ritual. I survey what I've done so far—I've got the first half of the circle done, but I still need to finish the rest. It feels like it is taking forever, but I can't rush this. Every mark needs to be perfect or the safety of the circle and the outcome of the ritual could be compromised.

"I take all this to mean you found the incantation he used?" Tick asks.

I nod, not looking away from the inked lines.

His voice is softer this time. "You sure you can do this?"

"No." I consult my notes again. "But it's not like I have much of a choice."

"Why are you doing this?" Trick's voice is quiet, almost unsure.

I don't look up. I've got to make sure I have everything properly drawn and can't afford to be distracted. "Does it matter?"

"It might." His ever-present mocking smile is gone.

I finish up the last sigil and brush off my hands. "I don't like traps. And I hate being lied to." I gather up my notes, running through the incantation in my head.

"Interesting." Trick looks thoughtful. "We have that much in common then."

"Yeah, us and the rest of the planet," I mutter under my breath. Trick lets out a short bark of laughter, so totally unlike Pat's. I check out Dham. "You almost done?"

"All set," Dham answers as he takes his place in the center of the salt circle.

"Just don't leave the protection of the circle, no matter what happens, okay?" I take a deep breath. All of the items I'll need are in place inside my working area, everything easy to hand. I light the white candle that sits next to a bowl of water, then pick up the silver knife and braided rope of white linen. Auntie's tablecloth will never be same, but hopefully she'll forgive me.

I stand up and face Trick's pentacle. I begin to speak the words of the ritual haltingly at first, then find the rhythm of the strange words. I can see Trick nodding, as if agreeing with everything I'm saying. Hopefully that's a good sign. I glance down to see the next set of words I have written in my notes. I raise the rope above my head as the directions say, casting a quick look at Dham. He's staring at me, his face set like stone.

I kneel in front of the candle and dip the end of the braided rope into the flame. The incantation spills out of me, my eyes following along with my notes. I drop the burning end of the rope in the water. I pause in the chant to blow upon the rope. I check my notes again, stumbling a little over the last line of the incantation. I fold the rope in half and raise the knife and begin the series of chants again.

I thrust the knife through the braided linen, but misjudge the distance and force necessary. I slice through the rope alright, and into my hand. Blood wells up from the cut, staining the half of the rope in that hand. I drop the knife as I lose my balance and pitch forward, catching myself on my bloodied hand.

I can hear Trick scream "NO! What the bloody hell are you doing, you idiot?" as my palm hits one of the sigils I drew, the one with the squiggle he told me to add. Light flares from sign, almost as if my blood activates something. The incantation is flying from my lips now, a steady stream of words I am unable to stop. Trick is still shouting and now he's joined by Dham, who sounds like he's calling my name from a continent away.

But I can't look away from the light glowing in the sigils. It's spreading to all of the others, each of them flashing to life counter clockwise. I can hear voices, but they sound like they're growing farther and farther away. I can't look away from the light.

But then something strange happens. I feel a pulling from inside my chest, almost as if a piece of myself is being sucked out of me. The lights dim and begin to go out, the sigils fading into a red afterimage. I hear screaming--it's me but my own scream of pain is joined by another's, only this one sounds outraged and furious. I almost recognize the voice, feel so close to knowing what's happening if only the pain in my chest would go away...

Then the world seems to telescope inward until everything goes black and silent.

****

I slowly return to consciousness, feeling heavy and strange. I don't open my eyes for the time being, trying simply to figure out where I am. I am lying down on a cold surface, my body contorted uncomfortably. Nothing seems to be hurting, although I recall great pain before passing out. But I'm not in pain now. I just feel empty, wrung out, and a little bit _wrong_ , but in a way I can't put my finger on.

"I think she's waking up." It's Dham's voice and it is very close to me.

I crack open an eye warily and remember where I am. The pentacle room. Dham's face is there, blocking my view of the ceiling, but I remember now. I'd been trying to break the binding laid on Trick keeping him inside Pat's body. I try to sit up and my body protests, every muscle cramping. I squeeze my eyes shut, gritting my teeth as I wait for the pain to pass.

"Are you okay?" Dham's voice is close to my ear.

"Of course she's not okay!" Trick's anger is palpable even from where I am on the floor. "She's a complete incompetent! She's an imbecile, an utter lackwit!" His diatribe becomes more esoteric and I'm assuming more unpleasant since he's now speaking in a language I don't understand.

Dham helps me sit up and I look around. "You left the circle?" I put a hand to my head, surprised to find a bandage on it.

"You collapsed. After screaming bloody murder, I might add." He leans close, looking at my face intently. "I couldn't not come."

"How long was I out?" I have no idea how much time has been lost. It could have been only a few minutes or it could have been hours for all I know.

"Ten minutes at most." He casts a glance at Trick, still trapped within the pentacles. "He started shouting as soon as those symbols lit up and didn't stop until--well, he still hasn't stopped." Trick had moved on to a completely different language to presumably berate me in. "Was that supposed to happen?"

I shake my head. "I don't know. I'm guessing from his reaction," I point at the demon cursing in the chair, "probably not."

"You took quite a risk. I told you not to leave the protection of the circle." I want to be angry with Dham, but find that I can't be. I'm glad he's here with me.

"He was still contained, so I figured it was safe." He looks away. "Besides, you needed the help."

I don't say anything for a few moments, playing with the bandage on my hand. I want to see how bad the cut is, but it can wait until later. I have bigger problems. I take a deep breath and shout at Trick, "Can you shut up for a minute?"

He stops mid-yell and cocks his head. "Oh, she deigns to speak to me. How lucky am I?"

I roll my eyes and manage to get to my feet with Dham's help. "So I'm going to assume that the ritual didn't work."

"My word, what blinding insight you possess. You're a veritable prodigy with your grasp of the OBVIOUS." His upper lip lifts in an impressive sneer.

"Alright, alright," I say, holding up my hand to my head. "No need to be bitchy. We'll figure this out."

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" He looks away, disgust on his face. "Of course you don't, because you don't have the brains the Maker gave a bloody gnat!"

"Well then explain it to me!" I burst out, losing patience with being insulted. My head feels like it's about to fall off of my neck. "I've never cast a circle before, let alone tried to perform a half-written ritual, so fill me in on what went wrong before I make you eat a rosary, you spoiled git."

He grimaces, but meets my eyes. "Very well." He takes a deep breath, obviously trying to control his anger.

"You're still bound in there?"

"Correct." He almost manages not to spit the word out like an accusation. Almost.

"Well, I wasn't sure the ritual would work. It's not exactly a huge surprise, alth--" Trick's mocking laughter cuts off my words.

"What's he laughing about?" Dham looks back and forth between the two of us like he's watching a tennis match. "Hey, you! What's so hilarious?"

Trick smiles darkly at me. "Yes, it's not surprising that the ritual failed, especially considering the woefully inept conjurer attempting it. Sad, really."

"Get on with it," Dham growls.

"Easy, tiger, I'm coming to it." Trick flexes his arms against the ropes binding him to the chair. He looks straight at me. "You didn't unbind me, that much is true."

"So why are you so upset?" I didn't understand his reaction. This was a long shot at best.

"Did you not feel anything before you lost consciousness?" His voice is curious now, testing.

I look down at my feet, running through the final moments that I remember. There was a burning pain in my chest, as if something was being siphoned out of me. "I did." I look up at him, finding an unpleasant smile on the familiar face. "It felt like something was being pulled out of me."

"I felt the same," Trick states. "Unfortunately, I understood what that feeling meant." He sighs. "Not only did you fail to free me, you managed to do something that should have been so far beyond you as the stars are beyond a common ant. I'm now bound to you. As you are to me."

He stops to glare at me. "It's been a long time since I've been duped so thoroughly by a human. You really got me. You have a naturally affinity for spellwork that I haven't seen in quite some time.

"You're my master now."

I gawp at him. I can see that Dham is doing the same. Trick's mouth pulls up in what approximates a grin, but it's painful to look at. "What do you wish of me, master?"

Chapter Twenty-Six

I am in no shape to do anything than reel at Trick's words. Natural affinity? What does that even mean? Dham pulls my arm around his shoulders and begins to walk with me toward the door. I'm grateful that Dham is here to help me out of the tunnels and back to Auntie's. My head feels like it is stuffed with rocks wrapped in wet cloths. Every time I move, the rocks tumble against the inside of my skull with a dull, squishy thumping. I'm finding it hard to stay upright or even know which is the right direction to walk in.

Trick isn't happy that Dham's dragging me out. "I suppose I just wait here for you, shall I?" His voice has taken on its usual sarcastic tone. "Don't mind me while I languish in solitude tucked away in this forsaken cell. Just pop on down whenever you need something, and I'll be more than happy to provide it like the good little slave I am."

"Shut up!" Dham turns to face Trick, bringing half of me with him. I'm tucked underneath his arm, doing my best to stay upright. I groan as the movement makes my head pound. "She was trying to help you!"

"Not me, imbecile," Trick hisses, eyes alight with fury. "She was trying to help this meat suit I'm trapped inside!"

"Could you both please be quiet?" I struggle to form words. "I think I might be sick."

I breathe slowly through my nose, trying to get my stomach to stop doing ballet leaps all over my body. Eventually everything settles down to approximately where it should be. I still feel punch drunk, but at least the initial fear of vomit has passed.

I face the demon. He's still bound inside the pentacles and tied to the chair. His nostrils flare out angrily, his usual impassive mask gone. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't plan this, but I need to figure this out. I'll be back."

He opens his mouth for an angry retort, then suddenly stops. His face takes on a placid look and his voice is calm when he speaks. "Fine." He raises his hands as far as his bindings will allow and waves his fingers. "It's not like I'm going anywhere."

I stagger away from Dham, coming to the very edge of the pentacle marked on the floor. "I'll figure out a way out of this. I promise." I meet his eyes steadily. Trick blinks, clearly surprised at my words.

"You'll forgive me if I don't hold you to that." His eyes stray up to the ceiling where the other pentacle has been marked.

"What does it mean that we're linked?" I keep my voice low, eyeing Dham.

Trick's eyes catch and hold mine. There's a burning deep in them, turning the brown irises into something almost dark red. "Your life force and mine. If you die, I cease to be."

I rock back on my heels, stunned. "How is that even possible?"

"Conjuration is a powerful force. Even I don't understand it all. But it is possible."

"What about you?" I'm wondering if it goes both ways.

"Me?"

"If you die—or whatever on this plane—does that mean I do too?" My last few words drop down to a whisper.

Trick eyes me carefully, as though weighing what he should tell me. He could lie and I know I can't trust a thing that comes out of his mouth, but if what he said about the binding is true, lying will gain him nothing. Finally he says, "I am not sure. But I would assume so." He sniffs dismissively. "To be frank, I really only pay attention to what might happen to me." He smiles cheekily.

I frown, the pain in my head almost a thing apart now. This is too much to take in. I need to do more research into the Key of Solomon and see if there's anything in there about this kind of binding. The strange thing is that I used passages that felt right when I was creating the ritual. It looks like my instincts were wrong. There has to be a way to undo this.

"I'll be back." I say it again, both for Trick and for myself.

He nods once. I hobble to the door, amazed at how even my muscles hurt. It takes twice as long to get out of the tunnels than usual, especially since we have to try and go by ways where few people will see us. We manage to get topside and I even manage to make it to a park near Lincoln's Inn Fields before I have to rest on a bench for a few minutes to get my breath. I feel strangely exhausted, like I used up every ounce of my strength.

"So what exactly went wrong?" Dham picks at some grass and threads it lightly between his fingers.

I lean my head back against the bench, almost too tired to respond. The sun is warm on my face and there's a light breeze that barely rustles the leaves of the trees. On days like this, it is hard to believe that the world is anything other than good. Then I open my eyes and I see that we're the only ones sitting in the park; most people rush through it with heads down, determined to get home to where they think they're safe.

I think of children spying on their parents, of neighbors turning in their friends for suspicious behavior. Safe doesn't exist. Nowhere is safe.

I shake my head. "I have no idea. Most of it was guesswork."

"How did you even know where to start?" Dham lays back in the grass, chewing on a long stalk.

"I rifled through Ryland's files until I found what I thought was the ritual he used to bind the demon inside of Patrick in the first place." I close my eyes again so I don't have to see the expression on his face.

"A, you can't just play around with that stuff." He sound equal parts worried and angry. "Are you crazy?"

I open my eyes and sit up. I stare at him, carefully gauging my next admission. He's in this with me, I might as well come clean about the other secret I have. "There's something I need to show you." I stand up, swaying for a moment. "Come on."

Dham catches up to me. "There's more?"

I nod. "It's not safe to talk about here." I look around the perimeter of the park, but I can't see anyone who looks openly like they work for the Inquisition. That doesn't mean they aren't out there though.

"I get that," he says. We walk abreast down the brick path. "I'm just a little surprised."

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He's wearing a very slight smile. "Surprised how?"

"You never struck me as the rule-breaking type." He nudges me with his elbow, nearly sending me sprawling. "It looks good on you."

I roll my eyes. Oh yes, my devil-may-care recklessness is so appealing that I am well nigh irresistible. Clearly. Right up until I get us all hauled in front of Ryland or worse. Then we'll see how bloody good it looks.

I lead him up to my room and lock the door. "What I'm about to show you does. NOT. LEAVE. THIS. ROOM."

Dham waves his hand at me. "Well, go on. You can't lead with something like that and just stand there." He puts his back against the footboard of my bed and stretches his legs out on the floor.

I pull up the floorboard and stick my hand into the hidey hole and pull out the warded bag that holds the book. I take a quick look outside my window before closing it and the shade. Then I bring the package over to him. I slide the book out and lay it flat on the floor between us.

"A book?" He's trying to keep the skepticism from his voice. He mostly fails.

I gesture for him to open it.

With a dubious look at me, Dham flips open the cover and leafs through the front until he comes to the title page. He looks up at me with wide eyes. "Not just a book," he breathes. " _The_ book." He turns a few more pages. "How did you get your hands on this?"

I clear my throat nervously as I confess. "Remember that night we went out to dinner and I wound up running away from the Inquisition?" At his nod, I continue. "The two men that they had captured—one of them threw a bag with this book in it at me. I picked it up and ran."

Dham keeps his eyes on the pages. "This is real then?"

"As near as I can tell." I sit down on the bed, leaning against the footboard as Dham peers over it. "I don't understand most of it."

"What were they bringing it here for?" Dham slowly closes the book.

I rub my temples. "I assumed it had something to do with the meeting and the trip to Rome." I pause, lowering my hands to twine around each in my lap. "There's something else too."

Dham looks at me sharply. "What now?"

"A Sniffer." I can barely bring myself to say it out loud.

Dham is on his feet in an instant. "Are you nuts?" He begins to pace. "There's a Sniffer involved and you didn't tell anybody?"

I gesture for him to lower his voice. "First off, I didn't know they'd bring in a Sniffer." I tick each point off of my fingers. "Second, it never got a clear enough scent to be able to properly track me. And third, I did a smudging just as soon as I could get away with it. I've been looking for signs of the Sniffer, but it never came back."

"That's not the point!" At my pained look, he lowers his voice again. "That's not the point. You should have told Ryland or Auntie or somebody." He stops his pacing and comes to stand in front of me. "At the very least you should have told me and Cat since it's our scents the thing might have picked up."

I can feel the flush beginning to rise up my neck. I'd never even thought about that. All I had been worried about was myself and finding a way to save Patrick. It didn't cross my mind that I might be putting them in danger. I drop my head so I'm staring at my blanket. "I'm sorry."

Dham plops down on the bed next to me. He sighs and puts his arm around me. "Okay, is that it? Is there _anything else_ we should know about?"

"Aside from the double life I lead as an exotic dancer named Chesty McFunBum? No." I'm not entirely sure where that came from. Maybe being bound to Trick is affecting me in more ways than we both realize.

Dham turns red. "Ha. Ha." He glowers at me. "What do we do now?"

I extricate myself from his arm and answer, "I need to sleep off whatever the after effects of that spell are. Trick told me it would be draining, but I had no idea. I couldn't fight off a kitten in this state."

"And the book?" Dham nods his head at it.

I pick it up and put it back in the spelled bag. "It stays here. We can look through it tomorrow to see if we can find something that will reverse the binding. And I've got notes on the ritual I filched from Ryland. Maybe we can figure out what went wrong." I put a hand to my head. The pounding has lessened but not gone away completely. "In the morning."

Dham nods. "In the morning then."

He walks out, but then stops at the door. He leans into the door frame, but doesn't look at me. "I was worried about you. You know, back there." Green eyes flash up to mine. "I'm glad you're okay."

"I'm glad you're glad." I smile stupidly, unable to stop staring at his lips. "Thanks for everything, Dham."

"I really ho—" he begins but Cat's yell from the down the stairs cuts him off.

"HEY! DHAM!"

"She's looking for you." I smile again at him. He takes a step back and grins back at me. I close the door as he's turning to go downstairs.

Then I collapse into bed and slide into the comforting darkness of sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven

Before I can get back to Patrick, news comes that night. We move on the Gate at dawn. Dham and I have to report to the Underground to collect Trick and meet with the rest of the team by four a.m.

I collect Dham at three. I haven't seen or heard sign of Cat, which makes me wonder when her team had to leave. I knock lightly on Dham's door, and before my hand has dropped, the door opens. He's there, dressed and ready, looking amazingly good for such an unholy hour. He smiles, sending my heart thudding in my chest, and grabs his backpack.

"Let's go," he says, swooping past me.

"Did you get any sleep?" I follow him out the front, making sure the door locks behind us.

"A little." He turns to look at me, grinning at the suspicious look on my face. "Okay, not much."

He sets a quick pace, so brisk that I have to trot to keep up at times. He seems almost eager for this. I wonder what he's thinking. He seems different from the boy I picked up from New York. Thinking of New York reminds me of Peter. A shiver cuts through me.

"Hey Dham, have you seen Peter lately?"

He nods, not slowing his pace. "Yeah. He's on Ryland's team. Why?"

I feel only marginally better. If he's going down into the church ruins, it's unlikely he'd betray us, especially on Ryland's team. I shake my head. Where did that thought come from? Peter may be a bit of a creeper, but he hadn't done anything disloyal or treasonous. The mission must be messing with my head.

We hit the Underground and I lead us straight to Trick's room. I throw off the bar and pick the lock with shaking hands, cursing when my fumbling makes me clumsy. I don't know why I'm so nervous. I wrench open the door, asking Dham to keep a lookout. Then I step inside and look at Trick.

It's easier if I don't think of it as Patrick, even though it is Patrick's face that stares back at me. I ignore Trick's mocking greeting and stretch my blade up, scratching a line through the carefully painted Pentacle's outline, breaking the upper seal that keeps Trick in.

"What are you doing?" He doesn't sound frightened, more curious than anything else.

"You're coming with me. I've got a job for you."

The familiar eyes narrow in an unfamiliar way. "What kind of job?"

I roll my eyes. We do not have time for this, but I grit my teeth and strive for patience. "I need you to come with us and help me."

"I'm listening." He's calm as ever.

"Excellent. I'm going to cut your bonds and get you loose, but on one condition. You come with us where we're going and make no trouble for us along the way."

His eyes are wide. "Is that an order, mistress?"

"We don't have time for this." I stand just outside of the circle, arms crossed in front of my chest.

"I agree." His eyes are unreadable.

We stare at each other for a few moments. "Fine," I sigh. "That's an order."

"As my mistress wishes." He sits quietly in the chair.

"I'm coming in now to untie you." I wait a moment, gathering my courage, then step across the seal on the floor. I expect to feel a tingle or something, but I step across with no problem. Probably because I'm an ordinary human; if I'd been a daemon--spirit--whatever, I'd be caught like a fly in amber. I cut through the ropes binding his arms to the chair with my blade, then do the same for the ropes at his feet. I step back across the seal while he's getting up.

He stands and stares at me. I stare back, trying to get a read on him. This is a huge gamble on my part. He could just leave us here, or worse. But I have to try this. "Your word."

"I swear by the four elements, by wind and water, by fire and darkness, by earth and ruin, by battle and blood that I will obey you until such time as I am released." He doesn't sound happy about saying it, but it is the best I can do for right now.

"Right then." I drag my blade against the pentacle on the floor, severing the magical ties of completeness. Trick steps across, stretching to his full height with relief. "Come on."

****

Our team is in the first to head in. The Sweeper teams have already been through, clearing this level. We don't expect the heavy duty magical deterrents—the true nasty magic—until closer to the Gate. Dham is in the middle with Trick. I'm at the front with Sergei and Michael. Anatole and Lyle bring up the rear. I wait for the time for us to move in; when it comes, I motion for the rest to follow me.

We're going in through an old water tunnel. A river ran beneath parts of London at one point and some of the waterways still exist. Earlier Resistance groups had excavated and mapped as much as they could and my group was lucky enough to have drawn this route. It is the safest of all of the routes in play, so we stand the best chance of making it inside with most of the group intact.

The walls of the cavern are slick with moisture and mildew as we splash through the standing water. I glance at Trick who shakes his head slightly. Nothing to report so far. I follow Sergei, dropping back so I can check on Dham. He looks calm, so I hope he's gotten his ringing issues under control. Now would be a very bad time for them to flake out.

"You okay?" I ask as we walk. I keep my eyes moving, alert for any movement out of place.

He nods, his eyes roving the darkness. We've muffled the lights from a few torches so we have barely enough to see by. He seems a bit tense, but otherwise fine.

"I'm doing rather well," Trick whispers, leaning over Dham's shoulder. "In case you were interested."

"I'm not," I hiss back, then move back to the front of the line. So far we haven't encountered any guards, or signs of Inquisition or demons. The sweepers either did their job well, or this isn't a known entrance.

We make a few turns and then come to a dead end. This is what Ryland told us to look for; now we just have to find the right brick. I wonder briefly how his team is doing. He and Peter were in the main group trying the most straightforward way into the catacombs beneath the ruins. I signal for Trick to come forward.

The demon does, looking none too happy. "Do you sense anything?" I ask.

"Besides an overwhelming fear of contracting tuberculosis? No, nothing."

I count the bricks, then press the fifth one up and one over. It depresses slowly. We wait nervously as the grinding noise of stone on stone echoes through the tunnels. I grit my teeth at the noise—it's worse than nails sliding down a chalkboard. We might as well just hire a bloody marching band and parade them through the vaults for all of the noise this entryway makes.

I slip through the opening as soon as there is enough room for me to fit. My blades are out, but I find the corridor empty. Odd. Our sweepers are good, but I would have expected some sign of their passing, some evidence that they'd secured the area. I crouch, creeping over to the next junction while I wait for the others to come through. Nothing there either.

Dham and Trick join me. "Does this seem strange to you?" I ask Dham.

He nods thoughtfully. "Seems off." Dham turned to watch the others. "Something's not right."

I look at Trick who shrugs nonchalantly. When everyone has joined us, I take off again, following the map in my head. Ryland had me memorize all of the routes in and out of the area in case we are compromised. I lead us down the narrow corridors between old burial vaults. I wonder how the rest of our groups are doing.

Something is niggling at the back of my brain. I agree with Dham—this isn't right. I wave for Michael, the young man responsible for the explosives, to come up level with me. I put my mouth to his ear and tell him, "Have your bombs ready. You set them when I tell you, understand."

"Yes, ma'am," he says. I'm younger than he is, but only by a year, perhaps two. He's barely old enough to shave off his whiskers. I send him back to his place in line, and signal for Sergei to keep moving forward.

A few more turns and we're very nearly there—the main chamber that had been carved out of the rock directly beneath the altar. I crouch forward with Trick. "Anything?" When he shakes his head, I sigh. "It's fishy."

"I'm inclined to agree." The demon doesn't sound nervous at all. In fact, he sounds like he might be enjoying himself. Bastard.

I pass the word for everyone to be ready. Where are the sweepers? We should have run into at least a few of them by now. The knot in my stomach is winding tighter and tighter. Cat is with Kevin's group—I wonder how they are doing. Are they feeling the same sense of dread? Are they noticing something is amiss?

I nod to the team, using hand signals to indicate everyone's placement once we get into the vault. I count three and rush into the room, my team right behind me.

And I nearly trip over the corpse of one of our sweepers. Her throat has been cut. There's blood everywhere. I look up and see a small shiver of energy in the center of the room. "Is that it?" Somehow I thought it would be more impressive.

"No," Trick says quietly.

I turn to look at him just as Ryland's group bursts in. I look up at the roof of the chamber and see Inquisition suspended there, waiting like spiders in their webs. "TRAP!" I scream and point upwards. The stutter shock of automatic gunfire fills the air. I drop to a crouch, pulling Dham and Trick down with me.

I can see Ryland struggling with an Inquisition member who's dropped down from an alcove. Where's Peter? I don't see him anywhere. He's supposed to be on Ryland's team. The remnants of Ryland's team take up strategic positions, trying to pick off the Inquisition members.

"Go," I tell Dham and Trick, jerking my head down a side tunnel. "I'll catch up."

I move to catch up with Michael. He's crouched behind a pillar, his hands over his ears. I run low, weaving in and out, never in a straight line, trying to make a harder target. He's got his pack off and is rummaging around in it. "Light it up!" I shout at him, hoping that what he's rummaging for are the explosives he carries.

Just as I'm in arm's reach of him, his head jerks forward. Blood sprays me with a fine mist. He tumbles to the floor, and I'm a moment behind him. I belly crawl to the pillar as bullets hit so close to me that I'm peppered with concrete shrapnel. I grab the body and use it as a shield as I work to remove the bombs from his pack. I try not to look at the ruin of his face. I can hear the screams as people are hit, but I don't know if those screams come from our men or the Inquisition.

Shouts come from behind me, and I hear the sound of Dham's bells. I pop my head up for a quick look. Dark shapes are boiling out of the mini-Gate, or portal, or whatever it is. I can't tell if they're demons or more Inquisitorial Guards come to join the fray, but I know we're done for if that gate stays open.

My hands find the first of the bombs. I lay it on the ground in the shelter of the body and pull out the rest. Not just bombs, but some grenades, flash bombs and smoke bombs as well. I can't hear Dham's bells over the sounds of the fighting, and I hope he and Trick are okay.

My next look out shows me Ryland positively besieged. I pull the pin on a grenade and lob it in the direction of the portal. My aim is shaky, but it is close enough to take some of the heat off of Ryland. I follow up with a flash bomb for good measure. I know I'm risking blinding my own people but I'm running very low on options.

I dump everything else out of the pack and shove the bombs in it, holding one in my hand. I lean out to get a bead on the room, throwing the pack over my shoulder. Dham and Trick are making their way back towards me. Dham has his gun in hand, firing at whatever targets make themselves available. Trick crouches behind him.

I wave at them to go back, but Dham shakes his head. I sprint over to him, bullets riding my wake. "It's blocked," he says as soon as I'm within hearing distance.

I pull them down behind an overturned plinth. "I've got to close that thing!"

"Good luck with that," Trick says sardonically, then ducks as concrete shatters above his head. "Bloody hell."

I pull out a smoke bomb, shoving it into Dham's free hand. "This may help give me some cover."

"What are you going to do?" he asks, firing off another round. He hits a Redcloak.

I tuck one of the remaining grenades in his pack. "I'm off. You may need that to clear the way out. Don't lose it. Or blow yourself up, if you can help it."

Dham grabs my arm just as I'm ready to break from cover. "Be careful."

Trick nods. "What he said."

I nod, then take off. Dham lobs the smoke bomb high. I've got my elbow over my mouth as choking grey smoke begins to filter throughout the room. I scurry from area of cover to area of cover--usually just bodies or broken crypts--as visibility begins to waver. The smoke is making the edges of things fuzzy. I wait a moment for it to more fully cloak the room, then take off in a broken line for the portal.

Nothing else is coming through--there appears to be a pile up of bodies in front of it that may be blocking it. I wonder if it goes both ways. I arm a bomb and toss it into the portal. The bomb disappears and then the small blot of energy shivers moments later. Not sure what that may mean, but I hope it's good news for our side.

Ryland cleaves through the smoke to kneel at my side. "Give," he orders, holding out his hand. I put one of the three remaining charges in his open palm.

"What happened?"

"Our intel was all wrong. It was a set up." His face is coated in sweat, grime, and blood.

"Tell me something I don't already know." I flinch as a bullet comes so close I could feel the breeze of it passing by.

"They were driving us here, to the killing floor. Exits are blocked. My team got shredded on the way in." He places the bomb against the stone block behind the gate.

"What about Peter?" I ask, because I know Dham will want to know what happened to his friend. Ryland sees someone coming towards us in the smoke. He fires as soon as we see the red coat.

"Haven't seen him. One minute he was with us, the next we were under attack. I'm hoping he got away." He spares a look around the room. "Those columns, there and there," he indicates them with a nod of his head. I can make them out through the wisps of smoke. "They're load bearing. We take them out the place comes down."

"Bury the Gate. Good plan, but what about our men?" I look into Ryland's eyes and I see the bleakness of his decision. "Oh, God."

"We'll try and get as many out as we can." He sets the charge. "Set it for one minute, then attach it and get out. We'll meet back up in the Underground." I nod and take off running.

Something rears in front of me from out of the smoke. I dodge past, barely evading a knife strike. I sweep low, taking out the Redcloak's legs. He crashes down beside me and I'm off again, heading for the pillar. A spray of bullets cuts through the murk right behind me and I leap into the air. I land in a tuck and roll, coming to feet only a few feet from the pillar.

I slap the bomb against it, and set the timer for one minute. I hit the button to arm it and take off in the opposite direction. I'm hoping I find Dham and Trick where I left them. I feel rather than see something coming at me from the darkness, so I turn my run into a skid, sliding below the blade that was aiming to take my head off.

Now that my hands aren't full of bombs, I pull my blades. I lunge forward, extending my arm fully. I feel the shock up my arm as my blade connects and sinks into flesh. I yank back and continue on in a half-crouch. I still hear random gunfire, but it seems erratic. The smoke is beginning to dissipate somewhat, although thicker patches linger.

Trick's face leers at me as the mist parts and I stop my sword mid-swing. "I almost skewered you!" I shout, grabbing him and pulling him after me. I almost trip over Sergei's body. "Where's Dham?"

"Here!" I hear him shout from off to my right.

"Have you seen the others?" Dham shakes his head. Bollocks.

"Follow!" I order and take off toward the passageway we came in through. "Get ready with what I gave you!" I sheath one sword and pull my last grenade out.

An overhand throw sends the grenade skittering toward rest against the wall. Dham follows with his. The three of us huddle together, waiting for the impending BOOM. I put my fingers in my ears to lessen the sound, although at this point, I'm probably half-deaf already. The grenades go off and bricks and dust rain down on us. I get hit in the head, but don't even feel it until blood runs into my eyes from the cut. I wipe it away and lead Dham and Trick over the rubble.

"Move move move," I urge, pushing them over the rubble. Water is flowing in from the jagged opening where the secret door used to be, and we slosh through it. Trick loses his footing and I grab him, yanking him back upright and shoving him through the hole. Dham's gone first, a bell in one hand and his gun in the other.

I look back, knowing the clock is running down. I can't see anyone I know: not Ryland or any of the others of our group. As I turn back to go through the blown out wall, I see a familiar face just getting up from the supposedly blocked tunnel. I could swear it's Peter, but that's not possible. Is it?

I don't have time to think about it. We need to put some serious space between us and that crypt. I stumble over the rubble and splash into the tunnel.

"Charges are set to blow any second. RUN!"

Dham and Trick take off like hounds on the scent, leaping away in an impressive burst of speed. I follow after them, wondering if anyone else has made it out. Where're Cat and her team? Did they even make it into the tunnels or were they stopped before they even got there?

I felt more than heard the detonation. The ground shudders beneath my feet, pitching me to the ground. I hear two other splashes as Dham and Trick lose their balance. I look back and only see a cloud of dust issuing from the blasted hole in the corridor. I push myself to my feet, feeling more tremors through the water and my boots.

"Let's go," I say, jogging past Dham and Trick who are just now regaining their footing. "We're supposed to meet up in our section of the Underground."

"If there's anyone left to meet." Trick says the very words I'm thinking.

"Less with the talky talk and more with the running," Dham says, matching pace with me.

I lead us back the way we came, but when we come to a junction, I make a left rather than continuing down the passage. Dham looks at me curiously. "Where are we going?"

"We can't come out where we came in," I say, from my spot beside Trick, who is jogging between me and Dham. "There's sure to be Inquisition staking it out. The explosion may have rattled them, but it won't keep them out long. We need to find another way."

"Do you know where we're going?"

I give Dham a withering look, which he probably misses in the gloom. "Yes. Approximately." I hear Trick sigh.

I haven't had much cause to come down this way, but I got a look at Ryland's maps during our prep for the mission. I may not have a photographic memory, but I am good with maps and I have an excellent sense of direction. I'm pretty sure I can put us out someplace reasonably safer than where we were and get us back down to the Underground.

We wind deeper into the tunnels and the water rises as we go. Soon it is up to our knees. I take another turn, a right this time. The water recedes a bit and the passageway looks to be more recent. Another turn and we reach a fork, one goes into darkness, where older tunnels lurk, and one leads to the way out. I begin to lead us toward the surface.

Dham grabs my hand. "A, think for a sec." He points at my swords and then at his bells. "We can't go up there with these. Or looking like this."

I hadn't really given it much thought, but Dham is right. Plaster and rock dust coat our hair and clothes and skin. I know I must have blood all over me, and not just mine. We look like refugees from a war. And while Trick isn't packing illegal weapons, he looks just as bad as we do.

I backtrack. This is the way I'm less sure of because there weren't very many markings on the map. But I know that if we keep following them, we should come out in an unused Underground terminal. But the Blights are going to be a lot worse this way.

"There is a way we can go that doesn't take us to street level." I scratch at a bit of dried blood. "But stay close. No funny business." I look at Trick. Then I turn to Dham. "And make sure your bells are ready." Both nod.

I sheath one sword and pull out my torch and use it to light our way. These tunnels are dark and old, unlikely to have been traversed recently or renovated at all. I know we'll be alerting our presence to anything down here with an appetite for human, but I prefer that to stumbling blindly into something nasty in the dark.

We muddle through the darkness. The noises of the chaotic fighting and explosions are a memory; now all I can hear is the lap of water in the darkness and the splash of our footsteps. Occasionally, I wave the torch off to the side, making sure I don't pass a side tunnel that will lead us closer to where we want to go.

Sometime later--it may be a few minutes or a few hours since telling time in the dark is next to impossible--I feel the hairs along my arms and at the back of my neck rise up. I feel like I'm being watched from the darkness outside of the feeble beam of the torch. I flick the light quickly upwards and catch the tip of a blackened, clawed appendage that flees the light.

"Um, Dham?" I whisper, not wanting to spur on the Blights that are gathering at the edges of our light.

"On it." His voice is grim.

"There are about fifteen of them," Trick offers helpfully.

Lovely. We can't take them all on--we're outnumbered three to one, and that's if I allowed Trick to hold a weapon, which I won't because I'm not completely mad. Dham's bells might disable some and my blades do the rest but it won't be enough. Not nearly.

Dham swings the bells, and their sound reverberates throughout the confines of the tunnel. Shrieks surround us, drowning out the sound of the bells. I leap forward, blade slashing. I hear Dham ring the bells again. I spin and whirl, lighting up demons with each strike of my blessed blade. The demons are nightmarish things: black and bloated and reaching towards me. I shout, stabbing at the scaly limbs outstretched to grab me.

I hear a shout. Dham! I whirl around, sweeping my sword in a half-circle to gain some room. I back up until I am next to him, blade held in the ready position. Dham's holding his side.

"Are you okay?" I keep my eyes on the demons just on the edge of the light.

"Yeah," Dham says, breathlessly. "Just a scratch."

"Don't be a hero. How bad is it?" I wish I had the time to look at it myself.

"It's not too bad." He's still get his arm pressed against the wound so I can't get a clear look at it. I have to take his word.

"Do you have anything else useful in that bag of tricks of yours?" Trick asks. I frown, not understanding his question. He points at the extra pack I'm carrying.

I think for a moment. It should be almost empty. I think there was another smoke bomb and a few flash bombs....

"Link hands and get ready," I order, handing Trick the torch. I pull the bag around to the front and dig inside it until I feel my fingers close on the first of two flash bombs. I grab both.

"Dham, grab my jacket and hold onto Trick. Cover your eyes on three." I activate the flash bomb, throwing it into the darkness and cover my eyes with my arm. "One, two, THREE!"

The light is nearly blinding in the enclosed space, even though my eyes are covered. I can hear horrible, painful noises from the Blights that had gathered around us. The bright acetylene light is burning them. "Hang on and keep up with me," I hiss.

I lead us through, keeping my eyes focused on the darkest part of the area we're passing so I don't wander blindly into a side tunnel and get us lost. Even still, my eyes are watering at the brightness and for a while we don't need the torch. "Keep your eyes covered," I warn as I lead them deeper into the tunnels. I hold the second flash bomb in my hand just in case.
Chapter Twenty-Eight

It seems like we walk forever until we make it to a location I think looks familiar. We had to use the last flash bomb several turnings back, so I'm hoping this area is clear since we're getting on toward fairly well traveled pathways now.

I lead us down an old earthen corridor, built by the early Resistance. Over the years we've branched out, adding additional tunnels that lead to various spots underneath London. Sometimes I'm amazed we haven't brought the city down around our ears.

I call a halt. "Let me see it."

Dham shakes his head. "It's nothing."

I glare at him. "Trick see if we've got any first aid in the packs."

Dham sighs, then raises his arm so I can take a look. I lift his shirt carefully, ignoring the muscles and pale golden skin beneath my hands, and pull off the makeshift bandage that it has made. Blood flows again. Dham flinches. "Sorry," I whisper, my mouth suddenly dry.

"S'okay." He's keeping his eyes trained on the wall behind me.

"Here." Trick hands me a water bottle. I open it and take a sniff. It's just water, not accelerant or anything nasty.

I pour most of it on the wound. It's long and shallow, but it is messy.

"Bandages," Trick says. He holds them in his hands.

I take a few from him. "You won't need stitches, but you'll need to be a little careful with it." I put a few gauze bandages on him, covering the wound completely. "That will have to do until I get you someplace cleaner to really have a go at it."

"Thanks," Dham says, lowering his arms. I hand him what's left of the water. I allow us a few minutes rest, trying to forget the feel of Dham's skin beneath my fingers. It's not working, so we press on.

I take one that branches left and follow it until it branches again. We don't have enough people to patrol every tunnel, so I'm expecting to run into some trouble along the way, but we make it to the main tunnel that will eventually lead us to the main set of tunnels. My shoulders tighten with anxiety. The absence of lesser demons could mean that they've been eradicated by our people, but more likely means they've been recruited for an attack on our main area. I fight the urge to run to see if the trap has already been sprung. Getting caught won't help any of us.

I stop at the intersection of three corridors and listen. I can hear a faint rasp ahead of us, like scales on stone. Big scales. I lower the illumination on my torch and creep ahead, waving for Dham and Trick to stay back. He shakes his head and follows me. The lights are broken here so my torch is the only light in the tunnel, which might as well be a placard reading _Tasty Snack Here! Come Get Some_.

The rasping sound grows louder and faster. I train my torch on where the sound is coming from and catch a glimpse of something tall and snakelike weaving down the tunnel towards me. It lunges, a large hood unfurling, and I dodge, feeling the displacement of air as the attack sails over my head. It looks like an extra-large cobra, man-sized, from what I can see of it. I hear a dry rattle and instinct tells me to dodge so I do. A huge stinger, similar to a scorpions crashes into the earth near my head.

Lovely. I'd say this was a Nag, but London is out of its preferred hunting ground. Way out. Like several continents over. But the scorpion tail doesn't match up with anything I've heard of. Maybe this demon started to get a bit creative with the body modification.

I put myself between it and Dham, going down a new tunnel, trying to lead it a more open space. I'm hampered by the close walls, severely limited in the power of my strikes. Then again, that means the demon is likewise hindered and can't rear up to its full height. Lucky me.

Dham's already ringing, pulling bells out of his harness. The sounds have no effect though. He tries again.

The thing lunges again and I jab at it, catching it across the hood. My blade skids across it, leaving a score mark. Light flickers against the wound and yellowish liquid begins to seep across the black and coppery scales. It makes a high-pitched gurgling noise and lashes out with its stinger. I slash as it comes down and the stinger flies free, spinning over my head to land behind me somewhere in the darkness.

"A little help here!" I dodge another strike.

"What do you think I'm doing? Knitting?" Dham shouts back.

I stab it again, blades digging into the tough hide. The demon shrieks its gurgle again, throwing back its head and hitting the top of the tunnel. Earth rains down as the creature writhes in what looks like pain. It is trying to back up, away from my blades. Dham tries again, three bells held in his hands. He continues to sound them, one ringing out as the others die away.

It lunges at me and I'm too slow. The Nag bowls me over. I hit the ground and roll, trying to come to my feet, but the snake demon is relentless. It slithers forward, jaws snapping at my face.

"Hey!" Dham yells.

A bell soars through the air, striking the Nag in the face. It rears back again. I don't hesitate. Springing forward, I stab into the creature's chest with all my might. The blade sinks into the scales like it's carving through cold butter. Red lightning flares beneath the scales as my blessed steel cuts into it. I twist the blade, making the hole deeper and wider. With a final shriek and a shudder, the thing begins to shimmer. When it finally fades, only a smear of yellow ooze remains behind.

"Hey?" I gasp, winded.

Dham walks over and collects his bell. "I got frustrated." He shrugs.

"Well, thanks." The adrenaline is coursing through me, making feel like I'm going to shake apart if I don't keep moving.

"You too." Dham moves up beside me, close but not touching. I could reach out to him if I wanted to. There's a part of me that does, that wants to feel something real and solid. I fight monsters, we could be heading into a trap and all I want to do is snatch a moment of _normal_ in the midst of it. I feel like I'm this close to falling apart.

"Which way now?" His voice grounds me, shakes me loose of the craziness that I feel on the verge of.

I point. I shake my head to clear the cobwebs when I feel his hand touch my arm. "Amaranth, it's going to be okay."

I'm torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to scream. How can any of this be okay? I don't know what's going on at the place I've called home for the last seven years, I don't know if anyone down here is still alive. But laughing or screaming aren't options; neither will help us get out of here, find the others, or get us any closer to ending this.

"I hope you're right," I whisper, looking into his face. The ready smile is gone, giving his features a serious cast. He's looking back at me, eyes flickering over my face as if trying to read something there.

"I am." His face loses the serious expression. "Most of the time."

I find myself smiling a little. "Those are better odds than I've had in a quite some time."

"Let's not waste them."

"While the ambience down here is truly exquisite, can we get a bloody move on?" Trick's voice rings loudly in the tunnel.

Dham gestures in the direction I indicated with a wide sweep of his arm. "Lead on, milady."

"As you wish, milord." I turn the illumination of my torch back up to full.

We've walked only a few meters when Dham asks, "What was that thing?"

"I don't know. I've never seen anything like it down in the tunnels before." I turn down a new tunnel going right. "But if not for the stinger, I'd have sworn it was a Nag."

"A Nag? Snake demon?" At my nod, he whistles. "They're not something you see every day."

"You know of them?" I'm surprised. I wouldn't have thought they'd have those kind in the United States.

He nods. "Just research. I ran across a mention of them in a book once. I remembered them because the illustration was so cool looking." He shook his head. "Not nearly as cool in person though."

"If it was a Nag, it was way out of its normal habitat. They're mostly found in India and Asia. Too cold for it here." Trick is strangely quiet. I wonder what he knows that he's not saying.

"Import?"

"Maybe." We're coming up on the main Underground tunnels now and I lower my torch's light again. Lights line the corridor, making it easier to see. I listen carefully for any sound of conflict, but I hear nothing but my breathing and that of Dham beside me.

I pick up the pace now that the tunnels have widened out. There's the urge to hurry, to run rising in me. A strange sense of panic claws up my back; I'm not used to panic. Fear, yes, but this is entirely different. Dham quickens his pace, his long legs eating up the distance, like he's feeling the same thing I am. _Gettheregettheregetthere, hurryhurryhurryhurry_ runs through my head like a prayer mala. Without realizing it, I break into a run.

We come to the barricade. I brought us in a different set of tunnels so we bypassed the train car. The barricade is unmanned, but there's no sign of a struggle. I lead us in, blade drawn and ready. Dham has his hands at his belt. I lead us quickly down the inner tunnels. There's no sign of anyone. It's as if everything has been abandoned. Or left. I feel like I'm walking through a ghost town.

Then I see it. A blasting charge. The Inquisition has been here.

"Come on," I shout, taking off at a dead run. I pass several more charges as I lead us down the main branches toward the Pentacle room. As we do deeper in the bowels of the Resistance warrens, I stop seeing the charges; they must have only set the more popular paths. There may still be people down here. But we have to hurry. There's no telling when they could decide to blow the whole thing.

"Is that what I thought it was?" Dham's voice sounds a little breathless but he's keeping pace with me easily. In fact, I have to push myself to keep up with him.

"Is blowing stuff up tonight's theme?" Trick asks to no one in particular, although Dham laughs.

Dham is waiting at the door impatiently and we set off at a run. I am leading us toward the ladder to the apartment complex on the surface, following the twists and turns that I know by heart. I look back every now and again to make sure Trick is still with us. He's there, between Dham and me, keeping pace.

I skid around a corner and come face to face with a tall man. He's not one of ours, not anyone I recognize. He's holding two long, bloodied knives in his hand. I don't want to think of where the blood came from. His sleeves are rolled up and I see the brand marks of the Inquisition on the skin of his forearms.

"What have we here? More rats?" His voice is a sneer.

"Stay back," I hiss to Trick and Dham. "I'll get rid of him."

The man throws back his head and laughs, a harsh, strident sound. It makes me want to vomit, as does the blood that's dripping to the floor. I take up a guard stance as he steps closer, slashing with his knives. I have a longer weapon, but he's got the reach on me, so we're pretty much equal. And I'm trying to keep him away from my companions, while he's unencumbered.

I slide back, out of his reach for the moment. We're running out of time. I don't know when those charges are rigged to blow, but the fact that he's still down here gives me hope that the Inquisition will wait until all of its members are clear before triggering the charge. But I don't know. They've sacrificed their men before on much less important operations.

He glides forward, faster than I expect and slices with his left. I dodge, but too slow and he opens up a gash down my upper arm. It's not bad, but it will hamper my movements, as will the blood loss. Dham swears, but I motion him back. He needs to get out of here with Trick.

Suddenly there's the sound of metal striking flesh and bone with a dull gong. The Inquisitor staggers, revealing Cat standing behind him. Her Died bell is raised above her head. She smashes it down, the edge of it catching him across his temple, and he goes down like a sack of potatoes. She slams the bell into his face to make sure he stays down, then looks at us.

"Cat?" I manage to get out once I finish gawping like a landed fish.

"How did you get here?" Dham asks, coming forward to hug her.

"Kevin brought me here after everything went tits up. He's gone back to see if he can help anyone else." She straps the bell back in the harness on her chest, making sure the clapper is secure.

"Timely assist," Trick ventures.

"Who's this then?" Cat peers at him curiously.

"He's on our team. Introductions later." Dham pushes us all down the hall. "Escape now."

I break into a run, hoping we don't run into anymore Inquisitors. I didn't even check to see if the one Cat took out was still alive, but he's the least of our worries. We reach the ladder and I gesture for Cat and Dham to go first, followed by Trick, then me. We climb quickly, reaching the trapdoor. Cat pushes against it, but it doesn't budge.

"It's locked or blocked or something!" She calls down in the darkness and I curse. "It won't open!" There's panic in her voice and I can't blame her. I hadn't thought that they'd lock this door when the Inquisition attacked. It must mean they've abandoned this area.

"Scootch over," Dham says, climbing up next to her. He wiggles out of his pack and hands the strap down to me, over Trick's head. He puts his back against the trapdoor and heaves himself up. I see a sliver of light as the door lifts up, then crashes down again. "There's something on top of it, but it's not locked."

"Do you think you can force it open?" I ask, wondering how much time we have left.

"Maybe," he grunts, pushing against the door again. It opens a little wider.

"Hang on a minute. I'm coming up."

Trick scoots to the side of the ladder to make way for me as I climb up with Dham's pack draped over my shoulder. Cat climbs down and for a few seconds we're just an awkward jumble on the steel ladder bolted to the wall. Then she's down next to Trick and I'm up next to Dham. "Let's both push together," I suggest.

We do a quick count and on three we both shove our backs against the door. With a groan it heaves upwards. "Quick," Dham gasps. "Shove something under it."

I hope Dham can hold it for the few seconds it takes to swing his pack off my shoulder. I stuff it through the opening and he relaxes. Dim light is streaming through the small opening. "You ready for another shove?"

Dham gulps in a deep breath and nods. "Now it's just leverage."

Again on three we buck upwards, bracing our legs against the rungs and forcing our weight against the trapdoor. We strain our muscles, groaning against the wood. Then I hear something topple and the door flies open, landing with a flat smack against the floor. I scramble through, grabbing up Dham's pack as I go. I reach back down and give Dham a hand up.

I do the same for Cat and Trick, who has been remarkably quiet through all of this. I'm not sure what to make of that. When he was in the cell, he was much more cocky. I don't know if this quiet indicates he's plotting something. Probably, knowing a demon. While everyone is getting rearranged, I glance up the stairs. Nobody is around and there's no sound coming. It looks like the Inquisition may not have found out about this particular hidey hole.

"Come on, we can't stay." I slam the trapdoor closed and Dham and I right the heavy chair that held it in place.

I lead the way up the stairs, blade still drawn. Cat is behind me, followed by Trick, with Dham in the rear. The stairs are empty, but this early in the morning, it makes sense that no one would be up and about. As we get to the first floor I see watery sunlight splashing through the sidelights of the main door. Dawn has come.

"If anyone asks, we're tourists heading to our next hostel." That would explain the packs and the early rising. I tuck my blades back into my bedroll, which happens to have obfuscation wards sewn into the blanket. I'm hoping it's enough to hide what my swords actually are. I look to make sure everything else is stowed. Dham and Cat's bells have disappeared into their packs as well. We all look perfectly ordinary, except for Trick who looks a little off. Hopefully not enough to attract attention though.

"Where are we going?" Dham asks as we troop down the front steps.

I stop. I'm not entirely sure where is safe anymore. I spread my hands out, not knowing what to say. When I look at Cat and Dham I feel like an utter and complete failure.

Help comes from a surprising source. Cat says, "Let's head to Auntie's. If it hasn't been compromised, we can regroup there."

"That's as good a place as any," Dham says, squeezing my shoulder. I nod. He then asks Cat what I've been wanting to know. "What happened to your team?"

She wipes a hand across her eyes. I notice that it's shaking. "We didn't even make it halfway in. The Inquisition was waiting for us, like they knew we were coming. Most of the team was shredded before we could get back out." She takes a breath and asks, "You?"

"Pretty much the same," Dham answers.

"This wasn't just a failed mission," I begin, working it out as I speak. "The portal was a trap--the Gate was a fake. Someone fed us false intel and then leaked the plans for the attack to the Inquisition."

"You've got a spy," Trick concludes, his voice carefully neutral.

"We're going to have to figure this out--we don't know who we can trust anymore." Cat sticks her hands in her pockets.

I nod. "We'll have to see who made it out. Maybe then we can get some answers."

Dham stares at me for a little too long and there is a sadness in his eyes that I almost can't bear. I'm afraid he's going to ask the question I'm dreading: And what if no one is there? I don't want to think of my friends, of Ryland, captured and tortured by the Inquisition. Or worse. I look down.

"Can we get this party moving?" Trick's voice cuts through my reverie. He's got a sardonic grin on his face. "I'm sure all of this betrayal and bloodshed is fascinating to you, but I'm getting a bit peckish. And frankly, you're boring the hell out of me."

"I've got to say I'm with him," Cat adds, jerking her thumb at Trick. "Can we go?"

I sigh. Of course Cat agrees with the demon. They're perfect for each other. I shake my arm from Dham's hand and orient myself. "Come on," I say as I lead them to what I hope is safety.

We've only gone maybe a block or so from the apartment building when the ground beneath us shivers. A low boom echoes from where we've come. I look back and see a grey plume of dust or smoke rising into the air. They've blown the tunnels.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I'm so glad to see Auntie's that I fairly sob. I know I should take us to a safehouse--if there even is one--but I can't think anymore. I just want to go someplace familiar, someplace we can regroup. When I see it is still standing and it looks like it always has, I sag in relief. I am getting ready to cross the street, but Dham's hand on my arm stops me.

"We should check first. Make sure it's clear." He leaves his pack with Cat—they contain his bells—and heads off to scope the building.

We're huddled in an alcove between two buildings. Dham disappears into the back garden. I wait anxiously, until the front door opens and Dham waves us inside. We dodge across the street and into the safety of the house. Auntie's there to welcome us.

"What happened?" she demands as soon as we're safely inside.

I give her the short version, beginning with the failed raid on the false Gate and ending with the bombs in the tunnels. I tell her that we found Cat in the tunnels, but no one else. "We don't know if anyone else got out. Not even Ry—."

"Hush now," Auntie tuts. "You all need to clean up and get some rest while we wait to hear something. But one thing's for sure—you're going to have to get out of London."

"And go where?" Dham asks.

"We'll figure that out." She looks at each of us in turn. Then she spots Trick. "Who's this then?"

"He was on our team. This is Trick." I lever myself to my feet, feeling drunk with exhaustion and spent adrenaline.

"I'll find him a place to stay," Auntie says, about to bustle off.

"No!" I nearly shout. I'm so tired it came out louder than I planned. "No. He can bunk with me." I give her a meaningful look.

She doesn't say anything for a long moment, just stares at me. Finally she nods. "Very well. Trick stays with you."

I beckon Trick and we head up the stairs. "You can have first shower."

"My joy is boundless."

"Wanker."

****

I wake up to someone shaking my shoulders insistently. I open sleep-blurred eyes and see Auntie hovering over me, face anxious. I sit up from the floor, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand. "What is it?" I whisper. I look past her to check on Trick, still asleep on my bed.

"It's a raid." Her eyes dart out my open door, checking the hallway. "The Inquisition. You need to go."

The Inquisition is here? How? I don't have time to think because Auntie is throwing my clothes at me. I shrug into them, noting that my shirt is on backwards and grab the pouch with my rosary. I hang it around my neck, tucking it inside my backwards shirt. I pull up the floorboard to get out the book and other papers. I grab my pack and begin to shove my things into it while Auntie stuffs the warded blanket roll that contains my blades into the sleeping bag holder.

I wake Trick. His eyes open instantly, so fast that I wonder if he was sleeping at all. "Trouble," I tell him.

"Of course," he practically sighs. He accepts the fresh clothes from Auntie and shrugs into them. She's got a pack ready for him too. She's probably been preparing for a possible raid since we walked in the door. I could kiss her.

"This is not coincidence, Amaranth. They're after you now. You and the rest need to get out of London, out of England. Put as much distance as possible between you and them." Auntie's breath comes fast, but her voice is calm. "Get out to the garden and take whoever is out there. Get them someplace safe. I'll get the rest out."

I hear banging on the front door. "They've probably got the whole building watched."

Auntie shoves a packet at me and pushes me down the stairs. "The buildings around here will block the view from the garden for a little while. You remember where the brick is that's stamped with a compass rose? On the wall?"

"Yes." I tuck the packet into my pack.

"Press it and follow the path." She shoves me down the stairs. "Don't wait for me. I'll be right behind you."

Trick and I race down them as she follows at a slower pace. I can hear raised voices ordering someone to open the door. I duck into Dham's room and use his back door to let myself out into the garden.

Dham, Cat, and a few others are waiting for us. I don't wait to see if they follow, instead making my way straight to the wall where the special brick that Auntie mentioned is. I feel around in the dark for the outline carved into the brick, going by touch since I don't dare use a torch. Finally, my fingers find it and I press my whole hand against it. The brick moves inward and an ivy-covered door slides back. I pull Dham after me, trying not to listen to the shouts and crashing coming from inside the boarding house.

I swing the door shut behind us and lead the way by feel. My hands touch both sides of brick walls. A bit of light from the stars filters down through green growth overhead, but it is still too dark to see more than vague shapes. I follow the turns of the passageway, moving as fast as I dare. I'm not sure where this will let us out, but hopefully it will be far enough away from the Inquisition.

I can hear Dham and the rest shuffling behind me. None of us speak, afraid of being overheard. My breath sounds shaky to my ears, but I concentrate on putting distance between us and the Inquisition. I can worry about everyone else later. I move forward on quick feet, hoping I don't smash face first into a wall.

I stop abruptly, my nose inches from a wooden door. I lay my hands flat on the wood, feeling for a catch or latch of some kind. I can feel tendrils of something overgrowing the wood and then my fingers glide across something cold and metal. I fumble with the latch in the dark, then slowly open the door.

I'm in another garden. It is overgrown with weeds and other grasses. A large tree drapes over most of the left side of the yard. I look up at the house and see it is in disrepair. No one probably lives in it but beggars looking for a place to get out of the rain. A few windows are busted in, but other than not being kept up, it doesn't look too bad from the back.

I ease out of the passage cautiously, motioning for everyone to stay where they are. I do a circuit of the garden, then wave them through when I find nothing but trash and overgrown vegetation. I climb the three steps to the back door and turn the knob. It opens silently beneath my hand.

I step inside carefully, mindful of any alarms or home-rigged booby traps. The inside is remarkably clean; no trash, freshly swept, and no smells of decay or garbage. Odd. I'd have thought squatters would have set up shop in here long ago. I poke my head into the rooms as I pass. No furniture, not even found objects that could be turned into chairs or beds.

I do a quick check of the upstairs to find more of the same. Abandoned but not inhabited. Clean but no signs of anyone living here. I go back downstairs and beckon for everyone to come in. I lead them all to one of the back rooms with no windows so we can't be seen from the street. I'm unsure just how far away from Auntie's house we are, but if the Inquisition is patrolling the streets, I don't want them finding us.

I wait for the group to settle. "Looks like we've been caught out." I look at the expressions on all of their faces: shock, fear, anger, resignation. "I don't know—"

"What do we do now?" someone asks in a whisper. Nods come from all around.

I look at Cat and Dham and Trick. Most of the people here weren't involved in the Gate raid. I have no idea what to tell them. I don't know where to send them. Auntie's place used to be safe; who's to say the other safehouse haven't been compromised as well? "Lay low," I begin. "The Underground has been breached, so stay away from the tunnels."

"What about safehouses?" a young man asks.

"I don't know," I answer, dread making my stomach clench. "Some may have been discovered or everything may be okay." I think for a moment. "If there's anywhere else for you to go, try that first. Avoid anything to do with the Resistance, at least for a while. And stay out of sight until morning."

I gesture for Dham, Trick, and Cat to follow me. When we are in a different room, away from the others, we hunker down. We drop our packs. I'm glad to see everyone's seems to be full. Auntie had been busy.

"So Inquisition raid?" Dham asks.

I nod. " They must have been tipped off somehow. Auntie didn't tell you?"

"She just came into my room, ordering me to get up and out to the back. Then she threw my pack at me." He jerks his head to those behind him. "I met up with all of these guys in the garden." He checks that his bells are safely stowed in his pack, then leans his head against the wall. "Now what?" He sounds worried.

I open up my pack, pulling out the packet that Auntie gave me. "I'm not sure." I open up the brown paper to find a stack of Euros, fake passports, and a piece of paper. "Check your packs." I dig around in my pack for the torch and begin to read.

"It's a list of safehouses throughout Europe," I whisper as everyone roots around in their packs for a few moments. "Auntie told me we had to get out of England." I hand Dham the page so he can look.

Cat holds up a stack of money. "I've got cash and a few passports."

Trick also has a roll of bills in his hand. "I've got some too." He roots around. "Food and water too."

Dham's eyes scan the entries quickly. "Wow."

"I don't recognize any of these from Ryland." I lean closer. "These must be Auntie's personal contacts."

"But why?" His eyes flick over the paper again.

I sit back on my haunches and think. Auntie's no fool. She had a reason for preparing such a packet. Combined with the raid on the house, I think I can guess what it is. "In case we were found out." I tap the page in his hand. "She put this together in case the mission was compromised."

"Exit strategy." Dham's voice sounds hollow.

"Worst case scenario." I stare into his eyes. "A traitor. She was ready for it."

Cat lets go a blistering curse. "We're done then." She shakes her head in resignation, her shoulders drooping.

"Not necessarily." I'm formulating a plan on the fly now, talking through it as soon as ideas come into my head. "We leave. Get out of town, out of the country."

"And go where?" Dham asks.

I hold up the note Auntie packed for me. "With the names on this list we can go anywhere. I'm betting very few people know about these names. There's still a chance for us to get clear."

"And do what, exactly? Hide until the Inquisition forgets all about you?" Trick asks, his voice mocking.

"Don't you mean us?" Cat shoots back so I don't have to. I hide a grin. He waves a hand, dismissing her and I see her mouth purse tightly as she clamps down on angry words.

"Rome," I say, an idea forming in my head. "Vatican City." I look around and see the blank faces of my companions. "The catacombs below Vatican City. They're supposed to hold all kinds of arcane knowledge that the demons either can't or won't destroy." I look a Trick and get an almost imperceptible nod. "The true location of the Gate could be there, along with a way to close it." I stare at Trick. "Among other things." I hope he understands what I mean. There's a chance we could find a way to reverse the spell binding him to me there too.

"You've gone soft in the head," Cat scoffs. "There's no way we could even get there, let alone break into Vatican City. I'm sure there are all kinds of wards and guards all over the place. We can't just waltz in there with just a how-de-do and expect them to let us in!"

"Have you got a better idea?" I challenge.

Cat bristles. "Yes, as a matter of fact. I head back to my village."

"That's fine for you, but it won't work out so well for the rest of us." Nice. Cat only thinking about herself. Why did she bother coming to London anyway? She should have just stayed in her manky village and rung her bell alone.

"Oh, and haring off to Rome will work out better for you?" Cat begins to get up from her sit so she can pace. "I'm not crazy. Or suicidal."

"I expect you to do whatever you like," I snap, worn down from the stress of the previous days. "But I wish you all of the luck in the world getting out of London with that bell on you without getting pinched by the Inquisitorial Guard." I fold my arms over my chest and lean back. "Without help you'd be nabbed as soon as you went a few blocks."

"I don't need your help!"

"Then don't take it." I get up. "I need some air." I make for the back door and step out into the fresh night air of the garden.

Dham follows me. For a while he just stands next to me as I breath in the scent of dead vegetation, then he turns me to face him. He stares into my eyes for a long time. I look at him, wondering what he's thinking. Maybe he's reconsidered everything. Maybe he'll want to leave. Maybe he'll think I'm insane. Finally, he blinks and relaxes. "Let's do it."

I want to grin, but I fight the urge. Dham's coming with me. That's all that matters. I won't be going alone. "Are you sure?"

"As sure as I've been of anything. Where you go, I go." He bends his head down so his mouth is almost at my ear. I shiver runs through me at his nearness. He smells of clean soap and something more metallic, like his bells--a scent that is uniquely his. I want to stay like this forever.

Then I remember something very important. If he's coming with me, he needs to know everything."We've got one problem," I say to Dham.

"Oh, just one?" His voice is husky. It makes me want to run my fingers through his hair and pull his mouth down to mine like I did in the alley.

"It's about Trick." My mouth is very close to his now.

He pulls back."What about him?" Dham's brows draw down over his eyes, making him look angry.

I look at him, trying to keep my voice steady. "The spell. We're bound to each other. If he dies, I do too. That's the other reason I need to go to Rome. To see if there's a way to break the binding."

"Amaranth." Dham whispers it like a prayer.

I smile tiredly at him. "I know. I was stupid." He shakes his head, almost amused.

The sound of a fire engine passing interrupts the moment. Noise from several streets over begins to filter to us. The smell of burning begins to fill the air. I peer up and see plumes of smoke and the flickering light of flames rising over the low roofs. I track the way we came back to the destination and suck in a deep breath. Auntie's is on fire.

"No," Dham breathes beside me.

I stand there, stricken. Auntie's is burning. I wonder if everyone got out, how the fire started, if Auntie is okay. I want to go back, to help. But Auntie got me—us—out for a reason. She thought it important for us to make our escape. I won't forget that. And I won't fail her.

"Amaranth, we..."

"Let's go." I shake off my paralysis and take a left. "We need to get the others and get moving."
Chapter Thirty

I walk into Covent Gardens already unnerved by all the people. My eyes flick around like a dragonfly, unable to settle in any place or on any one face. Any one of these people could actually be Inquisition, a thought that I can't stop running through my mind. I'm glad I left Dham, Cat, and Trick behind at the Winchester; I don't want them to see me all jumpy and paranoid. While the Winchester is not on the Resistance's list of safehouses, it is friendly to us, as evidenced by the curlicue on the sign. We can stay there for a bit and plan our next move.

I weave my way through market stalls and vendor kiosks, eyes alert for any sign that I'm being shadowed. I stop at random stalls, picking up items and then putting them down, browsing through old fabrics, window shopping the jewelry on offer. Just a girl, out to spend some of her pocket money before the true crowds descend. I wear that persona like armor, hoping no one will see through it.

My stomach rumbles and I stop to pick up a pastry. I nibble as I walk, trying to take a circuitous and natural route to my destination. The Resistance has a contact at Covent Gardens, an old man who owns a stall specializing in oddities and antiques. He's on good terms with the Inquisition, surprisingly, and acts as a sort of mole for us. They like to check out his wares from time to time and he always appears to give them first crack at anything that might be really special.

After about a half an hour of wandering casually through the growing throng, I finally come to my destination. Airy maroon draperies divide the sides of this stall from the others beside it. A small, glass-fronted case sits in the middle of the space, holding timepieces, jewelry, and an assortment of oddments, some of them quite valuable. Strewn about the rest of the stall are various metal instruments, strange wooden signs, and lots of things that look like junk. It's a perfect cover.

In the center of all of it, surveying everything like a king overlooking his vassals, is Sir Paul. He's not really a Sir, but he likes the honorific and he well deserves it with all of the help he's provided the Resistance. I saunter up to the counter and point at something in it, miming out the process of shopping.

"Amaranth, what brings you here so early?" Sir Paul reminds me of a kindly grandfather, eyes twinkling as he looks at me.

"Can I see that one, please?" In a much lower voice, I fill him in on the events of last night. "We've been compromised. The Gate mission was a trap. Auntie's was raided and the tunnels breached." I see his hands shake as he reaches into the case. His mouth is pulled down in a hard line when he looks back up at me. "They blew some of the tunnels. We've got a traitor in our midst."

"Who's left?" He pulls out a tarnished pocket watch. "Here you go, young miss."

I shrug, taking hold of the watch to inspect it. "I don't know. I haven't seen anyone and didn't want to risk a safe house just yet." I hold up the pocket watch by the chain. "How much?"

"Head for the Highwayman near the Thames just west of here. You know it?" At my nod, he smiles grimly. "It shouldn't be compromised—only Ryland and myself know about it."

I hand him back the watch. "Too rich for my blood." I pretend to glance again at the wares in the case. "Will you direct anyone else there?"

He shrugs. "If I trust them, I will. Godspeed, Amaranth."

I leave him then, keeping my steps leisurely. I stop at a few more random shops, eyeing this or that shiny bauble. I want to run to the Highwayman as fast as my tired body will allow, but I know that is foolish. I can't do anything that might draw suspicion to me or my friends. I make a point to sniff flowers and amble without any sort of direction before I turn down a relatively deserted side street.

I drop the act. My steps turn purposeful and my stride lengthens so that I'm almost running. I want to see if anyone—if Ryland—has made it to the pub Sir Paul mentioned. I may be furious with him, but he's one of the few people I have left that I care about. I need to find out if he's alright. My anger at him for what he's done to Patrick is forgotten for the moment. I can be mad at him when I know he's safe and whole.

I pass a doorway that probably leads to the kitchen of a restaurant. I barely notice it. But I feel arms around me, pinning my arms to my sides. I'm lifted off of my feet and pulled into darkness before I can do more than cry out and begin to struggle.

I'm dropped unceremoniously on a hard, cold floor. I hear the click of a light switch and the small room floods with light, making me blink and wince. When the spots clear from my eyes, I see a man standing by the switch, blocking the door. I climb to my feet, steadying myself into a fighting stance.

The man turns and I launch myself at him before I even realize who it is. Ryland. My brain kicks in, but it's too late to stop my momentum. Fortunately, Ryland is ready for me, grabbing my wrist and jerking it painfully to the side, but I'm too relieved to care about the pain. He's alive.

I stop struggling and he pulls me in close, arms engulfing me in a huge hug. I can feel my throat begin to close up, clotted with unshed tears. My arms go around him too. Everything about Patrick isn't important, not anymore. "I was afraid you were still at Christ Church or the tunnels..." I whisper, unable to finish the thought.

I feel, rather than see, his head shake. "No. But I was worried that you'd gotten caught out in them." He pushes me back, taking a good look at me, as if to assure himself that I am actually in one piece.

I get a good look at him now too. A bandage covers the left side of his face, red seeping into the white gauze. "What happened?" I point at his face.

He puts a hand to the bandage, close but not touching it. "Inquisition caught me—opened me up good. Got it stitched up, but hurts like hell." Seeing the concern on my face, he smiles one-sided. "I'll be fine, Amaranth." His face grows serious. "What about the others?"

"Dham and Cat are with me." I pause, wondering whether I should tell him the next part, then decide to go ahead. He's going to find out soon enough anyway. "Patrick too."

"It giving you any problems?"

I shift my weight, uncomfortable with what I have to say.

"Amaranth?" Ryland prompts.

The words break out in a rush. "I tried to free Patrick from your binding spell." The look of shock and hurt on his face is quickly masked, but I've already seen it. I gulp, and continue. "It didn't work out exactly like I planned and now I'm bound to him. Or he's bound to me. We're bound to each other. So he has to listen to me."

Ryland stands still for several moments, more statue than man. I can't imagine what he thinks of me. Suddenly, he grabs me and holds me tightly. "You stupid, stupid little girl."

I blink back tears. I wasn't expecting forgiveness. Ryland pushes me back. His voice is urgent when he asks, "Do you feel any different? Any strangeness?"

"No. Nothing at all." I look at him curiously. "Should I?"

Ryland settles his hands on my shoulders. "I don't know, Amaranth." He stops, weighing his words carefully. "Your father was...different, and that may have affected the spell."

My breath catches in my throat. "What about my father?" Ryland's never talked about my father before, putting me off with lies whenever I ask about him. "What do you mean by different?" When he doesn't answer right away, I say, "Ryland?"

"You never met your father. Your mother wanted it that way. But he was a good man." His voice is sad.

_And you're avoiding the question_. "How was he different, Ryland?"

He refuses to look at me. "He was one of the few magicians we had left."

I gasp. My father, a magician? "Does it run in the family?"

Screams and yells from outside startle me, making me jump. Ryland's head goes up like a bloodhound's scenting game, and his eyes narrow. I can make out the faint honking of cars. Feet pound pas the door.

"We need to move," he whispers.

"But—"

"I'll tell you all I can later, but we need to regroup someplace secure." His face is in shadow, but his eyes bore into me.

I sigh. He's right. We're not safe squatting here. But I want to know about my father so badly, I ache with it.

"Where are the others?"

"Someplace safe, for now. But I wanted to check out the Highwayman first before I went to get them. I don't know how much the Inquisition knows." I look up at Ryland, a feeling of dread beginning to gnaw its way through me. "You know we were betrayed. Any idea who it could be?"

He looks grim, the bandage and blood loss and unforgiving overhead light making him look like someone two days dead. He sighs heavily, looking almost defeated. "It was only a matter of time."

"Who though?" I can't wrap my mind around it; that someone I've possibly gone into danger with could sell us all out like that.

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be sitting here." He rubs the uninjured side of his face. "We'll have to see if we can flush him—or her—out."

I stare at his profile, glad that the bandage is on the other side, in shadow. "It wasn't me, you know. No matter how mad I was at you, I would never betray you."

He smiles, a true one this time. He pulls me close. "My girl, you are many things, but traitor is not one of them." He squeezes my shoulder. "Of that I have no doubt." He relaxes his hold. "But there are other young women in the Resistance—and a lot of relative newcomers. Keep your wits about you."

He stands, pulling me with him. For a moment, I lean against him, head spinning. Could Cat be the leak? Is that what he's hinting at? Or is it all just wild speculation? She may be a massive annoyance in a pint-sized body, but a Judas? I can believe a lot of things of Cat, but not that.

I'm at a loss. "What do we do now?" I need to go and get Dham and the others. They can't sit at the Winchester forever. But I feel paralyzed, as if every decision I make will be the wrong one. I want someone to tell me what to do.

He thinks for a moment, his eyes going distant and that little line appearing between his eyebrows. I wait while he consults whatever inner compass or guide he has, my own mind rolling through a list of possible traitors. It does not make for pleasant thinking.

"Go ahead and bring your group to the Highwayman. I'm going there now, to see if anyone made it there and I'll begin recon to see if any of ours made it out of the tunnels."

"You know about Auntie's, right?" I can't believe I forgot to tell him. I just always assumed he knows things before I do.

"What about it?" His eyes grow dark.

"It got raided last night—Auntie made sure we all got out. So whoever it was that betrayed us, they knew about the boarding house too." I can see the lines on his face deepen as a scowl settles over it like a cloak.

He takes a deep breath, obviously bringing himself under control. When he speaks, his voice is tightly clipped. "I'll send out word for her too."

I decide in that moment to tell him the rest. "Dham and I are going to try for Rome. We don't expect any help or for you to come with, but we think we may find some answers there. And on the road is the safest place for us right now."

Ryland blinks, surprised. Then he nods. "The Inquisition is hunting for all of us now. Getting out is the smartest thing. I'll help in whatever way I can."

"That's what we figured. And we may as well try and find out something useful while we're at it. Trick's coming with us."

He shakes his head, but doesn't say anything about that fact. "Eyes open, Amaranth. I don't trust anyone anymore and you shouldn't either." I nod, trying very hard to suddenly not cry. I don't know why the tears are gathering in the back of my eyes, but I know they won't help anything. "Be careful." He pulls me into another quick hug, then opens the door and ushers me out.
Chapter Thirty-One

When the four of us arrive at the back door of the Highwayman, I am sagging with relief. I constantly watched out backtrail, afraid that we were being followed, which sort of compromised our school kids out on a day off and enjoying the weather cover. Finally Dham threw his arm around me and drew me into the conversation. How he was able to act like he didn't have a care in the world was beyond me, but I was grateful for it. All the way back to the Winchester, I'd been plagued by the scenes playing out in my head courtesy of my overactive imagination: the Inquisition had raided the place, or set fire to it, or a meteor had crashed into or dinosaurs had been genetically reproduced and eaten them while they enjoyed a ploughman's. My brain is not always a comfortable place to be. I'm glad Dham is around to pull me out of it.

My relief doesn't last long once I enter the Highwayman. Ryland is there, but he's not alone. Kevin and Peter are sitting at a table with him. Kevin looks as he usually does: a bit more weather-beaten perhaps, but calm and solid as always. But when I look at Peter, I see someone who is skittish and worried. He's got a bandage wrapped around one arm and a shiner decorating his left eye. He's watching Dham carefully, but I can't tell if it is out of fear or concern. And while I'm relieved that Kevin made it out alive, I remember Ryland's words about the traitor.

"Peter!" Dham's glad cry nearly makes me wince. I watch as Dham makes his way over to the man and gives him a hug.

I drop into a seat. My eyes find Trick's and he raises a brow at me. Then he shoots his eyes in Peter's direction and raises both brows. I need to find a moment to talk to Trick alone.

"How did you get out?" Dham asks the older man.

Peter rubs at his face, looking tired. "Kevin found me. I'd been knocked out during one of our skirmishes on the way in--they must have left me for dead."

Kevin speaks up. "Found him out cold. Hoisted him up and out before the whole place went sky high."

So it must not have been Peter I saw right before I left the room beneath Christ Church. I cut my eyes over to Ryland who's watching the reunion with a narrow gaze. I remember his words not to trust anyone. Perhaps I did see Peter after all. I would need to speak to Ryland about him later.

Ryland waves a man over and speaks to him in low tones. He indicates the four of us. I wonder what he's doing. A few minutes later it becomes apparent when the man reappears with plates of food: eggs, toast, roasted tomatoes, sausages, beans. A regular fry up. He plunks the heavy plate down in front of me and hands me a rolled up napkin and silver. I dig in without waiting for the others.

"Yes." I rub at eyes gone tired and gritty. I don't want to say too much to any of them. Oddly enough, it's only Trick that I trust right now—he's the only one who's whereabouts were completely known and who had no way of contacting the Inquisition. If I weren't so bloody exhausted, I'd find it funny.

"What do we do now?" Cat asks around a mouthful of food.

"I thought you were heading home?" Dham raises a brow at her and sits down next to Trick.

"It's better than a suicide mission to Rome," she spits out before I can stop her.

I smack my head with my palm. So much for secrecy. Perhaps I should have muzzled her.

"Rome?" Peter asks, his head swiveling in Dham's direction.

Dham nods, cutting his eyes over at me. "Yes. Amaranth and I have decided to try for Rome."

I look at Ryland, who also looks concerned. I know he didn't want the reason for our mission leaking out. I open my mouth to interrupt Dham before he gives away our entire plan.

"Cat makes a good point," Peter cuts in before I can say anything. "The Resistance has been discovered. Your headquarters are rubble. It isn't safe for any of us here anymore. And Rome, well, that's just crazy." Cat looks smug now that someone has taken her part.

"What do you suggest?" Dham is looking back and forth from Cat to Peter.

Peter leans forward, arms braced on the table. His voice is low and urgent. "We leave. All of us. Go our separate ways and forget all of this Rome nonsense."

"And where exactly do you think you'll go?" Kevin asks before I can erupt.

I dig into my food again, watching the argument that eddies around me. Trick is silent, an amused look on his face. Cat nods, clearly in agreement with Peter. Kevin looks resigned. Ryland is impossible to read.

Dham is quiet, listening carefully. Peter continues. "Anywhere. Back to New York. All I know is we can't stay here. They'll find us all eventually."

"By that logic, they'll find us eventually anywhere we go." Dham's voice is almost too low to hear.

Ryland finally speaks. "And I wouldn't set your sights on New York, boys. You were lucky—more than that even—the first time. I wouldn't count on getting a transatlantic ride this time."

"I wouldn't go back to New York anyway." Again Dham speaks quietly. His face is subdued, no emotions readable in his expression. Peter looks perplexed for a moment, then angry. I swallow my toast and take a sip of tea. I remember the few things Dham has said about his family.

"So exile here is preferable to trying to get home?" Peter's voice is clipped, almost like he's holding in what he wants to say.

Dham says nothing, but he holds Peter's gaze. Eventually the older man looks away. Finally Dham speaks. "No one is saying you have to share it with me, Peter." I can see Peter's jaw clench.

Cat's gaze skips between the two men. Her brows are drawn down in confusion. She shakes her head and says, "So then what are you going to do?"

Dham looks at me for the first time. "I am going to Rome, just as was planned. I expect Amaranth feels the same way."

I nod firmly. I glance at Trick who gives me a massive eyeroll. He mouths something that looks like _Just kiss already_. I ignore him.

"Stay or go as you choose. It makes no difference to me what you do," I say.

I take my plate and get up, happy to let them debate this without me. Trick follows, which surprises me. I would have thought he'd have enjoyed seeing people pick each other apart with words. I take my food to a small table in the corner, shielded from the front windows by a half wall. He puts his plate down and sits across from me.

"You can be quite hard when you wish to be."

I shovel another forkful of tomatoes into my mouth and swallow before asking, "Come again?"

"It's the ogre's choice you're offering them, you know." He twinkles at me. "Die fast or die slow."

I put my fork down on the plate and glare at him. "How do you figure that one?"

He leans forward conspiratorially. "Dham was right in what he said in there. They will find you, sooner or later. What does it matter when they find you?"

I look at him cautiously. He's not asking to be mean or annoying; he's asking because he truly does not understand and seems to want to know. I wait a beat before answering him and try to keep sarcasm from my voice. "You haven't met a lot of humans, have you?"

His lip curls. "Met? No. Served? Yes."

"Okay." I narrow my eyes as I try to put my thoughts into words. "But when you were serving those people, did you really watch them? And not just for weakness or a way to get out of the summoning—did you actually watch them to understand them?"

Trick steeples his fingers in front of his lips. I can just barely see the hint of a smile. "Why would I want to do that? It was odious enough having to do their bidding."

I shake my head, but decide to press on. "It does matter. To answer your question, _everything_ we do matters. It's just us down here—there's no one else to try. So it matters."

He cocks his head, taken aback by my earnestness, I suppose. "But pain and death are all that are left."

I'm struck by one of my mother's favorite films, which contained one of her favorite all time quotes. I remember her saying that it summed up the human condition. "But it's _my_ pain. _My_ death. When that's all that's left to me, they matter." I shrug. "What I do _does_ matter, whether I'm the only one who knows about it or not."

He drums his fingers on the scarred tabletop. "You are very strange." But he doesn't say it in a bad way. "I don't understand you, really." He sighs. "Do you have orders for me?"

"Orders?"

"I am your servant, even more so than my other masters. I am more...intimately...bound to you." His voice takes on a knife edge of bitterness. "What is it you wish of me?"

I blink at him. I keep forgetting who and what he is. He's wearing Patrick's body, he's a demon who's hijacked my friend. But it's almost like talking to Patrick, so much so that it confuses me. He's a being possibly eons old that has served mankind for centuries. And he'd happily sell me out as soon as look at me if he could find a way to get around the binding.

And yet, I don't want to order him around like a slave. Maybe it's because when I look at him I see Patrick and that informs my reactions to him, however subconscious. Or maybe I'm going crazy. But I can't talk to him like he's a person and then treat him like a thing. "I don't want to order you around." I lean forward. "I'd prefer to ask you to do something rather than demand."

Trick smiles wryly. "You are so young." He kicks back in the chair, balancing on the back two legs. "It doesn't matter what you call it, mistress. Servitude is still servitude. Slavery is still slavery. It doesn't matter if you request or command; the compulsion is still there. The result will be the same. One is just a salve to your conscience."

"I wouldn't be talking about consciences if I were you, Mr. Squatting in Someone Else's Body."

"Thankfully, I don't come equipped with one." He grins wickedly. "It relieves me of those tiresome moral dilemmas you humans seem to enjoy so much."

"If you don't have a conscience, then how do you even know that slavery is wrong?"

He sets his chair back down on four legs. "First-hand experience is an excellent instructor. Being compelled against one's will is something even the smallest beast that crawls would rail against. Freedom is all the more important when you're deprived of it."

I understand that. While people have been going on about their daily lives since the first demon possessed a human in what turned out to be the beginning of an invasion, it is a half-life at best. There is no freedom of religion—there's no religion at all. People are persecuted, they disappear in the middle of the night from their homes. We all live in fear and dread and mistrust. Most people keep their heads down and try to live out a life as best they can without attracting the kind of attention that gets them killed. Then there's the rest of us.

And if what Trick when he was imprisoned beneath the pentacle was true, the demons are still living in fear: fear of reprisals if they ever release their hold on humanity. Was that just another way of binding? It is uncomfortable to think about.

"We agree on something." I don't keep the tinge of sarcastic amazement from my voice.

Trick stills, eyes narrow. "I think our situations are vastly different."

I lean forward. "Let's ask Patrick about that, shall we?" My eyes bore into his.

Neither of us say anything for several minutes. Finally he inclines his head to me. "Touché."

I nod and take another bite of my breakfast. I look to the other table, and see Dham walking over to us, his breakfast forgotten. He looks grey with exhaustion. Trick and I watch him as he walks over to our table.

"How are you?" I ask, moving a chair out for him. I look to Ryland; he nods at me, but keeps his focus on the debate at the other table.

Dham sits, slumping down in the chair. "Ugh." He manages to raise one side of his mouth in a pale imitation of a smile. "I needed some quiet."

"Peter still wants to try for New York?" I put my fork down. I glance at Trick, but the demon has leaned back in his chair, acting uninterested in the conversation.

Dham shrugs, a tired rise of shoulders. "Or anywhere that's not here."

I take a breath, unsure if I should ask the question that I've wanted to from the first. I slant my eyes at Dham and decide to risk it. "So why did he come with you that first time?"

Dham folds his hands together on top of the table. He stares at them, but his gaze is faraway. I am wondering what he sees in his mind's eye, when he speaks.

"My father has always been...difficult." His words come slowly. "Peter was, well, he was someone I could go to when I couldn't talk to my father."

He finally looks at me. "Remember when I said this trip was my punishment?"

I nod, stunned at the brief flash of pain I glimpse in Dham's eyes.

"Peter volunteered to come with me. My father didn't want to allow it, but Peter insisted." He looks down at his feet. "He said he didn't want me going alone." His eyes close and in a voice barely audible, he adds, "He said my mother wouldn't have wanted me traveling into danger without someone to guard my back."

"She was right," I say, gently touching his wrist. "No mother would. But why is he arguing with you now?" My heart aches for Dham.

"He thinks it's too risky with the Inquisition so close." He shakes his head. "He's just looking out for me. He doesn't want me to throw my life away."

I bite my lower lip. I don't think that's it; it doesn't feel right. But Dham trusts him. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. Peter could be looking out for Dham, kind of like Ryland does for me.

"Okay, Dham." I put my hand over his. "I understand."

****

Trick, Dham and I finish eating. I divide my plate so Dham can at least get something to eat rather than have to go back to the argument. He's been worn down by the events of the last few days and having Peter refuse to back him up must be adding to his burden. I'm debating about going back over to see why it has gotten so quiet, when Ryland gets up and walks over to the others.

"I'm happy to help each of you in any way that I can. Cat, if you want to return home, I'll see you get there. Peter, if you still feel like New York is best, I'll do everything I can to see you off." His mouth turns down in a hard scowl. "But what has been discussed here does not leave this room. Amaranth and Dham are going to Rome and the fewer people who know that the better."

I leave the table to join Ryland. Dham and Trick follow. Kevin looks at me as I come level with Ry. Peter and Cat avoid my gaze. I don't know what went on in here, but it doesn't look like it was particularly pleasant. Trick sniffs, like a dog scenting something especially tasty. I wait for someone to speak.

"I'll go with you." Kevin jerks his head in Dham's direction. "Always wanted to get a look at Rome."

No surprises there. Kevin was the one most likely to join us. I don't know whether to be worried or grateful.

I turn to look at Cat. She's staring into space, a thoughtful look on her face. "What about you, Cat? You going back to your village?"

Her head rears up, almost like a serpent and I'm reminded momentarily of the Nag we ran into in the tunnels the night before. Her blue eyes are calm. She waits a beat, as if gathering her thoughts. "I'm going with you." Her fingers wind around each other as she talks, which makes me wonder how comfortable she is with her decision. "My village sent me out to do a job and I intend to finish it."

My eyebrows take root in my hairline. I hadn't expected that response. Dham is smiling and nodding. I guess he managed to convince her. "Glad to hear it." So we're up two Ringers, one demon, and two regular people. Odds are still not in our favor, but it's more than we had before.

I face Peter. He's gotten up to pace and is now watching all of this quietly from the corner of the room. I study him carefully. I'm reminded of the feeling I got in Ryland's office when I found him in there looking at maps. I know Dham trusts him but there is something just _off_ about him for me. I don't want to admit it, but I would like it very much if he decided not to go with us.

"Peter?" Dham prompts.

Peter walks over to the table. His economy of movement is pretty impressive; I'd be interested to see him in a fight. The expression on his face is one of profound unhappiness and I begin to relax. He's probably just disappointed he couldn't change Dham's mind and doesn't want to tell us he's going to try to get back to New York with Ryland's help.

I watch as his face goes smooth, all expression wiped away. My shoulders tense. "I'm coming too."

My eyes seek out Dham, who breaks into an even bigger smile. He goes over and hugs the older man, slapping him on the back. "You always come through."

Peter returns Dham's smile, but I notice it doesn't reach his eyes. My stomach clenches. I look over at Ryland who has a tight, closed look on his face. Something's not right, but it is just a dull feeling, an intuition. I have nothing else to go by. I make a vow though, to keep Peter in sight as much as I can.

Chapter Thirty-Two

It's night again. My sense of time is off since I slept most of the day away. Trick let me sleep longer than I wanted him to, saying something about me not being specific enough in my instructions. Ryland has been busy arranging our departure. I've kept Auntie's list to myself, just in case we need it later. The plan is to leave London via lorry tomorrow night. Ryland is keeping most of the other details to himself, rather than risk another betrayal.

I'm hunkered down in the common room of the pub, right in front of the fireplace. I want space to think. Dham's watching Trick, but mostly I think that's only an excuse so he can play poker with someone. Trick hasn't tried to escape, but it could be he wants his freedom as much as I want it for Patrick. I'm not sure I can trust it, but I don't have any better choices.

Cat plops down in the chair beside me, eyes on the fire. Her hair is still damp from her shower, piled on her head. In the firelight she looks much younger than eighteen. She tucks her feet up on the chair, curling up like her namesake. I'm not sure what she's doing down here, let alone with me. We don't have a friendship; our relationship is more like a partnership of equals who don't particularly like each other or enjoy the other's company.

I poke at the hearth with the toe of my shoe. When I glance over at Cat, her eyes are closed. Her breathing is quiet. I stretch out in my seat, propping my feet up on the hearth and close my eyes as well. I'll wake her up when I go to bed.

"I see the way he looks at you." Cat's voice is so quiet and so startling that I jerk upright.

"Who?"

Her eyes open, the blue glittering with reflected flames. She looks at me like I'm mentally deficient. "Who do you think?"

"Dham?" My voice rises to incredulity. She's been inseparable from Dham almost since her arrival in London. The only time they were apart for any length of time was when we separated after the Inquisition ambush.

"No, his imaginary troglodyte best friend. Yes, Dham."

I glance at her sideways, completely confused. Dham looks at me a certain way? "I think you're mistaken on that one."

Cat sits up, a bitter look on her face. "You don't see it. You _never_ see it. But he watches you. He always knows where you are and what you're doing."

"What do you care how he looks at me? You're always with him too." _You're never away from him._

"But he doesn't _see_ me. Not like he sees you." She reaches up to play with a strand of damp hair, curling it around her index finger. "I've tried. Believe me, I've tried. But I'm just a pal, someone he can talk music with. He doesn't look at me like he looks at you." She casts her eyes down, looking disappointed and angry.

I want to ask her, but I'm afraid it will hurt her and make her angrier. But I really want to know. "How does he look at me? Since I'm apparently oblivious."

Her eyes flash up to mine. Hers are a pure blue, not the muddy grey-blue of mine. She's so petite and blonde, she makes me feel like a dark, lumbering freak. "Like you're the only thing in the world that makes sense to him." She glares at me. "Like he'll wait for you forever."

I duck my head so she won't see my blush. "Oh." I pick at my cuticles for a few moments, until the silence becomes unbearable. "Is that why you don't like me?"

Cat grins. "Oh, no. That has nothing to do with it. You're bossy and cold and not a lot of fun to be around. And you've got a giant stick up your butt."

I blink. I'm not sure how to respond to that rather succinct summation of my faults. "Um, thanks?"

She shrugs. "Don't mention it." She pauses, as if weighing something, then smiles. "But you're also brave and loyal and awesome to have around in a fight."

I cock my head in surprise. I didn't expect anything complimentary from her. "Wow. Where did that come from?"

She sits all the way up in her chair, eyes on the fire that's dying in the grate. "I like to think that I'm fair. You do have some good qualities." Cat slides her eyes sideways, then says with a smirk, "Now it's your turn to say something nice about me."

I laugh without meaning to. It's just so Cat to do that. She laughs with me and there's an ease between us that hasn't ever been there before. "I think I envy you." She turns to me, laughter stilled. "You're so present, so confident in yourself. It's like you never doubt who you are a day in your life." I look her over, then add, "And you're what a girl should look like."

She swivels her body in the chair so that she faces me. There is a look of shock on her face, as if I've just told her the secret to faster than light travel or something like that. "What a girl should look like? What's wrong with the way you look?"

I gesture at her then at myself. "Look at me. I'm tall and gawky. Dark with middling eyes and boring features. I'm too big. I'm not soft or delicate or anything a girl should be." _And you're everything I'm supposed to aspire to_.

"I take all this to mean that you don't fill guys with that protective spirit." Cat frowns, eyebrows pulling low over the bridge of her nose with her scowl. "Let me tell you, that's no picnic."

"Sorry, what?"

"Look at you. And then look at me. Really look at me. I'm small, thin, short. Pale. Blonde and blue eyed and delicate like a porcelain doll. And everyone who sees me thinks I'm just as breakable." Cat spreads her hands. "All my life I've been protected, catered to, coddled. No one—not my parents, my family, my friends—ever let me do anything or go anywhere on my own. I needed to be protected." She pauses to stare at me, blue eyes challenging me to say something. "Until I picked up that bell."

She stands up, hands on hips. "Let me tell you, I don't need protecting. I'm as tough as anyone and I can take care of myself. And it is awful when no one thinks that you're capable of it."

Her eyes hold a challenge. I meet them and smile. "Do you want to know what I thought the first time I saw you?"

"What?" The word comes out harsh and breathless.

"We were in the tunnels, fighting that reanimator demon. Dham's bells weren't doing a thing. And then your bell rings out and you come out swinging it and the first thing that came to mind was this girl is a force. The determination you had, the power that went into that bell—it was amazing." I grin. "I never thought you needed protecting. If anything, the demons need protecting from you."

Cat sits, as if the fight has been taken out of her. "Thanks," she mumbles to the floor.

"I mean it, Cat. You don't need me." And it's true. She doesn't. Cat would be fine on her own. She's that kind of a person: a survivor. She won't let anything stop her. "You don't need anyone to take care of you." She looks up at me, something like trust shining in the back of her eyes. I nod.

She clears her throat, breaking the moment that was again drawing out uncomfortably. "You said before that you envy me. It wasn't just because of my looks. You also said my confidence. What did you mean?"

I lean back with a sigh, resting my hands on my stomach. "You are just so sure of yourself all the time. Aside from it being around-the-bend annoying, I wish I had it."

She laughs, a real deep belly laugh. I prop myself up on the arms of the chair and stare at her darkly, waiting until she can get herself back under control. When the guffaws subside back to giggles, I cock an eyebrow at her. "I'm sorry," she says, gulping in air. "But that is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. You are so capable, so good at everything, it's hard to believe you're a person sometimes."

I drop back down, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. "I doubt myself pretty much constantly."

"Well, it doesn't show." She sits back, mirroring my pose. We're both staring into the banked fire. "It's damned annoying too."

I laugh again. "Sorry about that it. If it helps, I honestly don't mean to do it. I'm just trying to get the job done."

"It doesn't, but thanks." A wry smile quirks Cat's lips. "We're both kind of annoying, I guess." Again her eyes slide my way. "It's amazing that Dham puts up with us."

I stiffen. I feel like there's a test I need to pass here or something, some way to cement our growing—dare I say?—friendship with each other. I swallow nervously. I can sense her eyes on me. "About Dham," I begin, not really sure what I can say here. I didn't know he looked at me the way she says he does. I'm not even sure I believe her. "Um, I can back off from him if it would make it easier for you. To... you know..."

Cat snorts with laughter, an inelegant sound for such a pristine looking girl. She shakes her head. "You're hopeless." She sits up straight. "Haven't you ever had a boyfriend?"

"No." Me, a boyfriend? When would I have had the time?

"Let me clue you in. It won't matter if you sprouted wings and flew to the moon. Dham will never look at me the way he looks at you." She sighs. "That's just the way it is. It's not my decision. I can't decide who he's going to like."

"Have you? Had a boyfriend, I mean." I feel jealousy flare before tamping it down. Of course she has. Look at her. But that's not fair, especially not after our talk tonight.

"A few." She waves my question away easily with her hand, like she's waving off smoke from a cigarette. "No one serious though."

"But Dham? You'd like it to be serious with him?" I'm not sure how I feel about that. I thought I disliked Cat for her personality—it's probably a bit too much like mine for comfort—but now I'm wondering if I was jealous of her feelings for Dham.

"Oh God, no!" She laughs lightly. "He's cute, that's all. And he'd be a nice way to pass the time on this trip. But serious?" She shakes her head. "Not at all." She gets to her feet. "And besides, he's not into me anyway. He's all about you, Amaranth." She turns to go, then stops and faces me again. "So I guess you've got to figure out if you're all about him."

I chew on my thumb, watching her walk back up the stairs to our room. Then I rest my head against the back of the chair, picking patterns out of the tin tiles on the roof. Her last words echo in my head, swirling around like water down a drain. I think I might be all about Dham, as Cat put it. But do I want to tell him?

Chapter Thirty-Three

It's just past midnight and we've gathered at a warehouse hard by the Thames. I've done as Ryland told me, keeping the location a secret until the last minute, in case Dham or Cat is the leak, however unlikely I think that is. Trick stays close to me, but Dham and Cat have gone off in a corner to wait away from the rest.

Ryland has brought a few stragglers as well. While he and Kevin give them instructions, Peter makes a beeline for Dham. Cat looks none too pleased by the interruption. At least she and I have that in common: neither of us likes Peter. I wonder if she can put her finger on why not any better than I can.

A few others that I recognize but don't know personally are also with Ryland. These people weren't in the tunnels at all that night from what Ryland has said. All told we have a little more than what we can count on both hands. And this is supposed to take on the Inquisition?

Trick scoots closer to me. "Now what?"

"We wait for the truck." I look over at him and see that his eyes have taken on a strange glitter in the dim light. "What's with the eyes?"

He blinks, then grins at me. It is an animal grin, with too many teeth. "Helps me see in the dark."

"That's handy."

"You'll find I'm full of surprises." His voice is low, as is his throaty chuckle. It makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.

"No doubt." I turn my attention to Peter, Dham and Cat. From Cat's mammoth scowl, I can tell she's not liking what Peter is currently saying. Dham is also frowning and shaking his head. I creep forward so I can listen better. It looks as though Peter is growing more insistent about whatever he's saying to Dham.

"Keep your eye on that one," Trick breathes into my ear. I flinch at his closeness.

"Peter?" The demon nods. "Why?" This should be good.

Trick inhales. "Can't you smell it? The fear on him?" He looks at me pityingly. "He's terrified." His nostrils flare and light flashes in the dark, glittering eyes. "And the faintest whiff of betrayal. Very nice." He stares at me with a benign smile.

"Betrayal..." I stare at Peter. I can barely make out what he's saying to Dham. He's trying to convince Dham to come with him, to leave before the truck arrives. "No," I whisper.

I search for Ryland, to tell him we've been compromised, that we all need to get out of here now. There won't be any truck coming, unless it is from the Inquisition. I can see him across the warehouse, now talking with Kevin.

I hear a high pitched whistling and duck instinctively, pulling Trick down as I go. I squeeze my eyes shut, expecting oblivion. There's the smashing of glass and then a loud bang and I can see the explosion of blinding light even behind my closed eyelids. It's a flash bomb.

Chaos erupts. I can hear screams and shouts. There's battering that sounds like it is coming from both front and back bay doors. I crack an eye open, shielding it from the afterglow of the flash bomb with my hand. I can just make out Ryland, not far from me now.

"Stay down," I hiss at Trick and sprint over to Ryland. He's shouting out orders, half-blinded by the blast. "I think it's Peter—he's the mole. What do we do?"

He glances down at me and his expression goes quiet. We both look up toward the door and see Peter moving towards it, leading Dham and Cat. They're stumbling over their feet, balance completely off. I feel Ry grip my upper arm.

"He's going to hand them over to them." My voice sounds hollow to my ears.

Ryland flings me forward. "Get them!" he yells at me as he launches himself at the trio. I pull my blades from their sheaths and sprint after him.

Ry crashes into the door ahead of Peter, effectively blocking his path. I smash into Dham, breaking Peter's hold on him. He and Cat topple to the floor. Cat yells, "What the hell is going on?"

"Stay down," I shriek back, putting myself between them and Peter. I put his hand in Cat's and then put his other hand on the waistband of my jeans. "Hold on to me. And don't go anywhere with Peter no matter what happens!"

"What?" Dham yells, but I ignore his question. I can explain everything later, assuming we make it out alive.

I try to lead us farther back into the warehouse. I can see Kevin gesturing me over to him, but smoke is beginning to obscure everything. The Inquisition outside must have chucked in a smoke canister. I can see a shape breaking through the wisps of smoke and take on a fighting stance, but it is just Trick. He looms out of the murky air at my shoulder.

"I take it this is not part of the plan?" he says in an amused voice, clearly unbothered by the screaming and mania.

"Not our plan, no." I turn back to get a look at how Ryland is faring against Peter and feel my breath freeze in my throat. Peter has a gun.

I take Dham's hand from my jeans and thrust it at Trick. "Stay with them!" He opens his mouth to make some smart ass comment, I'm sure. "PLEASE!"

I take off, not listening to Cat's protests or Dham's questions. I can see Peter holding the gun on Ryland, clearly trying to get him to move out of the way. Ryland's not budging though. I race through the smoke and cacophony of shouts and breaking wood and glass as fast as my legs can carry me. But I fear I won't be fast enough.

When the shot comes, I almost feel like it's me that the bullet hits. I rock from the imagined impact, but manage to keep moving, watching as Ryland crumples around himself. I scream and push myself harder; then I'm on top of Peter as he wrenches the lock off the door and tries to fling it open. I'm still screaming as I plunge my blade into his back, even as he's sliding through the door.

There's no flare of inner lightning, no flash from blessed blade meeting demonic flesh. Peter's human. Solely and completely human. And he's sold us all out.

He cries out, slipping off of my blade. I see arms reaching out to him and let him go. I slam the door shut once more and hit the lock. Then I drop to my knees beside Ryland. He's slumped against the floor, holding his stomach. I can see the red staining his hands, his clothes, the floor. I don't even realize I'm crying until I can't see through eyes blurry with tears.

"Ry. Ry!" I'm grabbing at him, desperate to see how bad it is and terrified at the same time.

The door shakes from the force the Inquisition is bringing to bear to get it open. I know we don't have much time. "Come on," I whisper at him, trying to pull him to his feet.

"Amaranth," he grunts out. He puts a bloodied hand over mine. His eyes are bloodshot when they meet mine and I can read his future in them. I put my head down so I don't have to see it. "Get them out. You know what to do."

"But I can't just leave...." I can feel the sobs coming and I try to gulp them back. I sound like I did seven years ago when I first saw the ruin of my mother.

I see his gaze shift to somewhere behind me and I slew around on my knees. Kevin and the rest have come closer. Dham and Cat can see now so Trick doesn't need to lead them around, although he does stay close to them.

"Go with Kevin," Ryland orders, a bit more strength in his voice.

"No!" I shake my head. "I'm not leaving you!"

"Many. Few," he manages to grit out. Then his eyes lock with Kevin. "Get her out of here."

"NO!" I feel hands grab me and I'm bodily pulled away from him. The door splinters and I can see a riot of lights and people and movement through the holes that grow bigger as I watch. "Ryland!" I see Kevin lean down to him and hand him a gun and then I'm dragged away.

I fight anyway, anger giving me strength I didn't know I had. "Let. Me. GO!" I'm flailing wildly, desperate to get back to him, to the only father I've really ever known.

Strong arms circle me from behind, lifting me up and pinning my arms against my sides. "He's done, A," Dham says softly in my ear. "Let him go."

I shriek, sounding like a demented animal. Kevin is back with us and he leads us to the back end of the warehouse where the sounds of battering are still going on. Shots ring out behind us and I scream again, redoubling my efforts to get free.

Suddenly, a very small but hard fist connects with my cheek, snapping my head around. I stop my struggling in shock, staring around for the source of the blow. Cat walks beside us, her face a mask of anger. "Stop being such a weakling and get your bloody ass moving!" Anger flares inside me then goes cold, so I can practically feel the ice forming along my limbs. Even my blood seems to slow, turning sluggish and blue as it freezes my insides. "Dham can't cart you all over the place and I'm tired of listening to your wailings. So MOVE!"

I glare at her, that hatred inside me growing and growing, until I'm nothing more than a pillar of ice. She glares right back, returning my burning gaze with an unruffled one of her own. I push away from Dham and wipe the tears from my cheeks.

"Amaranth," Dham begins, but I shut him down with a sharp slash of my arm.

I get right up in Cat's face. "One day," I spit, "I pray you will learn what this feels like." Then I spin on my heel and follow after Kevin and Trick.

I sense rather than see a blot of darkness zip through one of the broken skylights high above us. It strafes through the smoke, trailing streamers of grey in its wake. I can barely track it, but I know it is near. I close my eyes and use my other senses to figure out where it will come from.

A gentle current of air rustles my hair. My eyes snap open. I can see the black shape arrowing right at Trick, talons extended. I lunge at Trick, knocking him to the floor in a tangled collection of limbs. I feel a slice on my arm, but ignore the momentary spike of pain. I'm back on my feet, blades appearing in my hands again like magic.

"Stay down," I snarl. I close my eyes again, relying on my other senses to tell me where to strike. I duck as the air currents tell me how close the demon is. My blade flashes out and up and I feel it sink into flesh. I open my eyes. My blade has impaled it, bringing it down. A quick yank and black ichor flies as I loose my blade from the body. It thumps to the ground somewhere to my left.

I run to the trapdoor that's set in the center of floor and try to pull up on the iron handle embedded in the steel. Trick and Kevin are right behind me. "Quick save back there," Trick says in a surprised voice.

"Shut up and pull," I demand. We don't have time for him to be sarcastic and weird about me saving him from damage. The door yawns open.

"I'll go first," I say, not looking at anyone. I grip the top of the ladder and swing myself over, keeping one of my blades free. I climb down into the dark. I can smell water and hear it lapping against stone. I try not to think of what's going on upstairs now that the shooting has stopped.

My feet touch down on damp stone. I look around and in the dimness I can just make out the shape of a boat. I pick my way carefully over to it. Our packs are inside, along with what look like provisions. A getaway boat. We weren't going by truck at all; it was all a decoy to draw out the traitor. Damn Ryland for not telling me. I hold back a sob.

In moments, everyone is huddled along the small space of stone dock. I hear a huge boom from above and feel the foundations shake as Kevin hurries down the ladder, sliding down the last few rungs. "What was that?" Dham asks.

"Molotov cocktail?" Trick looks questioningly over at Kevin, who nods. "Ingenious."

"Just get in the boat." I step into the boat, swaying as it rocks. "Congratulate yourselves later." I head into the steering area and try to make myself as small as possible. I feel like my heart has been wrenched from my chest. I hadn't thought to ever feel this way again.

Kevin joins me and starts the engine, piloting the boat like he was born to it. "Amaranth, I'm sorry."

"Get us out of here," I say, tucking my head against my knees. My eyes are dry and I mean for them to stay that way. I'll cry when they're all dead, when the Inquisition is shattered and the gate is broken. Then I will cry until I run out of tears.

"Ryland," I whisper once as Kevin steers the boat out onto the night-dark water. I stare out, watching as the flames from the burning wreck that was once the warehouse paint the river a painful red. Ryland's pyre reaches high into the night sky. I watch it burn until it is nothing but a glowing speck on the horizon.

Then I turn my face to where we are going and I vow not to look back. We are on our way now. To Rome.

###
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jeanette Battista graduated with an English degree with a concentration in medieval literature which explains her possibly unhealthy fixation on edged weapons and cathedral architecture. She spent a summer in England and Scotland studying the historical King Arthur, which did nothing to curb her obsession. To satisfy her adrenaline cravings--since sword fighting is not widely accepted in these modern times--she rode a motorcycle at ridiculously high speeds, got some tattoos, and took kickboxing and boxing classes. She gave up the bike when her daughter came along, although she still gets pummeled at the gym on a regular basis.

When she's not writing or working, Jeanette spends time with family, hikes, reads, makes decadent brownies, buys killer boots, and plays Pocket Frogs. She wishes there were more hours in the day so she could actually do more of these things. She lives with her daughter and their two psychotic cats in North Carolina.

You can read more about her and her books at http://www.jeanettebattista.com.

Twitter: @Battista_j

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