“This was not supposed to happen,” Byron said. “I did not foresee this a’tall.”
As tears welled in Bertie’s eyes, he had to agree—
A cold warning trembled across his shoulders as he measured the stout walls of the castle, and the moat, and the drawbridge.
As much as he mourned his dearest friend, there was a larger worry, a far, far more emergent problem. One of Biblical proportions, as they might say upon the Earth.
“Byron.” He rose out of his seat and took the collar of the great dog. “Byron, get upon your feet.”
The other archangel lifted his distraught eyes. “Why?”
“Come hither.” Bertie began to back away from the table, leading Tarquin with him. “Now.”
“Bertie, whate’er is wrong with you—”
“We must needs get inside the castle, and lock it up tight.” Bertie pivoted and started to walk faster, calling over his shoulder. “We are all that is left to protect them.”
At that, there was a loud clanging noise, as if the archangel had burst up and caught the underside of the table with his legs.
Byron had clearly extrapolated to the same conclusion Bertie had: Assuming Colin had not misinterpreted whatever he had found in Nigel’s tent, Nigel was well and truly unreachable now, and Colin not far behind. And that meant Heaven was weakened.
It had long been a fact that the souls were behind those fortifications for good reason. All it would take was an infiltration by Devina, and she wouldn’t have to worry about the war’s resolution.
She would determine that herself.
Bertie fell into a flat-out run, and Tarquin, as if sensing their predicament, loped alongside him, his gait growing longer and longer until he broke free and became the first of the three of them to cross the drawbridge.
Bertie was the second, and as his fine leather-soled shoes encountered the thick wooden boards, he looked overhead, praying that he didn’t see shadows forming in the sky above. Skidding to a halt by the gear and cable system that would raise the planks, he was relieved to find Byron shooting across the moat at a dead run.
Together, he and the other archangel placed hands on the massive crank and threw their weight into a pumping rhythm as Tarquin splayed his massive forepaws and scrummed down, growling deep in his chest in warning as he backed up inside to allow the drawbridge to raise.
Devina had yet to arrive. If she had, her presence would have been sensed.
But Bertie knew she would come—and likely, soon. She and Nigel were required to meet on a regular basis with the Maker, and they were not allowed to forgo the sessions. If they did not attend? They were penalized.
The instant Nigel didn’t appear at the scheduled time?
That canny demon would suspect something dire had happened, and it was in her nature to investigate the cause. And if she infiltrated the grounds? The manse was the only safe place to be—and even then, it had never truly been tested.
As the planks found home, locking in up top, Bertie went to one side, and Byron went to the other and together, they completed the final step: Tremendous forged iron bars thick as a torso slid across into deeply carved compartments in the twelve-foot-thick walls, hitting home with a resonant, echoing thud.
He couldn’t remember the last time these precautions had been taken.
Collapsing back against the cool stone, all Bertie could think about were his dear friends—his family, indeed—stuck on the far side.
“God save them,” he whispered.
Tarquin whimpered and nudged his hand. As he stroked that regal head, he said, “Darling one, we shall be safe herein.”
At least until Devina tried to enter. Then? He did not know.
With a wave of despair, he looked over at Byron … and watched as the archangel slowly drew off his rose-colored glasses. His hands were trembling so badly, he dropped them.
Landing on the stone floor, the lenses shattered into countless pieces.
Chapter Twenty-eight
As Sissy stared up at Jim from her crouch by the bathtub, his face was drawn and pale. And that answered her question, didn’t it.
She turned back to the porcelain expanse and felt her stomach burn. “It must have happened here, then.”
God, her voice sounded funny to her own ears.
It seemed so weird to think that something as traumatic as her own death could be lost in her head, the experience hidden like that furniture back at the old house, obscured even as the contours filled out the draping cloth of her amnesia—because she sensed she had been in here, in this loft, in this marble-floored room … in this tub.
But that was all she got.
Letting her weight fall back, she sat on her butt, drawing her knees up to her chest. Surely something would come forward if she stayed here long enough. Some image, the memory of a sound, a smell, a sensation … and that would unlock the door.
Or burn the sheets, as it were.
But all she got … was that fire in her gut. On the other hand, why wouldn’t she be getting pissed off again.
“Looks like you’re going to have to tell me anyway,” she said. “The show part of this isn’t working.”
“Nothing?”
“No.”
When Jim didn’t say anything further, she looked up. He was no longer standing. Instead, he was against the wall by the door, sliding down slowly until he, too, was sitting on the hard marble. As he draped his arms on his knees and rubbed his face, she was struck by how visibly upset he was.
Under any other circumstances, she would have backed off. Especially in her old life. “Tell me.”
There was a long pause before he replied. “I don’t know how she brought you here. I don’t know whether she stuffed you in a trunk or tied your arms and legs and threw you in the back of a van. I don’t know if she had you in a trance, or drugged you, or incapacitated you in some way I can only guess at.” Jim swallowed hard. “I know that you were sacrificed because you were a virgin, and it was to protect her mirror. I know that I found you here … and you were gone—”
Jim’s voice broke at that point.
He cleared his throat, like he intended to go on. But nothing came out when he opened his mouth.
With a rough hand, he scrubbed his jaw.
Still nothing.
His inability to speak reached her on some deep level. This was a tough man, a hard man, and she knew without being told that he did not waste time with emotional stuff. And yet here he was…
As he blinked hard, Sissy was drawn out of her own drama. Reaching out, she put her hand on his forearm. “It wasn’t your fault, you know. You were—”