They passed into a space like a small theater. Several rows of stone benches padded with plush burgundy cushions descended in tiers, spiraling around the circular room. A squat marble pillar was situated in the center of the sunken floor, beneath a massive glass skylight that allowed clear midday light to spill into the otherwise shadowed room. The pillar was unusually shaped, and it took Mags a moment to realize it was not one solid piece of marble, but two halves joined, carved in the form of small children. A boy and a girl both stood facing each other, with arms uplifted to hold an ornate basin of wrought gold filigree and rosy-pink glass.
She blinked in wonder at the sight. “How have I never seen this place?”
“It is new,”Michael informed her brusquely. He was a man of few words at the best of times, and it tended to be worse when he was stressed.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured reverently, releasing his arm to approach the basin and running her hands ever so gently along the smooth, polished edges. The surface of the water within seemed to shiver with tension, and the shiver that rolled down her own spine was from more than the faint chill that pervaded the cavernous room. Power exuded from this artifact, indicating that it had been crafted with spells and components woven into its form. She wouldn’t need to request any amplifiers, it seemed.
Michael frowned, gesturing with a sweep of his bell sleeve to the basin. “Please, no more delay.”
Mags swallowed harshly around the sudden tightness in her throat, nodding sharply. No posturing with Michael—he had no patience for moods and idiosyncrasies, hers or anyone’s. One more deep breath and Mags brought her palms together with a clap.
Immediately, she understood this scry basin was a much more powerful artifact than she had thought.
The heat from the fire ghosted over her face, embers kissed her skin. The tang of blood and hot metal assaulted her nose. She gasped and her hands flew to her lips as if to smother the sound before it could be heard. They were not only viewing her vision but standinginthe nightmare from all those years ago, brought to life around them.
This room was not designed for simple showcasing, she realized with a mixture of horror and awe. It was meant for spectacle; for overwhelming people in sensation and visuals. She began to tremble despite herself. It was a vision, nothing more, but her senses were caving under the onslaught of stimulus. The sights, smells, sounds—it was beginning to feel horribly real.
A warm hand on her shoulder brought her back to herself, and she glanced up, instinctively leaning into the comforting grip. Michael squeezed reassuringly, steadying her with his presence. Mags took a deep, slow breath.
“Explain,” he prompted gently, eyes soft with concern but mouth still tightly pinched with impatience.
She nodded, lifting a trembling hand to point at a figure in the distance. Mercifully, he was facing away from them. She wasn’t sure she could handle the sight of his eager grin and laughing eyes right now. Michael paled at the sight of such wanton carnage, strong jaw clenching with anger.
“Foster,” Mags nearly whispered, knowing he would still hear. “This is the vision I saw the day he was born. The one I would never show you.”
Flinty grey eyes cut sharply to her, and disbelief was etched on his face. “No.”
“Yes.” Mags could feel tears welling anew as she found the will to lift her hands and freeze the scene in place. She spun it so they faced the terrible sight head on—Foster, tall and handsome, killing and maiming with a gleeful expression, long fingers like his father’s dripping with thick red blood.
Michael’s face crumpled with sorrow, anger, and fear. It was such a mirror to Luce’s grief that she was taken aback for a moment.
She let the scene unfold, still as painful as the first time. Foster in a burning city of bloody rubble, grinning with cold wickedness as he slashed a massive broadsword at any figure that tried to strike him down. Gore splattered over his face, eyes alight at the carnage.
Then another figure entered the scene. Lucifer—grim-faced and looking more tired than Mags had ever seen him but radiating raw power as he approached his son.
As he did, Foster lunged. His sword glanced off Luce’s shimmering obsidian armor, leaving a harsh gash along his neck. Lucifer roared and fell back, cupping his own throat as golden blood poured between his fingers. Foster advanced on him, determined and furious, lifting his sword to strike again before the vision halted, their fates uncertain.
Michael fell to his knees and struck the ground with his fist once, twice, three times. His eyes flared with cold fire when he finally lifted his head.
“How?” he demanded. “Why does this happen, and when?”
“Soon,” she whispered sadly. “Within a year, I think. I had another vision this morning, but much more...vague.”
Unable to show him a second vision while they were inside the first, she did her best to describe the one from this morning that she had shared with Luce. Michael grew more tense thelonger she spoke. He squeezed his eyes shut, and Mags felt a small tinge of relief to have that burning gaze off her even though she had done nothing wrong.
“What could have led him to this?”
“There may be one thing,” she began, hesitantly. “I’m not sure, but…I noticed something earlier.”
She moved her hands as if tugging a rope and the world shifted around them until they stood in the shadow of the distant building. What would have been a fuzzy but recognizable image in her seashell basin was an interactive, high-definition model in this elaborate chamber.
Michael’s gaze narrowed. “What is this, Mary?”
Mags swallowed hard. “There was a book in the vision I saw this morning. I only caught a glimpse, but... It was familiar to me, and it reminded me of something I saw here. With such a detailed scene, I think maybe I could check...”
She knelt slowly, testing the limits of the vision’s reality—loose asphalt crunched beneath her knees, but somewhere underneath she could feel the carpeted floor of the dais in the arena. She reached for an object poking out from beneath a pile of broken bricks, and carefully pulled free a small, tattered black book. Her fingers tightened on the worn leather cover when her worst fears were confirmed.
“The Gospel of Lazarus,” she informed Michael somberly. “We both know what happened to my brother, Michael. We both know what awaits the one who performs these rituals.”
