“That's probably inappropriate,” he snickered.
“All the better.” I lowered my stare from the ceiling murals to the carved columns that bordered nooks holding statues of people I assumed were saints. I hoped they had done things more worthy of sainthood than ol' Pokey-Poke back there. “I've never seen so many statues in one place. And how many corridors are there? It's like a maze of marble.”
“Vervain, come on!”
And that's when I finally took a good look at the people.
“What's going on?” I whispered as we edged our way along the side of the throng, nudging people gently out of our way.
Despite the push from invisible forces, no one panicked or even noticed that they were being moved by something that wasn't there. They were too focused on whatever was ahead of them, too busy crying, clutching each other, and praying.
“You'll see,” Trevor said.
“For heaven's sake, even the columns are carved with cherubs. It's as if they were afraid of leaving even an inch unadorned.”
“Vervain!” Trevor hissed.
“I'm coming!” I hissed back. Then we passed a corridor that was cordoned off with huge panels of fabric. “Why's that corridor blocked off?”
“I swear, you're like a five-year-old. I should have brought Odin.”
“This is my first time here; I'm allowed to be curious.”
“Well, Ms. Curious, that section is off-limits because they're still repairing the damage done by Wild Magic.”
“Oh.” I deflated.
We turned left again and pushed our way to the front of the crowd. There, within an alcove of dusty-rose marble, was the Pieta statue by Michelangelo—the one of Mary holding the body of Jesus. It was backlit so that it appeared to glow and a crescent, mullioned window brought even more light in from higher up the wall. A white cross was set into the wall just below the window. You couldn't get more Catholic than that.
“Huh. I thought it would be bigger,” I said.
Trevor pulled me over the low railing—the only thing holding back the wailing crowd—and up to the base of the significant plinth. A narrow ledge low on the plinth held a simple pair of candlesticks (really simple considering all the gaudiness around them) and a crucifix, but all of that faded away when I saw the blood.
“Holy bleeding statues!” I hissed. “That's not a hoax; the statue is actually crying blood. I can see it flowing.”
“Yes,” Trevor said. “Be careful, it's pooling on the floor.”
Sure enough, Mary (I don't think she was a virgin at the time of Jesus's death, so I'm gonna leave that bit out) was weeping so much blood that it had run down her chest to cover Jesus's stomach, then drip over the side, following the deep folds of her robe in a runnel before sliding down the plinth to puddle on the floor.
“It's a macabre fountain,” I whispered.
“It's a miracle,” Trevor whispered back.
“A miracle. Oh, no. This is Jerry's doing.”
“I believe so. Can you sense anything?”
“Sense anything? Like what?”
“Like Wild Magic.”
“Babe, Jerry doesn't need Wild Magic to do this. This is his shtick. This is the power humans gave him. Useless miracles. Freakin' parlor tricks.”
“What about that dragon nose of yours? Do you smell anything?”
I took a deep whiff, not expecting much. “It smells like real blood. Other than that, I don't . . . hold on. I smell apples. Damn it, you're right. He used an apple.”
“I thought I smelled it, but I wanted to be sure. Your nose is better than mine.”
