30
Csilla
Embarrassment yanked her hand away from Mihály.
‘Please stand up,’ she said, hand fluttering as the light faded. She wanted Ilan to tell her what he thought, like he always did, not this worshipful silence as he knelt, eyes turned down from her. She wanted answers, and his reaction seemed to mean he didn’t have any. The only thing reflected in his gaze was a shocked awe and yearning.
He finally stood, looking between them, eyes wide and lips parted.
‘What was that?’ Then, softer: ‘What did the two of youdo?’
Csilla swallowed. There couldn’t be any more stalling.
‘We tried the ritual to give me Evie’s soul.’ Her mouth was sour at the memory of lying against Mihály and bleeding under the stars. ‘But it didn’t work.’
And she had to tell them why. Csilla took both Mihály’s hands in hers, pressing her palms around his fingers as they glowed in silver comfort. Devastation was a consequence of the hopeful human condition. And she could be gentle, though he hadn’t been gentle with her. Perhaps the numb shock of her grief would be a blessing at the moment.
‘It didn’t work because that wasn’t her. She’s gone.’
That expression... the kind, bemused look he’d given her the first moment they’d met, but more genuine now. She squeezed tighter, heart cracking at his smile, and dropped her gaze.
‘You were tricked.’ She braced herself for the denial and anger to come, like readying for the first thundercrack of a storm. ‘We both were.’
He clucked his tongue with a pitying look and Csilla’s blood rose. She was being better to him than he deserved. This was a moment she should be taking for herself, and he would mock her for it?
‘Just because I failed in a ritual . . .’
‘No.’ Csilla’s skin crawled, pieces of the evening coming back. The softness of her bed. The weight of the knife. ‘Do you even know what it was you were doing? Or did you just take Tamas’s word for it?’
‘I...’ He gulped air, words lost as he jerked away.
‘Think.’ Her head pounded. Blood and magic. They’d used for themselves what the killer was using now. And the only person they had claiming it was holy was the grief-stricken boy who’d have done anything to get his soulmate back. ‘Who was it who told you how to do it? Who knew about the blood and the magic, about Evie. About your holiness and how it could blind us?’
Mihály grabbed her wrist. Light flared, but the shadows it cast were sinister. Ilan leaped forward, but Csilla raised a hand to stop him. She had to see this through.
‘It was a miracle. You don’t question miracles. And I’m blessed.’
‘I’ve seen miracles.’ Her voice choked. ‘You’re just aman. Whatever you and Tamas did didn’t save her, and it may have damned us all.’
‘You’re mistaken...’ He tensed like a wild creature newly caged. But she couldn’t let him edge away, no matter what a slippery thing he was.
‘The mistake was what you did. They used you, you’re not to blame, butthink.’
He sank down onto the steps and put his head in his hands. Was he praying?
Crying.
‘He brought me here because I needed looking after,’ he whispered into his hands. ‘That’s what he told me.’
A part of her wanted to scream at him over the audacity of his acting as if he were the only person here grieving. Ágnes’s body was next to them and not yet cold.
But that wasn’t a pain she wished on anyone else.
‘He used you to hold something evil. You put it in me.’
Mihály’s laugh into his palms was wormwood bitter. ‘Well, it’s all gone now, isn’t it?’
If she couldn’t be Evie, did he really not care at all? A helpless laugh rose in Csilla’s throat. ‘It happened before, Mihály. I killed Madame Varga. And I brought her back. And you killed the others. You were never ill. You were possessed.’
