He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. ‘First, we need the soul. And a lot of blood to carry it.’
Her throat seized, dry and closing. ‘Whose blood?’
‘And that is where our interests align. I agree the killer needs to be caught.’
Her heartbeat thudded in her throat as pieces slid together. ‘You want to give me the murderer’s soul?’
Mihály shook his head. ‘We could, if it comes to that, but what we need is his blood. Trust me, it’s better if we use someone else’s. It’s hard to work miracles with an open vein.’
‘You know something about it, then?’ Her voice was so quiet she wasn’t sure he could hear her. But his lips thinned, and he rolled up his sleeve. Along the river of his vein was the raised pale flesh of a scar at his wrist. By the thickness, the cut that had made it had been deep, and she instinctively reached for it even though it was long healed.
Magic that came from the body was powerful. There was a reason the Church used it in vows, and spilled blood was prayed over and cut hair was burned. That power made it easy to turn dark.
‘But you’re an Izir.’
‘Which is why I can’t work Shadow magic.’ His tone was even, and the Brilliance of his soul showed in his smile, melting her doubt. ‘Asten intended for us to have these physical forms, no matter what went wrong in the making of them. Let me help you. And you will help me.’
Her entire being curled with want at his promises, rich with power and more than she’d ever dared hope for. ‘But we still need a human soul.’ Her voice was nothing but a whisper.
‘I have one in mind. A kind one, don’t worry.’ His eyes were lit with a look she recognised. Hope, undercut with desperation.
He talks to ghosts.He said he calls them.
The idea of rebirth.
‘What—’
‘You’ll still be you,’ he promised, eyes earnest. ‘Just... just more. I know I can do it.’
She looked again at the scar visible from under his shirtsleeves, a stark warning on his skin. She believed him. That didn’t mean it was safe.
‘What if you can’t?’
Offence flashed over his face, and then he softened.
‘Then at least we’ve caught the killer. You can stay, the faithful girl who delivered them from a monster. I’m no worse off. I’ve failed before. I can handle it.’
She could save everyone and be saved in turn. She wanted so badly for it to be true, even as her eyes flicked back to the corpses.Graced Rozalia,her mind whispered, conjuring images of the miracle of preservation, the perfect corpse said to still rest somewhere in the deep passages of the cathedral, the knowledge of her lost but the miracle never forgotten. There was precedent for miracles requiring death.
Mihály placed his hands over her free one, pressing her palm as if praying through her skin.
‘Asten brought us together for a reason. I’m the only person who can help you. And you are the only one who can prove I’m no heretic. This is real.’
She swallowed. Their meeting did have an uncomfortable ring of fate. The Church taught there was nothing without purpose.
‘If you can’t trust me,’ Mihály continued. ‘Trust Them. You made the right choice in coming here.’
‘I have faith in Them,’ she answered. But she’d never had a reason to spare much faith on herself, and doubt was a worm gnawing at the hope trying to root.
‘And me?’
He brushed his fingers over the mark on her cloak, and a starry silver glitter danced on the surface. He was right – he was chosen. Trusting in one meant trusting in the other and that’s what she had been raised to do. She closed her eyes, blocking out the dim and stinking barn, the ruined creatures, everything but the warmth of the man in front of her.
‘Yes.’
11
Ilan
