It cooed a question in a language that sounded like the scrape of rocks rolling down a dry mountainside, and Mihály’s answering prayer was an avalanche wind. The Izir spat on the ground, and under the touch of the demon, his saliva steamed on the dirt.
‘What are you doing?’ Ilan asked between fervent prayers. ‘Get rid of it.’
Unless even Mihály wasn’t holy enough. His blood still had magic, but it was old and weak. He couldn’t even heal someone properly.
A snap of his shoulders, and his posture changed. This time, his prayers were in language Ilan understood but were spoken with a resonance that raised bumps along his skin. The Izir was lit with a glow of divinity, tall and handsome and effortlessly righteous, and in his deepest heart Ilan knew it wasn’t the demon’s presence stirring the jealous hatred he couldn’t smother.
The creature hissed more clacking words as it clawed down Mihály’s leg, ripping fabric and flesh as it disappeared into an inky black. Mihály stamped on the last of it, and it disappeared into a dull mica shimmer, then plain and honest dirt.
‘Mihály—’
The Izir fell to his knees and promptly vomited, a yellow-brown stream of bile puddling on the ground.
Ilan continued to stare at the ground, no trace of darkness remaining. There were similar corrupted creatures bound all over the Immaculate Union, and not every territory was lucky enough to have an Izir.
Every territory. Rumours and evidence knitted together in his mind. The refugees who claimed there had been a demon in Ruze, others who claimed it was Outer Inosko that was being cursed. They’d been so overwhelmed with the how and the whoof the murders inside the city, he hadn’t given more than a passing thought to the wheres.
But each district of Silgard was once the seat of a territory angel. Arany’s sacrificed divinity had kept the Church’s faith and power, with her blood and city dirt taken as relics. He wasn’t sure anyone realised how well that had kept the divine link between the far-flung municipalities and the holy capital. Links set by holy blood and erased by corrupted death.
It wasn’t an attack against the city. That was only blowback. The real strike was at the entire Union. From the coastal east to the warfront of the west, nowhere would be safe once the ritual was complete.
‘We’ve been so stupid.’ His fist clenched with a need to punch the ground.
Far down the road he could hear the steady march and low voices of another caravan, lucky pilgrims who had no idea of the danger they’d just been saved from, or unlucky refugees who knew it all too well.
They needed a safe place, but Silgard couldn’t offer it. After his report, the Prelate would want to close off the city and lock down the citizens, at least until they confirmed the gate wards held. Better a handful of people sleep rough than risk bringing more demons through.
24
Csilla
‘They can’t shut the city.’
Csilla’s shoulders shook as she looked at Mihály’s drawn face, Ilan’s stoic one. ‘People need to come in. They’ll be safer here.’
Not fully safe. A strange, dank odour on Mihály’s skin lingered even under his clothes, a smell that was half-storm and half-burned sugar wafting off him. His fingers were stained charcoal dark where they had touched the creature.
Those blackened fingers twirled a few chestnut strands of her loose hair in soft connection and Csilla couldn’t bring herself to push him away even as her skin crawled. Ilan’s frown only deepened.
‘We can’t risk more traffic in or out.’
Her stomach clenched at the very idea. This was a pilgrimage city where people came for hope. No believer should be denied that.
But if Mihály looked bad, Ilan looked worse, and that was only after one brief encounter.
‘I should have been there.’ She’d let them go alone, convinced it was better, and they might not have come back at all.
‘There’s nothing you could have done, and you’re the most vulnerable of us,’ Mihály said, a plain truth that still ached. Thehoneyed affection in his tone was meant as a balm over her worry, but it only made it sting. ‘We made it back.’
‘Does it mean we’re already too late?’ But they had managed to banish the demon. They weren’t totally powerless.
‘Frankly, it doesn’t matter to me.’ Mihály brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek, an exhausted tremor in the gesture. ‘Mypower is fine. Certainly still effective enough for our plan.’ He slid his arms around her and pulled her to him, delicate fetters around her waist. Ilan coughed and Csilla turned, an elbow wedged against Mihály’s side to give herself air.
‘Mihály. It matters tome.’
Whatever the demon had brought out in him was ugly and raw. Maybe it had always been there, and the scab had only just been pulled away to reveal the wound beneath.
‘We’re likely too late for most of the continent,’ Ilan said quietly. ‘Even if the Incarnate returns now.’
