“I see.” He closed the book, scattering amber dust from itscrinkled folds. “You were correct, child. That creature you saw was an angel. In the genesis of its form. But now it is of the fallen, and we call these creatures demons.”
Marie considered this explanation. The demon, in its strange language, had announced itself an angel upon arrival. Marie had thought it slightly strange but could sense some truth in its words. She supposed hearing a half-truth was a bit like seeing a color that possessed no name. You knew it was there, could see it clearly, yet hadn’t the sense or the knowledge to give it a proper name. She supposed demons lied the same way—twisting their lies into truths so intricately that it was impossible to pick one from the other, to know which from which, so that their words took on a new form entirely, impossible to name.
Father Antoine uncorked a vial of blessed oil from his shelf and made a cross over Marie’s forehead. The oil was warm against her skin, the first brushes of spring sunlight. “That was no ordinary demon, Marie,” said Father Antoine quietly. “That was a demon of an exceptionally high demonic house. He serves the arch-demon of violent subjugation, Moloch.The Lord of Chains.”
The demon had told her that too. It had whispered of the Lord of Chains, whose shackles held an ironclad stronghold over all of New Orleans, whose misery and contempt poisoned the air of every auction block, who fed from the pain that lived in the writhing darkness of every slave ship’s shadowed belly.
“The demon you saw today was called theSnatcher of Gifts.Often sent as an emissary to stop a thing before it can truly begin. To snatch an innocent at the bud of its power before it can grow. And let me tell you something, child: You’ve a very special gift, young Marie. Many will mock you, spit at you, try to stamp it out and steal it for their own. But no man, no demon, and noangel”—the corners of his eyes creased pleasantly—“can take what God has given.” He stared down at Marie as if seeing her properly for the first time. “You are a very special child, Marie Laveau. Do you know what that makes you, truly?”
“What?” Marie asked quietly.Monster,the demon whispered in her ear. He was here with them now.
“An ally,” Father Antoine said. “An exceptional ally to God. And in these coming days, the Vatican will need friends from all places, those high and low. You will help me save the Church.”
“Save the Church from what, Father?” asked Marie. The demon was laughing, a high keening.Liar,the demon taunted from over Antoine’s shoulder.Liar. Liar. Liar.
But Father Antoine’s face was filled with such conviction that Marie couldn’t help but steal some for herself. “From itself.”
Now Antoine kept his eyes steady on the alchemist, as gentle as they had been with Marie all those years ago. Silas was looking past Antoine, searching the darkness. Startled, Marie ducked back behind the pillar, heart pounding. Just what had she overheard? When she looked again, Antoine and Silas were gone, the corridor empty.
“A word of advice, Laveau,” came a voice from the shadows. Marie whirled to find Silas standing in front of her. Crackling vitality had returned to him, and with it, his usual air of silent contempt, that same look of mocking disdain.
His eyes swept over her tearstained cheeks. “Cry your tears if you must, witch. But outside of these walls, you’d do well to use some of that infamous magic on yourself”—his voice fell soft, strangely gentle—“and turn that bleeding heart of yours to stone.”
Silas held her gaze, eyes cutting through the shadows at her. And then he was gone.
Were those the words of an ally or foe? Truthfully, with a man like Silas, she might never know. And there was simply no time. Marie hurried forward into Antoine’s chambers.
He was at his great bookshelf, running a finger along the various timeworn tomes, his reading glasses hanging down the bridge of his nose. He took one look at her breathless appearance and made his way to her. “Marie, what is the matter?”
“I am with child, Antoine,” Marie said. “Jon’s child. I am to have a daughter.”
Antoine remained very still, watching her with that same unending patience he had when Marie had first been brought into his quarters as a little girl. He was grayer now, older, but the same.
“Sanite, she…warned me of Jon’s growing influence on you.”
“Jon is a good man,” insisted Marie.
Antoine turned away from her, his weathered eyes on the Holy Virgin, who stared down at them both, her marbled eyes completely white and unseeing. “I fear…I fear there is no such thing in New Orleans, child. Not even me.”
“What exactly is the Song of Three?” Antoine said nothing. His silence told her that he knew. “Did you know this entire time?” she pressed.
“I knew only what the Inquisitors spoke of in whispers,” he said finally. “I was a simple priest, Marie. The Inquisition, it was…terrible work. Maddening work. You could not always trust the words of those being persecuted. I had hoped that it would not come to pass.” He stared into Marie’s eyes, into the cold eyes of the past. “When they burned Saloppe at the stake, she spoke of three vessels that would avenge not just her death, but the deaths of all her people. She said that these vessels would form a trinity of power, a triad chosen by the Voodoo gods themselves. The sun, the moon, the star. A union of bloodlines.”
The strange mural on the wall. The sun, the moon, and the star. Voodoo’s trinity.
“But the child,” continued Antoine, “the child would be the sacred conduit, the meeting point at which two vibrant magics flowed. But you know best of all, Marie. Power like this rarely comes without consequence.”
“What are you saying, Antoine?” Her voice trembled.
The silence between them seemed to stretch forever. Another second and she would go mad.
“The child would have to die,” Antonio de Sedella said at last.
Marie closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks. She wanted to scream.
The Baron’s promise, Jon’s words at the fire:I would feel this pain once more, but only once more.Marie felt her heart twist.
And then she remembered the golden eyes of the snake that bit her. They were Jon’s eyes too. She remembered the poison he’d sucked from her veins, the poison he’d made her drink with every sweet kiss and lesson. Those eyes had been trying to tell her something…something she’d missed. Jon was a man of practice and principle. He did nothing that had not already been calculated athousand times over. And then Marie understood. The whole thing had been a stage. A performance before the real thing. Jon was powerful, his magic older than hers. But he was not strong enough for his war. Notyet.For that, he would need a conduit to raise his army of zombi.
