Dani Morales is not coming.
Maybe she hasn’t seen the signal.
Except that would be pretty out of character for her. The more likely option is that the Gold Towners got to her, too. Took her like they did my sisters.
Or worse, killed her.
I try and fail to not let my imagination run wild with images of Dani lying dead and abandoned in her lodgings or maybe a narrow alley somewhere, pulse pistol wounds marking her body, blood soaking her dark-purple hair, the spark of life gone from her face, her amber eyes dull and staring—
Closing my eyes, I force those thoughts away, instead picturing her as I last saw her, grinning back at me from the helm of an airship, the soft pink of her lips drawing my gaze.
Dani is smart and prepared. A planner. She’ll be fine. She’s probably just holed up somewhere, waiting for the storm to blow over.
I dig out a change of clothes from the top shelf, just some unassuming duster gear to replace my shredded, bloodied excuse for attire. Then I step back into the streets and the hot, dry breeze, my Butcher kit stowed away in the rucksack on my back.
Now if only I knew where I needed to be going. I’m not used to picking my own targets; that’s the whole reason I need Dani. I want so badly for someone to tell me what to do next, to guide me so I don’t make another mistake that puts my sisters’ lives in even more danger.
It was the one thing besides killing that I was supposed to be good at: keeping them safe and provided for. If I can’t do that…
I wind up in Central Parish, crossing in front of the Covenant chapel just as evening services are ending and a flood of congregants are coming down the steps. I hesitate, staring up at the pristine, whitewashed walls and sharply pointed gables. An aquamarine banner stretches the full length of the building. At its center, an intricately illustrated, multicolored orb of glass floats amid the clouds.
The Gate of Heaven, where all our souls are delivered after death so we can pass through to the Heraldic afterlife. Or, I guess it’d be better to say that it’s what the Gate of Heavensupposedlylooks like. It exists somewhere far off in the sky or stars or something, imperceptible to our mortal eyes.
One woman in a long waistless dress and a heavy bonnet nods and smiles as she passes me, her hands pressed to her chest, her face aglow with belief, and a sharp, sudden stab of envy and rage rip through my chest at the obvious peace and security in the woman’s expression. I’ve never felt that way leaving services, not even as a child, no matter how hard I reached for it.
There was a time, when I was fourteen, that I spent weeks praying every day under those echoing arches, with so much desperation that it felt like I was cracking my chest open onto the polished floor. But all those hours of whispered words bounced back to me. Empty. Unheard. We still lost Mama. And no one came to save us but me.
The sudden gong of a bell vibrates through the air, and both the woman and I stop short at the same time, our heads tippingback to look up at the chapel bell tower. I can just make out a small figure inside, hauling on the ropes as metallic peals cut through the air. It isn’t a holy day and no services are starting now, so there’s only one reason why the preachers would be ringing the chapel bells.
Archangels.
Fear spikes my stomach as I spot their distant silhouettes flying through the air like rockets, far above our heads, enormous metal-feathered wings spread wide, the cast of their shadows leaving trails of fear and cowering heads.
“May the grace of the Heralds guide us,” the woman beside me murmurs, taking a knee on the ground to honor them as they pass by, reverently touching the amulet around her neck depicting the Gate of Heaven. I genuflect beside her out of necessity. I don’t need another reason for preachers or anyone else to look twice at me. Especially not with Archangels so close.
“A lost saint. By the grace of the Heralds!”
The dead preacher’s words ring in my ears, and I fight off a shudder as I rise. It almost makes me turn in the opposite direction and run, but at this point that would be a lot more conspicuous than going into the chapel to pay my respects like a true penitent.
Before I can second-guess myself, I hurry up the steps and through the double doors into the hushed reverence of the chapel.
The smell hits me first—metal polish and acrid incense and stale hardtack, layered beneath the more immediate mix of dust and naphtha. The space is cavernous, with arches and columns washed in rustic white. Warm, golden light flickers in ornate lantern sconces, illuminating the colorful stained glass windowsand the bronze images welded onto the walls depicting scenes from Trinity’s creation. On the painted ceiling high above me, the faces of the Twelve Heralds smile down in all their familiar, blank holiness.
The chapels teach the only version of the Heraldic religion approved and promoted by the Ministry; heretical sects do exist here and there, though the Ministry goes to extensive lengths to viciously stamp them out. Only a couple of them have managed to survive any attempts to purge them: the Apostates, who are dedicated to finding the Book of Signs, some kind of mythical tome that they claim is the true word of the Heralds, unsullied by the Ministry. And the Schismatics, who believe there is an unnamed Thirteenth Herald who still watches over us and who will reveal themself someday and shower their believers with riches and glory. Personally, I think both of them are chasing mirages in high season, but then again, I’m not really the religious type. Tried it once and gave up on it a long time ago.
In the very center of the chapel sits a raised dais ringed by twelve statues, one of each of the Heralds, looming over everyone in benevolent judgment, with the same image of the sphere of the Gate of Heaven above them, supported by their holy heads. At the base are stacks of offerings—food, jewelry, water rations, whatever someone thinks might help them get some blessings in the year ahead. It all disappears into the hands of the Order of Heraldic Preachers.
According to the Ministry, the more you give, the more likely it is you will be blessed. Give enough, and you might even be showered with enough prosperity to afford a skyliner airship and all the naphtha it consumes.
Isn’t that convenient.
I slip past the rows of pews, the handful of people lingering in prayer in front of the Heralds’ statues. At the back of the chapel, seven hunched figures sit at the edge of the rostrum, draped in heavy white robes that pin their arms crisscross against their chests. The prophets. Their eyes are completely white, and they stare out over the chapel, heedless of anyone or anything in front of them.
And one of them is Mama.
She’s all the way on the far right, her long dark hair shaved down to her scalp like the preachers do with every prophet. She sways back and forth in the same rhythm as the other six, only the slight movement of their lips giving away the fact that they’re constantly humming and muttering to themselves.
If skyliners are the only ones blessed to be born saints—other than me, that is—then going prophet seems to be unique to dusters. And it’s not nearly as celebrated. Every now and then, a duster’s eyes go white, slowly at first, and then they drift away, their minds somewhere up in the heavens. The Ministry says they’re touched by the Heralds, chosen for the purity of their spirits to see more than the rest of us. What exactly they’re seeing and hearing is a mystery, one that only preachers can fully understand and interpret. The Ministry goes around scooping up prophets from their homes and families and displays them like this in the local chapels as fixtures for prayer, conduits to a higher power. Until, of course, they pass away and the chapels toss their bodies into the Depths with about as much ceremony as most people toss out their garbage.
