Whatever Caliban had done to this place, whatever infernal magic had been drawn into the bones of this house, it was not only keeping the angels out but keeping the house together.
For now.
Then the light turned gold.
A crack of blinding radiance—heavenly fire—lanced through the doorframe, peeling the paint, scorching the wood. I felt the heat across my face, like a furnace door had swung wide open.
I recoiled. My back hit the couch.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Kirby scrambled back, pulling Nia with them, moving like something primal in their body had finally caught up with the moment.
The fire wasn’t touching the door itself.
It couldn’t. The warding stopped it.
But it kept trying.
A voice—a terrible voice—boomed from outside, shaking the walls.
“Deliver her unto us.”
It wasn’t a request.
I whipped toward Silas, expecting him to answer, expecting some sign of defiance, some grand proclamation, but—
He was shaking.
I had never seen his hands quiver.
He was standing, his back stiff, his hands at his sides—but his fingers were clenched into fists. His throat bobbed. His jaw was tight enough to break. And his wings—his invisible wings—I could see the way his shoulders stiffened, the way something unseen tried to push outward before curling back in, trembling.
He was afraid.
Holy shit, he was truly afraid.
And then—I heard the sound of the lock turning.
No.
No, no, no.
“Silas, do something!” I begged.
His fingers hovered just above the deadbolt, like he was about to open the door.
It was almost like he wanted to—or was compelled to—comply.
Something invisible and monstrous cracked through the space between us, something ancient and unseen pulling him forward. His body jerked slightly, his foot dragging an inch toward the door before he forced himself still.
I grabbed his wrist. “Silas.”
His breath hitched. His hand was ice cold.
The chorus of otherworldly voices slithered through the home—be it one or many, it was impossible to tell—filling our minds, bursting our ears as it said,“Prove you were not born into sin—prove you will not fall.”
“They’re calling me,” he said.
His voice was wrong. It wasn’t his usual low, steady grit. It was hollow, empty—like something had broken inside him and all that was left was the echo.
