Chapter 8

EIGHT

Willow

Only a handful of stars dot the darkened sky above St. Mary's Cathedral. It's almost midnight, and this is my first training exercise with the Agency for Uncovering Rare Anomalies.

My whisper floats along beside me, and I think I can feel her excitement. Hannah, Isaac, and the rest of their team believe in us. They think we can do something wonderful. Something to help people.

"Are you sure I have to take a leave of absence from my job?" I ask Hannah as we follow Isaac through the door to the rectory. It's almost completely silent inside the church, only the odd sounds of an old building surrounding us in the dimly lit space.

"Once you've fully realized your power, you'll be able to locate the BLT." Hannah rests her hand at the small of my back and guides me up the aisle between the pews. "But it could be anywhere from Florida to the Arctic Circle. We have no idea if it's protected by more wards or guarded by an army."

"An army?" The words escape on a squeak. "I'm not fighting an army. I'm a college professor!"

Hannah's light laugh doesn't reassure me. Much. It's almost impossible to panic with her at my side.

"I'm so sorry, Willow. That was a terrible joke. I've been looking for the Blade—and the next Whisper Keeper—for so long, I'm a little giddy. We don't truly believe we'll find an army. At worst, perhaps a small coven of witches we'll need to convince of our good intentions."

"But…we're only a month into the quarter. My students need me." For a moment, I wonder who I am if I'm not Dr. Willow Saunders, adjunct professor. Until I realize I could be more. I could be Willow Saunders, the witch. Willow Saunders, the woman who helped cure cancer. Willow Saunders, the Whisper Keeper.

"We'll talk to your department chair," Hannah assures me. "You won't lose your job. Give us a year, and we'll change the world. And how amazing will it be for your students to have an actual witch teaching them about the occult?"

A hint of excitement stirs in my belly. Hannah's right. I signed a ten-page NDA this morning. I can't talk about anything I see in the AURA lab, can't reveal anything contained in the book—the book I'm not even sure I believe in yet—and can't tell anyone that I'm the Whisper Keeper. They even want me to move in to a secured apartment over the lab for the next couple of months. But after everything is done—after I've found the Blade and done my part, I can go back to my life.

A wave of relief loosens the knot in my stomach. Until Isaac pulls the dark purple drape aside, and the dank, old smell from the antechamber below wafts over me.

"And you're sure the book is here?" I ask, stopping on the first step. My whisper is already down the stairs, probably desperate to get into the old vault. Or heck. Maybe she's already inside.

"It's definitely here," Isaac says, a slight edge to his voice.

"We've been searching for the book for five years," Hannah explains. "But even if we hadn't found journal entries to confirm it, you're the proof, Willow. You and your whisper. She appeared for the first time the same day you took a tour of St. Mary's. Why would that happen if not for the presence of the book?"

She's so certain. Half a dozen times in the past two days, I've come close to bolting. But Hannah has been there with a reassuring word, a cup of coffee, or one of her warm smiles. Every time I talk to her, I feel better. Calmer. And I know I'm doing the right thing.

"Willow?" Hannah holds out her hand. "I'll be by your side the whole time. If you start to feel faint, all you have to do is say the word, and we'll stop for the night."

"The last time I went down there…I was terrified." My voice sounds so small. So pitiful. "It was like I wasn't even… me ."

Hannah rests her hands on my shoulders. She's only an inch taller than I am, so we're almost eye-to-eye. "You're not alone anymore. You have the support of the entire AURA team. We've got you. You will do this, and you'll be fine."

Her confidence frees me from the fear keeping me paralyzed. I'm going to do this. My whisper wants this. I want this.

Hannah follows me down the stairs. Isaac is fiddling with a pair of floodlights, transforming the antechamber's vibe from "spooky murder room" to "ancient IKEA."

My whisper paces back and forth in front of the sealed vault door. I thought she'd have already gone inside. But maybe she can't unless I'm with her?

"Is your whisper here?" Hannah asks.

"Yes. She's waiting for me." My stomach twists into a knot. The magic inside calls to me, wrapping its tendrils around my limbs to pull me closer. I can't stop myself until my hands are pressed to the old, scarred metal. "Help?—"

A blue glow surrounds me, the air suddenly thick with an ancient, spicy scent. It seeps into my pores. I breathe deeply, desperate to fill my lungs with it, and only then realize I'm no longer in my own body.

Gray stone surrounds me—us—as my whisper stands in the center of the vault. She holds out her hands, still nearly translucent in the flickering light.

We turn in a circle, slowly. Torches stand six feet tall in each corner, tongues of cerulean flames casting the entire room in an eerie light. Writing—etching—marks every single surface. Symbols. Words. Pictures.

Two steps forward, and a stone altar seems to materialize out of thin air. We move as one. I don't fight her any more. She's in control. I have to trust she knows what she's doing.

A leather-bound tome rests on the ancient dais with symbols burned into the cover. Before my eyes, they start to move. Swirling, changing, alive with frenetic energy.

She reaches for the book, but her fingers go right through it. Anger prickles over her skin. Frustration. Pure, raw need . Her emotions have never been so clear. She needs to touch it. To open it.

"You've done it before," I try to tell her. But I have no idea if she can hear me. Or sense me. "Focus."

Maybe I'm the one who needs to focus. But how when I'm trapped in her consciousness? It's not like I can control her.

She tries again and again, stamping her foot against the stone floor when nothing works. My head swims. The incense is too strong. The room starts to spin. The symbols slow until I can almost read them. But then I'm falling. Flailing. A weak whimper escapes my lips, and everything goes black.

A soft rustling rouses me. Followed by a cool cloth draped over my forehead. I force my eyes open. Hannah leans over me, concern in her tired gaze. "Oh, thank goodness. You've been out for over an hour."

With a groan, I try to sit up, but I'm too dizzy.

Nope. Not happening.

The heavy scent of the incense is gone—replaced by fresh linen and something vaguely fruity. Soft lights chase the shadows away, but I don't recognize the room I'm in. I'm still dressed in jeans, a tank top, and my UCSF sweatshirt, but this isn't my bed.

"What…happened? And where are we?" Someone is using the inside of my skull as a drum, and I don't like it. Not one bit.

Hannah slides her arm under my shoulders, lifts me gently, and tucks a pillow behind my back. "You're in the apartment over the lab. We worried we might need one of our healers to take care of you. As for what happened, you'll have to tell me. One minute you were standing right up against the vault door, then you let out a scream and collapsed. We couldn't wake you up—not even with smelling salts—but your vitals were all within normal ranges, so we brought you back here."

Oh.

"What did you see inside the vault?" she asks, tucking the soft blanket tighter around my body.

I'm so tired. All I want to do is sleep. But I tell her everything I can remember. The blue flames. The altar. The leather cover, alive with symbols that made no sense to me.

"But my whisper couldn't open it. She wasn't strong enough. I've seen her affect the physical world before, but in that vault… she couldn't." A single tear tumbles down my cheek. Why do I feel like I failed?

"You did so well, Willow," Hannah says, and her smile eases a fraction of my guilt. "The next time, you'll be stronger. You'll both be stronger."

"How?" I don't know that I believe her, but she's so confident, she must have some sort of plan.

"We'll talk about that tomorrow. Get some rest. You've earned it." She pats my shoulder, then reaches for the lamp on the bedside table.

My eyes are so heavy. But I reach for her arm. "I want to go home. Can someone take me home?" Even as I say the words, I know she's going to refuse. I can barely sit up, let alone walk.

"Willow, I don't think you should be alone tonight. Stay here. I'll sleep on the couch in case you need me. Oh, and I turned the magic dampener on. Your whisper won't wake you. She's earned some rest too."

I want to thank her, but the words are simply too hard. So when she slips out of the room and shuts the door, I let myself drift into oblivion.

Gabriel

I step out into the darkness, shedding my jacket as I do so. Once I am safely hidden in the alley, I release my wings. Followed by a scream. Fortunately, this time of night—or morning—there are few people around to notice.

Blackened feathers fall to the pavement all around me. Why am I not healing?

"Your powers change once you leave the celestial realm. Trust me." Maddox's words have haunted me every day. But he broke one of his wings when he came here and it healed within a few hours.

Hellfire is one of the only ways to kill an angel. The last angel who attempted to fly through it made it back to the celestial realm—because the Almighty willed it so—but died screaming. Not even she could save him.

I wrap my wings around my body. They are in no better condition now than they were five days ago. How is this possible?

A single flutter is all I can manage before the pain drives me to my knees. My angelic powers were back to full strength quickly. I cut my finger on the bag of kettle corn this morning, and the skin was unmarked within the hour. But my wings… they could take weeks to heal at this rate. Months even.

I stare at the penthouse windows high above. They're warded to keep prying eyes out, but they hold a subtle glow. The others—Kunchin, Dion, Maddox, and Killian—are still there. Talking. Laughing. Drinking.

I passed the evening in relative silence. I did not belong. Zoe hugged me when I left, and I could have used my gifts to sense her emotions—to determine if she truly was happy to see me, but I did not want to know the answer.

I find a hotel off Market Street, hand over Sinclair's credit card, and get a room for the night.

In the past week, I have tried pretzels, pizza, french fries, tacos, borscht, schnitzel, and kettle corn. I have ridden on a roller coaster, watched the sun rise and set, slept on luxurious sheets and a dirty Greyhound bus. I have talked to hundreds of people around the world. Their joy and pain have fueled me. Given me purpose. But they have also left me hollow.

I need more. Perhaps that is why my wings have not healed. Perhaps in some deep, dark part of my mind, I do not want them to. Because when they do, I will have to go home. I'll return to the celestial realm for all eternity, and I will never feel like this again.