I vibrate as I trespass farther into hallowed ground. The air pressure tightens around my entire body, weighing down on me. Each step is like marching through water. Not willing to admit defeat, I drop to my hands and knees and crawl up the stairs to the plaza. My right hand keeps a firm grasp on the pistol.
Pressure turns to heat. A burning sensation radiates from within my body. It’s a sear—a fire that wants to tear its way out of me and escape this place. A fire named Dudley. I can feel him festering inside me. He’s in pain, probably more pain than I’m in. I worry that the moment I let him have control, he’ll flee this place and take my body with him. I cannot let him. I won’t.
With my eyes shut in agony, I finally reach the top of the steps. I’m well onto church grounds. My head throbs with a weapons-grade migraine. I vomit on the granite ground. I take deep breaths, trying to control myself—trying to control Dudley.
The burning intensifies. The gun becomes too hot to hold, and I let it clatter to the ground. Still on my knees, I tear off my jacket, hoping that might alleviate the fiery pain and let the heat escape. It doesn’t. The fire moves from inside my chest to my skin. I look at my arms, expecting to see blisters forming.
Instead, I see something else. My arteries pulse with a radiant orange blood that courses from my heart. Tiny rivers of vibrant magma flow beneath my skin and through my arms. My hands glow like red-hot irons where the blood vessels concentrate. On the tips of my fingers, black talons have replaced my nails.
As I twist and stretch my arms to inspect my transformation, my arm begins to hyperextend. My elbow pops and cracks as my forearm bends unnaturally and my hand inches toward my triceps. Inside the taut sleeve of my skin, my hand rotates at the wrist until I’m grabbing the underside of my own arm. There’s no discomfort, but the shock of seeing this contortion causes me to convulse in revulsion. My arm snaps back to its original articulation.
I look down at my chest. The area beneath my breast emits a bright orange light. With each heartbeat, more radiant blood pulses through my body. With each heartbeat, more power flows. This is it. This is Dudley.
I’ve never been conscious long enough to see this transformation. Somehow, despite the pain and fatigue, I am still me. I think about how Fiona said all I needed was to believe I could control it.
I remember how Father Ramon said, “The question is, how do you control yourself?”
I have to find a way. I close my eyes and focus on what has brought me this far. Paige. Ramon. David. They are not just my friends—they are my family. They are my life. I cannot let them down. If Dudley wins, they’re lost.
I scream, channeling all my rage and frustration and letting it out. My roar echoes off the high-rises that surround me, reverberating across the entirety of Downtown Los Angeles.
I consider my hands again. Yes, Dudley is out. The agony that overwhelmed me moments ago is now manageable. The demon has come to fruition… but I am in control.
I look up. Before me is a fountain, raised above the ground like a floating disc. Water spills over all sides. And on the edge, someone lies in black priest robes. The water that flows around his motionless body is dyed red with blood.
Father Ramon?
I steel myself and rise to my feet. My body aches all over—my hands, my legs, my chest, my back. But no amount of pain or nausea can stop me from sprinting to him.
When I reach the body, I realize it’s not Father Ramon. It’s another priest, an innocent victim. In his chest is a deep black hole. His heart lies in the fountain beside him, staining the water red as it spills over the side.
My attention is drawn to the Cathedral. High on the wall, panels of translucent alabaster extend from the facade like a giant geometric bay window. The glass panes surround an architectural cross made of the same sand-colored concrete as the rest of the structure. Warm light projects into the night sky like a beacon. Another source of light spills out from the cracks of the closed double doors that mark the entrance to the Cathedral.
I summon all my strength and return to retrieve the pistol I left on the ground. The heat from my hand warped the plastic grip. When I try the trigger, it’s jammed. With so many polymer parts inside, there’s no telling what I melted while holding it.
Dudley is the only weapon I need right now, so I toss the useless gun aside and march toward the church. With each step, the pain intensifies. I reach the double doors. Strange symbols are carved on the bronze surface—cryptic cyphers I don’t have time to identify. My hands press against the doors and push them open to reveal the entryway of the church.
I make my way inside. Three pairs of glass double doors stand before me. All are shattered, and glass shards lie scattered on the ground. My boots crunch over the bits of glass as I cross the threshold. The pain worsens. I worry that at any given moment, I will collapse to the ground and explode into a ball of flames.
I push myself forward, deep into the church corridor. On either side of it hang enormous paintings in gilded frames. One is of the Virgin Mary looking over the California Missions. Another depicts Jesus’s ascension.
A loud bang reverberates behind me. I whirl around to find that the double bronze doors have slammed shut by themselves, trapping me inside. I have an idea who did this.
“Welcome, Darcy,” a
