“This is Father’s cell—his office,” said the pastor’s son. He lifted his knuckles but left them hovering before the wood and whispered, “Maybe we shouldn’t. What if it is just rain and I interrupt him for nothing?” Adam’s hand dropped. “I don’t want to cause another pointless argument. God knows I’ve done enough of that tonight.”
“Twice,” replied Adnihilo.
The pastor’s son spun from the murmuring door and apologized.
“Why? It’s not your fault,” the half-blood spoke. Truly, he did not blame his friend for his mentor’s folly, nor for his own—he’d handled it like a child’s tantrum, forgetting his lesson. Kill the boy. They’d both forgotten, it seemed, under the heat of the moment when one should remember most. A fight is like that, Cain had told him at the very start of their training. That’s why he practiced every day, and even then, he couldn’t always win. And who am I to judge, anyway? He thought once more of his outburst, cut off Adam mid-apology. “You didn’t cause the argument. It was me this time; and you’re right. Let’s not have you make the same mistake bothering your father with this.” Adnihilo glanced over his shoulder down the light-striped hallway. “I’m going to head back.”
“I’ll come with you,” the pastor’s son agreed, but then the muffled shouts grew louder, and they could just make out threats and heavy footfalls seconds before the door nearly ripped from its hinges.
“I’ll burn in Hell before I let that happen!” David bellowed, stomping into the corridor and turning his rage onto his son and the half-blood. “God, Damn it! Adam, what are you—” His anger faded in an instant as he crushed his son in a shameless embrace. “Thank God!”
Adam wheezed out what he could. “I’m sorry. I didn’t. I was going to tell you.”
His father heard none of it, just positioned his son at arms’ length, sinking ghost-white fingers into the young Messah’s tunic. Then the pastor’s ruddy cheeks turned the color of linen. “Listen. I need you to bar the portal. No one can leave.” He looked to Adnihilo. “Tell Cain I need him, too. If he could keep everyone calm while I—” David froze as a second man sauntered from the cell.
Immediately, the half-blood recognized the strange clergyman by his contemptuous expression, and just as quickly, the stranger noticed him as well. He looked nowhere else as he strolled into the corridor and plucked a candle from its sconce. He twiddled the lit wax between thumb and forefinger, his eyes crawling along like iridescent beetles. “How many times do I have to tell you?” His words reeked of wine. “It’s too late to stop it now. Get to the port while you still can. You’re almost out of time.” Then he snuffed the wick with the tips of his fingers and let the skin sizzle till it started to stink. “Every light must be extinguished.”
“Hurry,” the pastor muttered, but Adam sputtered uncertain whether to explain the dust storm until the rage returned to his father’s face, “Now!”
The two bolted back the way they came, blue and beige tiles flying beneath their feet. Stripes of light blurred with stripes of shadow; and outside, through the dusky windows, Adnihilo spotted what seemed like stars scattered along the steppes—gone in an instant as they reentered the nave. Nearly every guest was up now, crowding between the tables, calling to the Messah as he and the half-blood waded through the flood to the parish doors. With great strain, they hauled the cross-bar from its corner, and together, hoisted the fourteen-stone beam and dropped it into place.
“Good Lord,” Adam gasped. Everyone was watching them now, panic spreading like a plague. And they had yet to find the sacrifice. Adnihilo could not imagine how they would. He was breathing heavily, leaning on his knees, trying to tease out how they might spot the couple among the chaos when a hand landed on his shoulder. He whipped around. Cain and Jezebel had found them instead, yet something felt wrong to Adnihilo. All the anger and impatience had vanished from his mentor. His scowl was gone, and his chest rose and fell so slowly that he hardly seemed to breathe. Jezebel was just the opposite, clinging to her lover’s arm, questioning Adam. It was bizarre. He had never known her to show such weakness.
“Where’s your father?” she asked. “What’s going on? Why did you bar the door?”
“The Messah thinks we’ll be safe here,” Cain answered, yet when she asked from what, he peeled her from his arm and marched forward, shoving her and his pupil and the pastor’s son aside before taking the beam from underneath. He bent his knees, and the muscles in his arms and neck tensed thick as tree roots. Then, with singular strength, he lifted the crossbar, hurling it overhead.
The beam rang out as it hit the ground, like the bell that tolls at the end of a sermon, loud enough to silence the anxious lambs and long enough for them to notice the cups and candles trembling on the table tops, the cutlery tumbling to the floor, the moaning gale and rolling thunder growing closer, breaking against the walls as the stamping of boots, the hooves of horses, the cries of war.
Adnihilo froze in fear with the rest of the parish, unsure of his own ears. It seemed too much a dream to him, but when he bit his tongue to wake
