Chapter Fifty-Seven
IN THE SPACE BETWEEN THREE WORLDS, two beings argued over a man’s soul.
“There’s nothing for you here,” the dark angel said, his voice like the scraping of fingernails against a chalkboard. “This soul belongs below.”
“It is not for you to determine the place a soul belongs after death,” the saint rebuked.
“This soul is ours.” The dark angel reached out his hand.
The saint blocked the demon, standing over the soul that lay prostrate between them.
The dark angel roared. “His soul is damned!”
“He repented at the end.”
“Repented?” The dark angel sneered. “He fully embraced the deadly sins. He abandoned hope and allowed Despair to own him!”
“The demon did not own him. The transformation was incomplete because he prayed for help.”
“That’s sophistry. Your brother priests dispatched his soul to hell.”
“Yet here we stand.”
The demon craned his neck to look around the saint and view the soul. The man’s chest lifted and fell, slow and steady, with human breath.
The saint smiled at the sight.
If the dark angel could have pushed the saint aside, he would have. He examined the soul more closely, leaning over him.
“You cheated,” he hissed. “The man was dead.”
“It is not for me to give life. But I have prayed for him for many years, that grace would take root in his soul.” The saint pointed down. “Go back from whence you came. There is nothing for you here.”
As soon as the command left the saint’s lips, the dark angel vanished, snarling and cursing as he departed.
The saint bent down and made the sign of the cross on his student’s forehead. He prayed in Latin, as was his custom, beseeching mercy and grace and thanking God for the man’s deliverance.
When he had finished, the student—who had been half-asleep during the encounter—fell into a peaceful slumber.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
THE SHOCK HADN’T WORN OFF.
Raven sat at an outdoor table at Café Mozart in the old town square of Prague, drinking coffee on a Saturday morning, still feeling numb.
She’d been a resident of Prague for two months.
She’d traveled from Florence to Austria with the young women and their driver. Once they’d entered Innsbruck, the driver had dropped off the other women at an opulent residence. Then he and Raven had switched vehicles at what appeared to be a safe house. They’d been met by a woman who changed Raven’s hair from red to a sandy brown with blond streaks, and cut the already-shortened strands into a bob. Raven switched the blue contact lenses for brown and exchanged her Portuguese passport for a Canadian one.
The driver had then taken her to Prague, to an apartment building behind the National Theatre, near the Vitava River. She’d been given the keys to a furnished one-bedroom apartment, an envelope filled with various currencies, and a set of instructions relating to her backstory and the job that had been secured for her at St. Vitus Cathedral.
Raven was now Cassandra MacDonald, who had a B.A. in English from Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario, and was interested in history.
Her job at the cathedral wasn’t in art restoration. Presumably, showing her ability in that area would be too conspicuous. Instead, she had a position in an office, writing and editing materials in English.
The cathedral was incredibly majestic, as was St. Wenceslas Chapel, which was housed inside the cathedral and featured priceless frescoes of the passion of Christ and the life of St. Wenceslas.
The chapel was home to several relics. But Raven continued to wear the relic Sarah had given her. She touched it absently as she stared at the astronomical clock on the tower opposite, waiting for it to strike and display figures of the twelve apostles.
Her pain over the loss of William was acute, but she had been able to push it aside as she tried to adjust to her new life. And that was how she knew she was still in shock.
She told herself the shock would wear off. When she wasn’t distracted by so many new things, she would be able to grieve properly. For now, she had difficulty fathoming the fact that William was gone. Forever.
Losing him was like breaking her leg. It took time for her to accept that she would never run or dance again, apart from the wondrous days after William had healed her. It would take time to accept that the Curia had murdered him, and she would never again be held in his arms.
She sipped her coffee, noticing a man skirting the crowd that had gathered to watch the clock’s display. The man was dressed all in black, his hair pale in the sun.
She placed her coffee cup on the table with shaking fingers. The figure looked so like William.
She left cash for the coffee and the untouched pastry and grabbed the brace she’d been using instead of a cane.
The figure was still visible, walking away from the crowd.
She moved as quickly as she could into the square, following him. She didn’t dare shout his name.
The clock’s bell began to ring and the man stopped.
Raven hastened her pace, ignoring the pain that shot up her injured leg.
The man turned around.
Raven shaded her hand against the sun in order to make out his features.
He was very handsome; it was true. But he wasn’t William.
She stopped in the square and watched as the man in black was joined by a group of friends.
As the clock finished striking, she wondered how she could know that William was dead and still be convinced she’d seen him in a square in Prague.