“While you what?” he says with a sparkle in his eye and an otherwise blank expression.

  I bow my head and mumble, “While I celebrate Orion’s birthday with his family.”

  His face barely changes, but to me, he may as well have erupted into riotous laughter.

  Once I’ve been adequately humiliated, Aiden follows me back to my room. “He’s in the bathtub,” I say. “There’s still a knife stuck in his hand if you want to use it. We need Whiteface’s location.”

  “Sure.” Aiden grins around the stem in his mouth. As I gather my coat and wallet, I hear him say, “Happy birthday,” to Orion, and with a stab of shame, I realize I never did.

  * * *

  Not a block from our hotel, just off a cobblestone walk called Rue de la Bûcherie, is the restaurant Orion’s family has chosen. It sits between much taller buildings like one of those stubborn, old homes that refuses to cave while the city grows up around it. The Bachman’s have already reserved a large table on the second floor.

  White tablecloths abound here. It looks like a typical wedding reception, exactly the sort of place I’d expect Orion’s family to dine. Mrs. Bachman rises from her chair and circles around to hug her son. Then, before I can sit, she turns and hugs me too. Every muscle in my body tightens at her touch. She’s much smaller than me, but I get the impression she’d fight off anything that wanted to hurt me or anyone else at this table. Is this what it’s like to have a mother? She doesn’t let go right away, so I oblige her and hug her back. Her shirt is pink cashmere and probably the softest thing I’ve ever laid hands on.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Eden,” she says after finally letting me go. “It’s a mom thing. I’ve decided one son just isn’t enough.”

  But she’s misinterpreted my reaction. I’m not embarrassed. I’m stunned. I’m vulnerable. I try to shake the feeling, but it lingers… like the scent of lavender in Mrs. Bachman’s hair.

  “Eden!” Orion calls from the other end of the table. “Meet my friends. Well, you know Phoebe already.”

  “So we meet again,” Phoebe says like we’re old nemeses.

  Orion introduces me to two more of his friends. One is Remy, a stalky guy in a Hawaiian shirt. The other is Jacob, a stout guy in a polo shirt. Together, they look like they could be an interesting comedy duo. I sit across from Orion’s mother and next to his grandfather. There’s every chance in the world they boxed me in on purpose. It’s a kind of predatory affection I’ve never experienced before.

  While Orion explains that none of them should stay in Paris and proceeds to buy them plane tickets online—“Just out of an abundance of caution”—Stella turns her attention to me.

  “So, Eden, tell me all about yourself. What do you do? What are your hobbies? How did you come to work for the House of David?”

  I have no idea where to begin. “Uh… Well, my mother died, and I had nowhere to go. So, when Cain—that’s my boss—found out one of his people had a kid in the system, I guess he decided to take me in.”

  “And what is it you do specifically?”

  I frown. “You know what I do.”

  She laughs a charming laugh that reminds me too much of Orion. “No, silly. I mean what’s your position? You’ve been there a long time. Surely you’re something like a manager by now. Or do you prefer to stay in an hourly position?”

  “Right.” Of course she doesn’t want to hear about the killing. “I’m something like a manager, yes.” I can’t help but smile. Describing my job with such mundane language feels ridiculous, but I think I like it. “I became a Judge rather quickly, actually. It took much longer to rise to the level of Tennin. That’s uh… That’s probably like a regional manager.” I chuckle, and she nods for me to go on. “There are only four Tennins. Each corresponds to one of the four archangels.”

  “Oh!” She covers her mouth. “You’re kidding! That sounds romantic, like a fairy tale. So which archangel do you correspond to?”

  “Gabriel, the messenger. The weapon I use is supposed to have been his.”

  “Fascinating.” She leans on her elbows. “I don’t think my husband was a Tennin.”

  “No, ma’am—”

  “Stella,” she corrects. “You can call me Stella, even when you’re not being a tough guy.”

  I break eye contact because she’s making me vulnerable again. “I mean, your husband, my father, was never a Judge. He was intelligence… more like a spy. He never saw combat.”

  “And Orion?”

  “An Acolyte—mine, specifically. His job is to watch my back on missions.”

  “Sounds like an important job.” She sips the wine our server just poured and smiles. “I hope he’s good at it.”

  Orion’s grandfather leans back and hollers after our server, “Leave the bottle, lady!”

  Stella rolls her eyes but nods her approval.

  Our server is young and attractive with dyed red hair and a low-cut shirt. She makes her way around our table and stops to pour Remy a second glass. As she pours, she leans down low and slips a note to him. After she’s gone, he opens it, reads it, and turns a shade brighter than his Hawaiian shirt.

  “What’s that?” Phoebe snatches the paper from his hand before he can say a word in protest. With her reflexes, I seriously think the House of David should consider recruiting her—that is if she could learn to keep her mouth shut every once in a while. She turns the note around and reads. “Ooooh! Boy, she likes you. She wants to take you to a back room and let you bend her over a table.”

  “It’s just her number,” Remy says, his pride showing anyway.

  “And her schedule. And she’s about to get off”—Phoebe snorts—“in more ways than one. Dude, go wait for her. Orion won’t mind, will you, O? It’ll be his only chance to get laid in like years. You know it. I know it. Probably even Grandpa knows it.”

  “God, you can be such a bitch sometimes,” Remy mutters.

  Stella shushes him from across the table. “Language, Remy. We’re at a nice place, and I’m sure Phoebe only means to help. After all, it has been a while, hasn’t it?”

  Remy’s gasp of horror is evidence that Stella saves her vulgarity for extra special occasions. “You know what?” He pushes his chair back and stands. “Fine. She’s gotta be nicer to hang out with than you guys. Happy birthday, Rion. I’ll see you later tonight.”

  I butt in. “Don’t make it too late. You’ve got a red-eye flight back to the states, remember?”

  Phoebe cackles. “Oh, he won’t be too long. He won’t be long at all.”

  I can see why Remy dislikes her. She just doesn’t know when to quit. I pour myself a full glass and start to gulp it down. Then I realize the whole table is watching me, and I freeze. Orion’s grandfather winks. “Let’s go, kid,” he says. “Bet I can outdrink you without even trying.” I know he’s only saving me from embarrassment, but I kind of love him for it.

  The rest of the dinner is warm and familial. I can’t help feeling like a stranger at the table, but Stella pulls me back into the conversation whenever she sees me start to withdraw. I don’t understand why she’s behaving this way—why, when she was horrified by my mere presence before, she’s suddenly welcoming me into her family like I’m some kind of prodigal son. The way she looks at me, I swear she’s proud. When I talk about my job, she asks questions. When I mention my recent interest in classic literature, she discusses it with me in detail.

  Every once in a while, Orion’s drunken grandfather adds an incoherent opinion.

  “Dad really shouldn’t have alcohol,” Stella whispers when he’s distracted. “But he enjoys it, and he hasn’t got a lot of time left. He should enjoy whatever he can while he can, don’t you think?”

  I nod. “Life is short. He seems to be having a good one.”

  The server comes back to take our plates, and I can’t help but notice Remy hasn’t returned. His half-eaten dinner is still sitting in front of his empty chair. “Does he want a box for this?” the server asks in a thick French accent.

  “Ask him yourself,” Jacob says. “You’re the one who invited him to leave. Where the hell is he anyway?”

  “Yeah!” Phoebe chimes in as though she’s only just realized Remy never came back. “Where the hell is he? Did you cut him up and hide his bits in a dumpster or something?”

  The server narrows her eyes at Phoebe, clearly unsure what to make of her. “He is not with me. I was told to give the note to him.”

  “But it was your number,” Orion says, knitting his brow, “and your hours. You’re not supposed to be working.”

  The server giggles into her hand. “Oh no, no. He is not… Uh… How do you say? Not my type? And I work to close tonight.”

  A sudden wave of nausea washes over me. I stand abruptly. “Excuse me,” I say and immediately walk out of the restaurant. There isn’t time for goodbye. I run as soon as I get outside and barely register Orion’s voice calling after me.

  Once I reach the hotel, I burst into our room and find Aiden reclining on one of the beds. He sits up as soon as the door hits the wall.

  “Is he still alive?” I demand.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get any information out of him?”

  “Nothing useful,” he says. “He just keeps saying, ‘You will see God,’ and ‘Humble yourself.’ Once, he gave me the name of a place—Goussainville-Vieux Pays. I looked it up. It’s a ghost town. We’d have to search every abandoned house.”

  “We don’t have time for that.” I rush into the bathroom to find my captive still tied up in the tub. It smells like piss and blood, and I know Aiden’s done his job well. Death by a thousand cuts is where Aiden excels, and he neither tires nor gets bored. He’s like a machine when he’s focused.

  The Seditio member looks up at me and wheezes, “Is it… time?”

  “Time for you to die?” I snarl. “Yes. Unless you give me an address.” I break out True Winter, hoping the sight of it will intimidate him into submission.

  He’s delirious. “What… time?” He’s missing fingernails and chunks of hair. Aiden truly is heartless.

  “Give me an address, and I’ll give you the time.”

  The infuriating man shakes his head and smiles. I notice he’s missing several teeth too. “Fine,” I say, and I slip True Winter’s blade behind the man’s neck. With my other hand, I press his forehead back until he can feel the pressure of the blade. “Last chance.” His hands are shaking. I lean down and murmur, “Do you smell flowers?”

  If he knows anything about me, he’ll know what that means. I close my eyes and prepare to see the world as I want to see it. I imagine a daffodil propped up in my hotel bathtub. I imagine plucking the blossom from the stem, but when I open my eyes again, all I see is a man breathing ragged with involuntary tears streaming down his face.

  Damn it. Something’s wrong. It isn’t just my captive’s hands shaking now. Damn it, damn it! I imagine lavender, but all I can think of is Stella’s fucking hair. Lilacs. Begonias. The flowers flicker in and out, but I can’t make the images stay the way I need them to.

  There’s a disturbance in the room, and I hear Orion’s voice. He has no idea what he’s walking into. “Hey, Eden. Why’d you take off like that? We hadn’t even had cake yet.”

  “You two stay out there,” I growl, but Orion doesn’t listen.

  “What… time?” the man in my bathtub asks again, and Orion, like an idiot, tells him.

  “It’s quarter to eleven.”

  I shoot him a hard look. He’s getting in my way again. I can’t be who I need to be when he’s watching. “Aiden,” I call out, “get in here and finish this, will you?”

  Then the man in my bathtub looks up at me, a sad grin on his battered face, and says, “Rue Brûlée, 95190 Goussainville.”

  * * *

  The night is dark, and the moon a sliver in the sky. Sarah, Orion, and I drive down the narrow streets of old Goussainville. Once upon a time, this was a busy little village, but one airport and a devastating plane crash later, and the place is basically a ghost town. The windows on the older homes are mostly boarded up, and our headlights frequently shine a spotlight on colorful graffiti decorating the walls.

  The address our captive finally spat out was for the town’s old church. It’s no longer in regular use, but its existence in the area is the reason all these structures remain. It’s historical—protected but abandoned—and playing a strangely parental role to the broken village around it.

  We park close and step out of the car. The stone church, with its sharp spires and nearby graveyard, looms over us in the night. I wish Orion wasn’t with us. I wish I could trust him to stay behind with Aiden. As quickly as our captive gave up the address when he heard what time it was, it’s a safe bet whatever Whiteface meant to accomplish here has been a success.

  We will make you see God. What does that even mean? I hate vague religious proclamations almost as much as I hate the cults they come from. It’s all meaningless nonsense, people trying to impress their gods with empty words and platitudes.

  One of the church doors hangs open, which is another bad sign. What’s done is done. And what’s done involves Orion’s friend without question. “Stay outside,” I say. “Keep watch.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m going in.”

  “No. Sarah and I will be the offensive. You keep watch outside. Understand? This is an order from your Judge.”

  He bites his tongue and nods.

  “It’s not that we don’t trust you, Rion.” Sarah’s voice is barely a whisper in the night.

  “Speak for yourself,” I murmur.

  The thing is, I know what we’re walking into. Deep down, I know. As I slip into the silent church, my mind sends images of the hyacinth dead at my feet. This silence… This is how quiet it was when the music finally stopped that day. There’s a stillness in death, a stillness no living creature can hope to imitate. And I sense that stillness in this dark sanctuary. No one will leap out at us. No soul breathes in this space.

  Sarah must have come to the same conclusion because she switches on her flashlight and begins to sweep the sanctuary. When she aims at the altar, we both freeze. A body hangs from the ceiling directly in front of the podium. It’s upside down, strung from its ankles like an animal after slaughter. And it’s been bled out like an animal. The body’s distinctive Hawaiian shirt has gathered at its upper torso, revealing its narrow white abdomen. This is what’s left of Remy. Just a few hours ago, I was eating dinner with him. Now he’s here, still as death, his dark blond curly hair stained and dripping with his own blood.

  Beside me, Sarah lets out the breath she was holding. “Jesus,” she whispers.

  “Peter,” I murmur. “They killed him upside down like St. Peter.”

  The beam from Sarah’s flashlight starts to tremble. “Let’s get him down from there.”

  “Do you think it’s booby-trapped?”

  “We’ll be careful,” she murmurs. “We can’t just leave him—”

  “Remy!” Orion’s voice behind me is like a bullet in my back. Why doesn’t he listen? Why doesn’t he ever listen?

  Sarah lowers the beam of her flashlight, but it’s too late. Orion is already running to his friend. When he reaches the altar, he slips in blood and falls to the floor. Blood, once outside the body, is more like oil than anything. Anyone who’s ever used a knife to kill knows as much. Grip is impossible. Footing is impossible. And Orion is scrambling on his hands and knees to reach his friend. It’s a sick kind of slapstick, and the sight of it enrages me. I will destroy Whiteface for this. I will destroy him one joint at a time.

  “Remy, hold on. I’ve got you.” Orion grips the body of his friend and pulls himself to his feet. He produces his knife from its hidden sheath, climbs the podium, and begins frantically sawing at the rope.

  The body drops into the pool of blood. Orion gets on his knees and shakes it by the shoulders, asking if it’s okay. His voice cracks as he begins to understand. Although rigor mortis has yet to set in, Remy is dead, fully exsanguinated. His skin is ghostly white except where it’s been darkened by his own drying blood. He was strung up by his ankles with his hands duct-taped together. They’re so thoroughly covered in tape I can’t even see his fingers. Why would anyone take the extra time to wrap tape around a person’s fingers after binding their wrists?

  I approach slowly, careful not to slip, and crouch beside the body—only it’s not a body anymore. It’s a wild daisy. Some child must have picked it and left it on the altar. How sweet, I think. The child probably felt bad for spilling all this fruit punch. I kneel in the fruit punch and begin cutting the tape from the daisy. Orion shudders and wails beside me. I drown him out with music. Depeche Mode’s “Never Let Me Down Again” blares in my head as I work. When I begin to sing the lyrics, Orion looks at me like I’ve lost it completely. Sarah stands behind him without a word or expression of judgment. She knows.

  When I finally pull the last of the tape from the daisy, I see something crumpled and white in its hands, and I know why it was taped the way it was—to protect this piece of paper from the spill, the torrent, the sickly sweet stuff soaking into the knees of my pants. I hand the crumpled paper to Sarah.

  She gently opens it and reads, “Humble yourself before the god you abandoned.”

  * * *

  Orion doesn’t say a word on the way back to the hotel. I know shock has overtaken him. It’s for the best. What good would awareness do him now? As we drive, the House’s clean-up crew is already heading to the scene. In a few hours, there will be no sign of violence. Whoever looks after the disused church will simply think they forgot to lock the door the last time they were there. The body will be gone. Remy will become another missing person who never makes it home. It’s a small price to pay to prevent panic, to keep peace.