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We are wrath. We are rage.
The door will be opened.
The imprisoned will be free.
“Who?” he asked. “Who is behind the door?”
But the song only repeated.
We are wrath. We are rage.
The door will be opened.
The imprisoned will be free.
The tendril uncoiled, releasing him.
The banshee fell silent.
“I’m sorry,” Adam said.
And he was, despite what it had done, those it had hurt or killed.
Expired, like old milk. That had been Dautre’s word, and as cold of a description as it was, it fit.
The banshee settled against the altar and the cardboard floor.
Then it melted away, collapsing in on itself as though it had never been.
Adam wanted to say something else, do something, but Vic tugged at his sleeve.
“We should get out of here.”
“Yeah.”
Adam released the spell. The spirit walk faded away and they awoke in their bed.
“What did it say?” Vic asked.
Adam told him.
“That doesn’t sound good, but why would they come here, or the spirit realm if they can’t survive?”
“I don’t know, but I’m worried about how the Lost Ones are going to react when they find their angel dead.” Adam shuddered. “They’re so angry, and I can’t say I blame them.”
“Their messiah never came.”
“That’s pretty much what Seamus said, that a cult without a leader is a dangerous thing. Things will get ugly if they march on Silver’s tower.”
“What are you going to tell Seamus? All of it?”
“I have to, at some point. We had a deal. I can’t afford to piss him off again, but a confrontation between the Lost and the elves might be what he wants. He certainly wouldn’t mind seeing Silver taken down a notch, but I can’t imagine he wants anyone to get hurt. He’s gentler than he seems.”
“Maybe,” Vic hedged. “But he’s also a royal, even if he doesn’t flaunt it, and there’s plenty of people in history that lit a fire who didn’t expect to get burned when it came knocking on their door.”
Adam yawned as he considered Vic’s warning.
They’d settled one mystery, and at least the banshee wasn’t a threat anymore, but from the way it had spoken, it wasn’t alone.
