Prophecy Girl

by Cecily White

  Stay out of alleys, unless you can identify at least three viable exit routes.

  Don’t be afraid to use humans as a shield. A Guardian won’t attack if there’s a human around.

  Guardian trackers can only sense you when you channel. Stay dormant, and you’ll be no more visible than a human.

  And my favorite, They have orders to execute us on sight. If anything happens to me, run fast and don’t look back.

  Not exactly words designed to make a girl feel cozy.

  By the time we reached St. Mary’s Church at the old Ursuline Convent, my last nerve was shot. Jack crossed himself out of habit then held open the heavy gray door for me, his hand never leaving the small of my back.

  “The Great Books used to be housed in the convent itself,” he said as we traversed the atrium. “When St. Mary’s was added in 1845, the Elders moved them here.”

  “The Great Books?”

  “Guardian holy writ. The Book of Life. The Book of Blood. The Book of Days. The Book of Omens.”

  “So, Guardian beach reading?”

  “If you’re into apocalyptic prognostications and genealogical charts.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was making a joke. All he got was a blank stare. “I don’t know what you just said.”

  “That’s because you never listen in class. Follow me.”

  As soon as we stepped into the church, the smell of candle wax and incense wrapped around me in a tight hug. Apart from the hush of air-conditioning vents, the church was silent and nearly empty. Rows of wooden pews filled the sanctuary, their smooth, oiled surfaces reflecting the warm glow of crystal chandeliers above. Flecked rainbows shimmered through stained glass windows, casting pink, gold, and blue beams across Jack’s face as he strode through the center aisle of the church. He reached back and caught my hand.

  “Be ready to run. If anyone attacks, I’ll take care of it. You get back to the safe house and stay there.”

  “In your dreams,” I whispered back. “And seriously, ‘safe house’? I prefer to think of it as the ‘flophouse,’ since it’s really only safe for cockroaches.”

  An elderly Hispanic woman in the front row turned her head at our voices, but Jack pretended not to see her. Without pausing at the front, he vaulted the low gate to where the altar stood. Two wide columns rose on either side to form an arch across the coved ceiling and a series of ornate gold spires rose like stalagmites at the back of the sanctuary.

  “Are you sure we’re allowed back here? It feels kind of sneaky,” I said. Granted, I hadn’t been to church in years, probably not since Mom’s funeral, but I was pretty sure God frowned upon people sticking their fingers in the Eucharist.

  “This from the girl who arranged for six tons of personal lubricant to magically appear on the volleyball court during gym class last year? Since when is ‘sneaky’ a problem for you?”

  I grimaced. “I’m going to hell, aren’t I?”

  “Hopefully not for a few more years.”

  Jack smiled as I raked a stray lock of red hair into my stupid bun. He’d made an offhand comment earlier about what a pity it was that my hair was so “conspicuous.” Much as I wanted that to be a compliment, it didn’t quite feel like one.

  He knelt on the marble floor and lifted the cream-colored linen at the back altar. His fingers groped under the ledge, finally lodging in a groove in the bas-relief carvings. As if on a spring, something clicked and the rectangular panel slid backward, revealing a narrow entrance to what looked like a tunnel that descended straight down. My imagination conjured random scenes from Dante’s Inferno: baleful screams of the tortured souls, gruesome sounds of joints breaking and limbs being ripped apart. Needless to say, it wasn’t what I’d envisioned when he said we’d be “sightseeing.”

  Before I could caution him, Jack had swung his feet into the opening and dropped out of sight. I felt a wave of panic roll through my belly.

  “Jack?” I whispered into the void. “Where’d you go?”

  “The bowels of hell,” his voice echoed back. “I thought we could go apartment hunting for you…since you’ll be moving here, and all.”

  “I think I liked you better when you were laconic.”

  “Laconic, huh?” His head popped back into view. “That’s a pretty big word for someone who bombed her verbal SATs. Are you coming?”

  I nervously scanned the sanctuary, my eyes meeting the Hispanic woman’s suspicious glare. In a swish of black fabric, she stood and hurried toward the rectory, her knuckles white over the wooden beads of her rosary. Heart pounding, I muttered a quick prayer of my own, then followed Jack into the abyss.

  Once I’d gotten a foothold on the metal ladder, Jack inched back up alongside me to pull the linen cloth down and close the panel. It clicked shut, and we were plunged into a darkness so complete it pretty much rendered my eyelids useless. The air smelled dank, like dirt and river water, and far away I could hear the thick sounds of sewage from the Quarter—exactly the kind of place where rats might live.

  “Dude, you seriously need to pick up a copy of Where Not to Take Your Date,” I whispered as Jack’s arm looped around my waist. Instantly, my heart rate spiked. “So, what is this place?”

  “It’s called the catacombs. This was an old escape route the sisters used during the Civil War to hide mistreated slaves. After the war, the tunnels started to collapse, so rather than lose the church to a sinkhole, they gave the space to us. Our wards maintain the structure and keep anyone but angelbloods from finding it. Fascinating, don’t you think?”

  “Thrilling,” I said in the most lackluster voice possible. “I’ll be sure to write an extra credit essay when I get back to school.”

  “That’s the spirit.” He chuckled. “The ladder runs out in a few feet. Can you hold onto me?”

  Sigh. “I think so.”

  Jack shifted Lisa’s backpack to his chest, and then helped me get positioned between his shoulder blades. I hooked one arm over his shoulder, the other around his ribcage so as not to choke him, and tried to ignore the small cache of weapons tucked inside his waistband. The timing could not have been worse, but even with the mold and the germs and the threat of impending death, I couldn’t quite quash that little thrill at being close to him. I wrapped my legs around his waist and inhaled deeply. As usual, he smelled amazing.

  “Are you sniffing me?”

  “No,” I lied. “That would be weird.”

  As soon as he started moving, my fingers tightened into his skin. It’s not that I was afraid of the dark, per se. It was more the creepy things shrouded by the dark that I feared. Zombies and demons and other beasties hell-bent on gnawing off my pinkie toes.

  Jack’s chest puffed with laughter beneath my iron grip. “Relax. This isn’t the scary part yet.”

  “Mmm, not helpful.”

  “Try to think about puppies,” he suggested. “No wait, not puppies. Think about kittens. Demons don’t eat kittens. Too many hairballs.”

  “Hey, maybe we could try not talking for a while.”

  Jack was still laughing at me as he lowered himself slowly, hand over hand, until it seemed like we must’ve been well below sea level. I knew the French Quarter was situated at one of the highest points in the city, but that doesn’t mean much in a town built on swampland. Finally, his feet touched something solid, and he lowered me onto the ground. I don’t know what I was expecting. Water, I guess. Concrete. The brittle bones of my dearly departed Aunt Verna. It took me a second to find my balance on the surface of uneven cobbles. The air was like ice, but still humid enough to leave a cool sheen of sweat along my neck.

  “Gosh, this place is darling.” I sniffed. “And what a lovely stench. Do they have timeshares?”

  There was a soft rustle as he fished around in the backpack. After a few seconds, a flashlight switched on, the beam flaring like a torch in his hand.

  Smooth gray walls extended up as far as I could see, as if we had dropped into the bottom of a mile-deep, cylindrical missile si
lo. Five tunnels radiated off the main room, each with a rotted wooden door and a unique carving etched into the stone arch above: a shield, a chalice, an hourglass, and a half-risen sun. The fifth door was smaller, its carving less ornate. It was a serpent, tightly coiled, eyes slit shut, and the end of its tail tucked snugly between its teeth. A smattering of odd glyphs was etched across the backdrop in the same pattern as the creature’s scales.

  “Okay, what am I looking at?” I asked.

  “These are the chambers of the Great Books.” He approached the first door, the shield, and touched a hand to it. “This tunnel holds the Book of Life. It records all the births of Guardians since the beginning of time. You’re listed in there, so are your parents, and your grandparents. Like a massive family tree.”

  “Sounds fun,” I commented. “Next.”

  Jack continued to the next carving, the chalice. “This holds the Book of Blood. Each Guardian was formed from the flesh of one of the seven archangels, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, this tells the story of our bloodlines. Who your ancestors are, which bloodline is dominant in you. Because the bloodlines don’t follow familial patterns, this is the only way we can keep track of them. We mostly use it to watch out for Lucifer’s resurfacing, but it’s important for bonding as well,” he explained, in answer to my questioning look. “That’s why the Elders always have to approve bond agreements. Some of the bloodlines don’t mix well.”

  “For example?”

  “Well, Gabriel and Michael. Too much of a power clash. Same with Michael and Raphael, and Raphael and Gabriel.” He grinned. “The biggest issues are with Lucifer’s offspring. Serious problems with authority. And they can’t follow a rule to save their lives.”

  A sick feeling settled in the pit of my stomach, shrinking it to the rough size and hardness of a walnut. “I hate you a little, you know that?”

  Jack’s dark eyes shone with reflected light. “I wish that were true.”

  In silence he moved to the door with the hourglass above it. His fingertips traced the grooves of the carved stone. “This is the Book of Days. It’s the story of our war against demonkind. Every battle since our genesis is recorded here.”

  “Wouldn’t a military record be better kept in, I don’t know, a military outpost, or something? This seems awfully inconvenient for the scribe.” Not to mention bloody creepy, I added silently.

  Jack frowned. “No, you misunderstand. Every battle is recorded here, with complete accuracy, as it occurs. There is no scribe.”

  “No scribe, huh?” I tried not to look impatient. “You know that’s impossible.”

  “Lots of things are impossible. Doesn’t mean they don’t happen every day.”

  “Actually, that is what ‘impossible’ means. You should Google it,” I suggested. “Wait, does Google qualify as an impossible thing?”

  He muttered something under his breath. I couldn’t quite hear him, but I did catch the words “faithless” and “insufferable.” I paid him no mind. As my lawyering father often says, “You can’t reason with crazy people, no matter how sane they look in a suit.”

  After another moment, Jack came to a stop in front of the fourth door, the one with the rising sun. He lifted a fist and gave the door a good, hard rap. “This is what I wanted to show you: the Book of Omens. It’s where we keep the Guardian prophecies, oracles, et cetera.”

  “And by et cetera, you mean…?”

  “Anything foretelling the end of the world.”

  “Ah.” I nodded. “So, the usual bedtime stories.”

  “Pretty much.” He knelt in front of the sun carving, his fingers probing at the edges just as they had the altar in St. Mary’s. Impatient, I walked toward the fifth door and lay my hand against the glyphs behind the serpent. Despite the cool air, the stone felt warm under my fingers, as if it were alive.

  “What’s this one? The Book of Missed Dental Appointments?”

  Jack glanced up, his face graying in the pale light. “Amelie, you shouldn’t touch that.”

  “Why not? It’s just a piece of rock.” I looked back at the stone carving to find the serpent staring at me, two glassy black beads where its eyes should have been. Odd. I’d swear its eyes were closed before.

  “It’s not just a piece of rock, it’s—” His voice caught. “That’s the chamber to the Book of Lies. The symbol you’re touching is called an ourbouros,” he explained. “In some traditions, it symbolizes the cyclical nature of the universe—death and rebirth. In others, it’s the self-defeating nature of humanity. It’s not evil…exactly. But you, of all people, shouldn’t touch it.”

  I sank to my knees by the edge of the door, my hands stroking into the wood. Although the planks looked worn and splintered, they felt smooth under my fingers. The serpent seemed to be smiling at me.

  I couldn’t explain why, but there was something powerful about that door. Even as I crouched in front of it, the darkness around me changed, shifting into something familiar and malleable. Whatever was locked behind that door wanted me to open it. It wanted me to read it. As if hypnotized, I lifted my finger to the door, the beginnings of an opening glyph forming in my mind.

  “Amelie, no!” Jack’s hand caught mine against the serpent just as a cloudy haze congealed at the edges of my vision.

  It was as if someone had flipped a switch inside my head. The shutter between past and present and future began to flicker, all mixed up and jumbled, color and shape blending kaleidoscopically. The shock was so intense, I felt as if I’d been ripped out of reality and tossed down a vortex. Unlike the visions I’d had before, this one held dimension—sound and smell and touch and taste.

  I saw myself with Jack again, only this time we were alone in a sunlit room, our legs tangled up in each other like knotted rope, the ceiling fan turning dizzy circles above us. I didn’t recognize the place, but it reminded me of him. Clean and orderly, with an undercurrent of chaos. His hair had gotten longer and curled in loose ringlets over his ears. I liked the way it felt between my fingers, silky and fine.

  “You know we can’t stay here forever, Ami.” He smiled, a lazy fingertip tracing the line of my collarbone. “Break is almost over. We have to get back to work.”

  “Mmm, not yet.” I pulled him down on top of me, languishing in the hard press of his body against mine. After wanting him for so long, I could hardly believe he finally belonged to me. I slid my fingers down his well muscled back, every touch sending up golden sparks of light. “We only get to honeymoon once. Does it have to be so short?”

  “Well, if you’d invited the demon hordes to the wedding like I suggested, they might have cut us more down time.” He brushed a sweaty curl off my forehead, his lips soft and sweet on mine, like fresh strawberries. “Bud’s making lasagna this week. He’ll kill me if I let you miss family dinner again.”

  “Jack, don’t talk about my dad,” I said. “It kills the mood.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “There’s a mood?”

  “Yeah.” I kissed him again, letting my hands slip lower. “Total mood.”

  “Mmm,” he mumbled. “Well, in that case…”

  My body melted as he took possession of me, at once nervous and excited. It was perfect. He was perfect. I squeezed my eyes shut, listening to the soft murmur of my name on his lips as we pressed into each other, searching for ways to be closer. My heart had never felt so full. So full, it hurt—

  “Amelie, stop!” Jack’s voice cut through the haze like a knife, ripping my vision away in a single, cruel stroke.

  My eyes flew open and I blinked a few times, the heat in my brain slowing to a simmer. There was something fierce and solid about his voice that dripped like a potion over my nerves. I held his eyes while the choke of power receded.

  “I’m sorry.” I slid my hand out of his grip, suddenly ashamed. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he said. “I should have warned you.”

  “Warned me?”


  The angles of his face were sharper in the dim light, the shadows of his eyes more pronounced. He looked as shaken as I felt. “The Book of Lies was written by Lucifer for his children. It finds the thing you want most in the world and tells you exactly how to get it. But it’s full of tricks. What you give up is never worth the prize at the end, no matter how desperately you want it.” He swallowed hard, his forehead creased in pain. “Amelie, you can’t read that book. The things you want—they’re not right. Whatever you think it’s worth, you’re wrong. You and I—”

  “Stop, please,” I cut him off. I didn’t want to hear any more.

  The dank air pressed down on me, making the back of my neck run cold with sweat. It was too much to process. Not after everything else. I brushed the dirt off my jeans and stood up. The carved serpent’s eyes were closed again, but I swear the thing was smiling. It made my skin crawl.

  “Just show me whatever it is I need to see and let’s get out of here,” I said. “This place is giving me a massive case of the willies.”

  Jack kept his hands pocketed as he led me back to the Omens chamber. There may have been only a few feet between it and the serpent, but each step felt like another layer of fog lifting. By the time he laid his hand on the door and said a few words in Latin, my heart had slowed its patter and my knees were almost steady.

  The door swung backward with a soft squeak, its hinges shedding dust as they ground together. Inside the door lay another tunnel, even less inviting than the first. Moss grew in uneven clumps along the top of the narrow corridor and I could see nothing but shadows at the end. I followed Jack as he ducked low through the doorway and dropped to all fours. Apparently, omens were meant to be read exclusively by short people.

  We were halfway down the tunnel when my head smacked against a rocky outcropping.

  “Ow! Dammit!”

  “Watch your language. This is a holy place.”

  “Hah!” I grumbled. “If it’s so holy, why don’t they have a holy elevator? Or a holy librarian who can go fetch the blasted book for us?”

  I was still complaining when a soft yellow light began to filter around the edges of Jack’s body. He wrestled himself out of the tunnel, then reached a hand back to help me out.