“What is that supposed to mean?”
“As I said, I think it’s time you and I discuss the reason you’re here. A reason that may change your mind about wanting to leave.”
I shake my head, setting my champagne aside with a loud clink.
“If you think there’s anything you could say that would convince me to remain here willingly, you’re the crazy one.”
Again, I wait for my words to pierce his polite armor. For his control to slip and for some evidence of his true nature to shine through, but he merely smiles.
More lies.
I don’t need a ghostly warning or even magic to tell me that Cutter is a horrible human being.
“Nothing I could say, no,” he says. “But there’s something you need to see.” He stands, setting his glass aside and holds out his hand for me.
After a moment of hesitation, I take it, nearly recoiling at the coldness of his skin. It’s pure ice and sends a jolt of awareness through me, bringing with it visions of death, horror, and blood.
So much blood.
It’s on my hands. My tongue. In my mouth.
I nearly choke on it.
The moment I’m on my feet, I drop his hand and step back. My heart pounds and my palms are slick with sweat.
Glancing up, I catch sight of a spirit hovering in the corner. It’s the same girl whose silent scream terrified me during my first session with Dr. Livingstone. She’s signaling urgently at me, but when Cutter approaches, she gasps and disappears.
He frowns and glances back. I look away, smoothing my sweater as I try to get my bearings. Can he see them too?
“You look just like her, you know.” His expression is distant now, almost as if he’s talking to himself.
“Who?” I ask.
He blinks, coming to himself. “Pardon?”
My temper strains with impatience.
“What do you want from me?” I demand, tired of all the games.
“It’s easier if I show you.”
I expect him to exit the way we came in, but instead he walks to the bookshelf and pulls out a copy ofThe Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustusby Christopher Marlowe. His choice intrigues me, and I wonder what deals with devils the good doctor has made. The shelf creaks and groans as the entire bookcase slides inward, revealing a well-lit passageway.
I can’t help but inch forward, both impressed and a little curious about what’s mysterious enough to have hidden in a secret tunnel.
Cutter steps into the passage and I follow warily.
It’s a short walk that ends in a large cavern which looks like it was cut from the same stone I glimpsed from outside on the cliff. Most of the space is sanded smooth, but the far wall boasts an intricate carving of two figures. One is an angel with arms outstretched—a savior standing tall amongst mountains carved into the background. At his feet lies a man, hand reaching upward as if in silent plea.
It’s beautiful, but I don’t recognize the piece or the artist, despite all my studies.
“What is this place?” I ask, my voice echoing off the high ceilings.
“What you see is all that is left of the holy spaces of the abbey that once housed the region’s most devout religious leaders. It is said that the archangel Michael himself blessed it, dubbing it Mont Saint Michel, a stronghold against the persecution of the righteous.”
I cut him a wary look. “Is that what we are? Righteous and persecuted?”
“We are other, Celeste. And humans fear what is other.”