I snicker. He has a point. I could rant at these folks for hours. “You got to explain,” I say. “They need to understand what they’re up against. You got to tell them about the Hoar Frost King and that they can’t go outside and make noise or else they might die. And you got to tell them how the scenes explode, so if anybody leaves they don’t do nothing stupid with the frozen folks up there and get all cut up on shrapnel! And don’t forget to tell them that even in here they need to stay as quiet as they can and—”

Ryodan presses a button on his desk. “There will be no lights or music until further notice.” He releases the button.

“That’s it?” I say. Fecking good thing he ain’t writing the Ryodan Rag! Through the glass floor I watch folks rustle angrily. Many are drunk and don’t like this new development. They want their bread and circuses. That’s why they come here. “Boss, what the feck was that? Maybe you could, like, tell them not to leave or they’ll die?”

He presses the button again. “Don’t leave or you’ll die.”

There’s a pregnant hush then, like they all think he’s God or something, and folks and Fae stop everything they’re doing and sit down. Only after a long moment do they begin talking again.

“I think you should lock the doors,” Jo says. “Don’t let them out for their own good.”

“I’d prefer they leave. Less to draw it here.”

“If you want me to tell you what to do to keep this place safe,” I say, “you better keep them safe.”

“I thought you were disgusted by the people that come to my club.”

“They’re still people.”

He presses the button again. “If you go outside, you will be killed. If you make noise, you will be sent outside. Don’t piss me off.”

Just like that, Chester’s goes completely silent.

THIRTY-SEVEN

“The sound of silence”

I call my sidhe-seers to gather in the chapel beneath creaking eaves.

Our sanctum could once scarce contain the half of us. Seated now between marching rows of majestic ivory pillars, those who remain are swallowed in voluminous, echoing silence save the groaning of rafters and the hollow resonance of my footfalls as I walk the center aisle that leads to the sanctuary at the liturgical east of the church.

Dull, despairing eyes follow my progress. My girls occupy the front eleven pews in the nave. The ghosts of cherished friends fill the rest. It was a hard winter followed by the tease of stillborn spring.

Now this incessant snow!

I feel stronger in the chapel.

Here, the divine defies the devil at our door. Faith is an unquenchable flame in my heart. Although twice Cruce has followed me here, these hallowed floors remain inviolate. He has not been able to enter.

Reliquaries of polished ivory and gold, adorned with precious gems, attend the altar. More are sheltered at shrines where once candles flickered, until we were obliged to purloin them for other purposes. These urns and boxes hold sacrosanct bones and bits of cloth from saints canonized not by the Holy See but a more ancient church. I suffer no conflict that they reside beside acceptably venerated bones. Bones are bones and good people are good people. I beseech them all to watch over us in our time of need.

I enter the raised chancel in the sanctuary and approach the lectern. We have no power for the microphone but it is no longer necessary, as my voice will carry clearly to the few occupied front rows.

Two hundred eighty-nine of us remain.

I would weep if I had tears but they are drained dry each dawn when I awaken, exhausted, stained by semen that is not mine by right and guilt that is. Semen from one who has just dipped his fingers in the stoup of holy water and now traces a cross at his forehead, his lips, his heart!

He violates my sanctum. He mocks my rituals.

His fingers do not burst into flame nor is he struck by bolts of celestial retribution and banished to hell as Satan should be. I believed him barred at the door. Was he amused to deceive me or has he gained strength to project himself?

He winks at me as he walks the center aisle. Near the rood screen he pauses and unfurls his wings.

Dark angel. Black-winged and black-souled.

In my church.

In my church!

The girls rustle. I become aware my gaze is fixed on Cruce, exquisite, naked Cruce, standing in the center of my chapel, wings spanning the aisle, stretching half to heaven, and my first emotion is panic. I must not let them know I see him or Margery will stand in my stead!

I sweep my gaze over the pews and lower my barriers so that I may know the state of their hearts. I’ve been muffling their emotions for months, for they have known such anger, grief, and fear of late that I cannot tender the daily inundation.