She darted through the traffic, heading north. On Foster Lane, she stopped. She turned around, locked eyes with me once more.

Then she stepped into the shadows of an alley.

A clear invitation. But to what?

Go get Tom, I told myself.

I stood there, hesitant once more.

Go get Tom.

I wanted to. But if I left now, by the time I came back, I knew whatever waited for me in the alley would be gone. I’d already trusted the Templars this far.

You don’t know it’s the Templars, Master Benedict said.

No, I didn’t. But when it came down to it, I had no more choice now than I’d had back at Whitehall. Whatever awaited, I was on my own.

I drew my pistols and followed her into the alley.

CHAPTER 41

IT WAS DARK.

The lights of travelers on the street couldn’t reach into the cramped and narrow space between the houses. I waited a moment, a few feet into the shadows, to let my eyes adjust. To let my heart slow, get it to stop hammering in my chest.

I shifted my grip on the pistols. The wood was slippery, slick with sweat. I wiped my hands, took hold of the guns again. Then, cautious, I stepped forward.

The roofs blocked all but a faint band of stars. I could feel, more than see, the walls next to me. I used that sense and the starry road above to guide my way.

The alley turned left, first gradually, then sharply.

And then suddenly I saw a glow.

The girl was up ahead. Past private gardens to my right and left, the girl stood in a narrow intersection, where the alley crossed another. She was facing me, holding a lantern. She hadn’t had a lantern before.

I stepped forward, intending to call to her. Before I could say a word, she turned to her right. The light faded, her silhouette dancing a mad shadow on the wall as she ran.

I moved faster now, pistols held tight, barrels forward and ready. At the intersection, I turned to follow—and found the alley had gone completely black. Her light had disappeared.

Then a new light flared, right in front of me. And I gasped.

It was an angel.

Not real, my mind said in rebellion. And of course that was true. It was just a man.

But he looked like an angel. His face was painted gold, his hair the same color. He was dressed in samite, the long robe shimmering in the flame of the lantern he’d ignited. His hands were almost like claws—not the gnarled, calloused claws of an animal, but smooth and graceful, his nails pointed like needles. And, sprouting from his back, were broad, feathered wings.

I barely had time to take this in when a second lantern flared to my right. Here stood another man, but this was no angel. He was a devil.

Not quite, my mind said, and of course he wasn’t, either. But in my heart he was a devil. He wore a long, waxed-leather robe above buckled shoes. He had on thick gloves that looked almost like talons. In his left hand he held a lantern; in his right was a long, silver rod. Atop his head was a wide-brimmed hat. And his mask, his mask. Goggle eyes and a curved bird’s beak.