Melchior turned over Ailbe's copper key in his fingers, lost in thought about much of what had just transpired. Had Ailbe always suspected that his request for pilgrimage would be met swiftly with execution? Did Ishmael? Had it always been Ailbe's plan to get him a bit more time, or had he simply winged it at the last second? Why hadn't he warned him? Not that it would have changed much--Melchior had always accepted it as part of his duty. If Ailbe had failed, he would have gone willingly.

  Were the gates of Hell really open? What was Melchior supposed to do about it? If he could find the portal, would they all just forget about his part in the prophecy? When--if--he did locate the riff, how would they close it? Is that when his cursed blood was meant to be spilled?

  And of course, the biggest question on his mind--what to say to the boy who almost had to kill him. This being the most pressing, because they'd been sitting in a tense silence for nearly twenty minutes--and that was an agonizingly long time for Melchior to sit still.

  Ailbe had left first, saying that he had to speak with Ishmael. Melchior didn't want his brother to worry, so he didn't ask him to stay. The other mentor had left after a chat that seemed to only upset his Deacon further. The boy was still pale in his cheeks. Melchior got the impression that he had not come here today with the intent to kill him, which he supposed was at least some comfort.

  Melchior had expected something grand and wizard-ly from the Cardinal, but he'd simply handed a white envelope to the other boy on his way out of the court.

  He did not look at Melchior, and he was still trying not to take that personally.

  And the boy had not moved. For twenty long and painful minutes.

  He'd collapsed into the first available chair in the gallery as soon as the oak doors swung shut behind the ruby red tail of the Cardinal. His elbows were perched on his knees, and his face was buried in his open palms. He was curled up so well that his face was completely hidden behind hair as bright as sunshine. Melchior tugged on his sleeve, feeling too aware of the branding barely covered by the ends of the fabric.

  Melchior took a deep breath and spoke before he could think better of it. Or, Ailbe would accuse, think at all. "Uh, nice weather today?"

  The boy's shoulders tensed, and then slowly relaxed. He lifted his head ruefully, fixing Melchior with a beautiful blue stare. He blinked once and then twice. He narrowed his eyebrows together into confusion. And finally, he said, "We're. . .underground."

  "Right, then I suppose that's our first problem." Melchior mused. He held up his fingers as if he was about to count them out and then promptly realized he had far more problems than appendages. "Okay, so if we can figure this out, the rest will be no problem."

  "Uh. . ." The boy's arms drooped until they laid across his lap. "Well, I do appreciate the optimism."

  "Yeah, I've been told I'm a delight." Melchior shrugged casually. The boy smiled softly, and Melchior stared openly at the light blush of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He was as regal as a statue, with features defined in sharp edges and yet filled with soft beauty. His crystal blue eyes were doe-wide, lined with fine yellow lashes. They kissed along a number of his pale freckles as he squeezed his eyes shut in thought.

  "Do you remember what painting you came out of?" He asked.

  Melchior's stomach twisted. His tongue dried in his mouth, rendering Melchior--for the first time in a long time--speechless. He shook his head quickly. "Uh, no, sorry, I don't really remember. I had. . . a lot on my mind. What about you?"

  Those dangerously charming freckles disappeared beneath the rose, warm blush that bloomed across his face. "Yeah, I'm sure you had bigger problems--Uh! I didn't know! I think it's important that you know that I didn't know. About--well, you know--and I probably wouldn't have--uh y'know?" He said it all as one breath until he was out and panting.

  "Probably?" Melchior teased. "Noted."

  "Well, I mean, a lot is at stake right now. The whole world-"

  "Let's just call it now, before our work-life balance gets difficult." Melchior chided, lifting his palms in mock surrender.

  "Right." He ran slender fingers through his hay-yellow hair. "This is awkward, huh? Even under the best circumstances, I'm not all that well adapted to talking to someone my age. Someone. . . like me."

  Melchior winced at the jump his heart did behind his ribs. All his life, he'd ached to hear that someone understood him. And now, when he'd only come to find it, it just felt undeserved. This was the soul of the Progeny, and Melchior was blood waiting for his blade. It had never been clearer, and he knew suddenly that he'd been childish to ever think otherwise. "We're not really. . .alike." He said, and it was both perfectly true and perfectly untrue. And he'd regretted it instantly as it passed his lips.

  "Oh," the boy murmured.

  "I just mean-"

  "No, it's fine." The boy said tightly, and Melchior knew it was not fine. Melchior opened his mouth, and nothing came to his tongue, and he had no time to think of something. He was already losing ground.

  The boy got to his feet and turned sharply. He was walking, and before Melchior could even think--he was following. "Well, my entrance was not ideal. If we can't pick between us, then we'll just have to find the third option. Something new." He pulled open the courtroom doors, exposing them both to the too-bright tunnel and its many disturbing faces. Whatever wind he'd piled up behind his sails to carry him this far fizzled out beneath the screaming maws of a hundred ghastly portraits. "Do you think the gore of the portrait reflects how bad it's going to be?"

  Melchior considered this as his eyes raked up and down the walls. He skipped quickly over an image of a man being burned alive into a lump of charred flesh. And moved even quicker past the screaming women being buried alive--not a good omen. Then he saw it. It was almost as bright white as the marble hall, and he felt pulled towards it on an invisible string. "Well, how about this one?" Melchior crossed the hall to stand before the oblong stained canvas.

  It was a cliffside, cast in deep browns. Beneath the drop was a wharf of churning tides. The field above the sea was consumed by a stampeding herd of giant black boars. They rushed in mad panic, blindly throwing themselves to the waters. Barely escaping the living river of pigs was a young boy. He fled side-by-side with a dog of all white. His fur seemed almost real, full of glistening starlight. It was the brightest in the whole twisted art-gallery. Even to Melchior, who could only see it as a dimmed final version. Behind them, a body laid in the grass, victim to a thousand stomping hooves.

  "The Miracle of the Gadarenes Swine?" The boy blanched.

  "It's Gerasenes." Melchior said before he could stop himself. He had always been interested in the stories Ailbe told him of the old Beasts, the kinds kept behind a wilting Trammel. "The pigs were from the town of Gerasenes."

  "What?" He creased up his eyebrows. "It's Gadarenes--as in gadarene. It means to throw yourself into disaster."

  "Oh, well then, it's perfect." Melchior shrugged.

  "I thought we were going for peaceful." The blond boy said skeptically.

  "This one has a happy ending." Melchior dismissed.

  "That guy would disagree." He puffed, pointing to the man beneath the roar of possessed sow.

  "I'm sure the pigs would, too." Melchior agreed. He ignored the weird stare that particular comment had earned him. "Well, shall we?"

  He sighed, shaking his sandy head. "What do we have to lose?" He stepped towards the portrait and gripped the thin edges of the golden frame. He tugged, and nothing happened. Melchior might have turned pink.

  "Maybe not all the paintings are doors?" Melchior suggested.

  "No, I got it." He tugged again, this time much harder. He gasped in surprise as the canvas popped off the wall, Melchior raised his hands to catch the art, but it never fell. The picture swung out on hinges that screamed louder than half the mauled nuns in the gallery. Melchior coughed on dust, fanning his palm in front of his nose. His counterpart pulled his thin black shirt up over his nose and crept towards the edge of the tunnel. He squinted up his blue eyes, staring blankly into the pitch for a while. He shrugged and glanced over his shoulder at Melchior. "Um, it seems fine?"

  Melchior crossed his arms over his chest. "It seems fine? Can you even see anything? What if you step in and fall all the way to Hell?"

  "Then I'll close the Trammel from the fiery side." He rolled his azul eyes. "Are you coming? If I fall, I'll Wild-y Coyote yell for you--make it easy to avoid any booby traps."

  "I'm not sure enough to correct you, but I don't think it's Wild-y." Melchior mumbled, and the boy laughed so hard he stirred up a new cloud of dust. "Let me lead." Melchior said. He'd already begun to step around when a firm hand met his chest, pushing him back a step.

  "Hey," the kid warned, "I said I'd handle it."

  "What?" Melchior coughed awkwardly. "It's not a big deal, just let me-"

  "If it's not a big deal, you should be perfectly content behind me. Shouldn't you?" He said. "What? You don't trust me? Maybe you think we're too different." His voice was sharp as glass and tempered beneath a hot spike of anger that Melchior couldn't understand. They'd been getting along just fine a moment ago.

  "It's not about trust!" Melchior insisted. "I just-"

  "Just what?" He crossed his arms over his chest in a snap, and Melchior fell silent.

  What could he say? I just see better in the dark? That would just be weird--and he could still feel the chill from the shadow of the ax they'd barely just taken off his neck. So Melchior raised his palms and took a few steps back. "Okay, I trust you." That seemed to satisfy him. He stepped over the threshold and embarked in the tunnel.

  Melchior followed behind him before he could think better of it. His gut was coiled with apprehension, his breath held to avoid the stench of stale underground passages, for just a little while longer. Melchior squeezed his eyes shut and reached for the curved dome over his head. It was cold to the touch. Melchior froze as his fingers brushed past soft webs, made gray by the layers of dust collected along thin threads.

  "What are you doing?" The boy scoffed, humor and disbelief heavy on his tongue.

  Melchior peaked at him behind thick black lashes. "Uh, checking the ceiling height?" He admitted. "I don't want to. . . smack my head," Everything he said came out more childishly than he'd meant it. He was withering beneath aquamarine eyes.

  "Close the door." He said, crossing arms over his proudly puffed chest.

  "Close it?" Melchior looked behind them, into the too-white hall they'd barely managed to escape from. And it still appealed to him more than what came next. "There'll be no light if I do."

  "There will be no light anyways, once we really get going." The boy reasoned. "It just feels wrong to leave it open." Melchior didn't want to be the one to leave the stove on in his holy metaphorical kitchen, so he gripped the edges of the gold frame and swung it shut. The painting sealed into place with a heavy thunk, taking all the view away with it.

  Darkness surrounded them in the tunnel. Melchior's fingers slid down the seamless seal between the wall and the door. He was frozen, and too afraid to turn around. For six years, since Melchior became the cursed boy, there'd always been monsters lurking in the pitch. Yet, each passing night, he'd become less and less terrified of them. His fear had been building behind something else; himself.

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  Melchior was paralyzed, because he knew that if he turned around, he'd be the creature lurking in the shade. Everything reminded him of his sickness, but most of all that Melchior could see the tunnel as if the light had never left. He was a paper doll, barely held together by thick globs of glue. Or a glimmering blue ice sculpture beneath the pale sky. He was something that should not--could not--remain. Melchior's fingers darted into the pocket of his pants, to thumb along the smooth side of his pill bottle. They comforted him. His malformed idea of a safety net, or security blanket.

  "I'm going. Follow me." The boy spoke, oblivious to the crushing waves of turmoil ripping at Melchior's sutures. He didn't wait, he turned sharply on his heels and began to march down the passage. So, Melchior swallowed his fear as easily as he choked down his bitter pills, and turned around. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, blinded now only by the rich tone of his own thin skin. Melchior inhaled a deep breath of musty air, and he followed the boy into the void ahead.

  The soul of the Progeny kept himself several paces ahead of Melchior, walking recklessly fast for someone who couldn't see the path. It was only out of concern, recalling his earlier joke about a certain cartoon coyote, that finally gave Melchior the resolved to peer out into the dim. Melchior peaked open one eye--just to keep him from any real danger, he reasoned.

  He was too nervous to say so, afraid of invoking the angel's bitter sense of irony, but the tunnel seemed almost normal. Well, as normal as an underground secret lair could be. The chute was tall enough to walk through without crouching. Melchior didn't dare glance at his shoes, but they didn't make squelching noises as they had on his first journey.

  The words spilled out of him as urgently as bubbles pour over the lip of an unwatched pot. Melchior was heated by the fear coiled tight behind his ribs, until he was powerless to stop himself. "How do you think the Cardinal does it?" Melchior puzzled. "I mean, he's gotta have the best tunnel saved for himself. Wait--you don't think it was some prank, do you? Like, what if we complete this thing and he says 'thanks boys, now use the elevator. There's even a light switch and AC!' er, actually he doesn't seem the type to thank anyone. Wait, what if-"

  "Okay!" The other boy barked. "I get it. Now, let me think."

  Melchior's stomach twisted up at the sudden outburst. That should have served to silence him, but it did not. Melchior could only begin to sooth his aches by running his tongue, every lull of silence pulled him back into a well of thoughts that he worked hard to keep down. It was a problem, Ailbe loved to point out. He furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head. "I don't get you," he grumbled bitterly. And he had meant it. Any mood he cultivated with the boy seemed to sour as quickly as milk beneath the summer sun. Melchior had the worrying notion that he was being pressed into a corner by a hissing snake. And he didn't know how to jump over it without being bit.

  "Well, I don't get you either!" The boy snapped. Melchior winced. It appeared that the heel of his boot had crushed the tail of the snake. "Thirty minutes ago, it was highly implied to me that I might have to kill someone! You--if you're keeping notes--and you want to joke? We have three months to accomplish the impossible. Your life depends on it, do you not care?"

  Melchior swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, I didn't think about how you might feel about it."

  "Angels, he's crazy." He whispered hotly beneath his breath. "You are going to die if we don't solve this! How are you so calm?"

  Melchior paused. Calm? He seemed calm? He'd been battling back bile since stepping into the courtroom. All he'd wanted was to beg and plead. He'd have fallen to his knees and spilled until he had no dignity left--and he'd done none of it. Why? He had no other explanation besides that, he'd always been this way. He'd been facing death for so long that he'd mastered his facade. Or maybe Melchior was crazy. The realization that washed over his troubled mind sent chills down his spine.

  He wanted to be destined for this. If Melchior Brisbane was the boy the angels had spoken of--he could mean something. All of this terrible mess could mean something. It was just a cruel trick that his meaning would be achieved in death.

  "I had more time to prepare than you did." Melchior finally said. He'd grown up under words that had long since been forbidden and then forgotten. He was the twelfth child of the Brisbane clan. It made his home full of secrets and turned himself invisible. He was perfectly suited to slipping into scenes that children had no business in. One of these closed door meetings had been the first time Melchior heard of him--the soul of the Progeny. He was destined to save them, and Melchior was destined to die. He hadn't known it at the time--because he hadn't gotten sick yet. But now it was undeniable that he was the cursed blood everyone spoke of.

  "You knew?" The soul gasped. His tone held more anger than shock. "And you still came today? What if your mentor hadn't saved you?"

  Melchior didn't have the words to sooth his complex situation. He hadn't expected it to be exactly today, and he hadn't expected to be denied the chance to pilgrimage. It stung, to be robbed of his only birthright. Melchior was more than just a legacy of the Progeny, he was a Brisbane--even if only in name. He'd never allowed himself to expect much. He'd been on reprieve for much longer than just a few hours. Melchior had never asked to go home, or to be a real Deacon, but he'd somehow still never considered that they would take his pilgrimage from him.

  He couldn't begin to fathom what had been going through Ailbe and his brother's minds. It was all a mess in his head, and he couldn't bring it to his tongue. The boy seemed to register his silence as another slight.

  "Angels! Just get angry for once! Say you don't deserve this!" His words shook, and Melchior wondered if they were really meant for him.

  "What if I do?" Melchior whispered. In the narrow chamber, Melchior heard something that proved his words to be true. Several paces ahead of him, fit behind flesh, blood, and bone, the soul's heartbeat stuttered with a whimsical flip of emotion. "We both have a role to play. You might think that mine is worse. Angels, maybe I really drew the short stick--but you don't know what I've survived to become this. If fulfilling my half could see my soul freed from this, I would do anything."

  The other boy halted in the tunnel. Melchior could taste the hammer of his rabbit heart on his tongue. It permeated the air like a fine perfume. Each quick beat filled Melchior's keen ears. "I. . . I know how you feel. I might be the only one who understands how you feel."

  Melchior laughed, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyelids. It must have been some cruel joke, to be faced with someone so perfect and have them keep reminding you how alike you are. But he couldn't mean it--because he couldn't see the turmoil bubbling just beneath Melchior's skin. No one saw more than Melchior allowed, so no one really saw Melchior. "You are the soul of the Progeny. You're meant to save us. I'm just the means. We aren't alike. If you really knew, you would stop saying that."

  "Then explain it to me!" He shouted suddenly. His voice echoed along the walls of the channel, and Melchior winced at the volume ringing in his ears. "If someone would just explain anything to me! Why am I always the last to know if I'm so angel-forsaken special!"

  Melchior barked a bitter scoff of laughter. "You're the one the Cardinal gave the envelope to. This is your pilgrimage, I'm just tagging along in some pathetic attempt to save myself."

  "The envelope?" He puzzled. "Who cares about some stupid package?"

  "Says the one always being handed the package," Melchior remarked ruefully.

  "You think my life is all peaches and cream?" He gaped.

  "Sunshine and roses." Melchior rolled his eyes beneath the painfully tight press of his palms.

  "You don't know what I've endured!"

  "Then that makes two of us." Melchior sighed. "Tell me."

  "Angels!" He cursed. "Everyone always wants to know. About the Third Prince, about my sins, about the angels-"

  "Wait, wait, wait!" Melchior defended, raising his palms even if they couldn't be seen in the void. "That isn't what I meant!" He could hear his slick shoes scoffing on the stone floor as he began to turn. Melchior squeezed his eyes shut again and returned his palms over his eyelids. He held his breath as the boy stomped towards him in the chute. He stopped just a few inches away, his warm breath tickling Melchior's cheeks. He could feel the cold from his mint toothpaste on his lips. Melchior quickly shunned that thought away.

  "What else is there?" He choked. His anger had wilted beneath the only true thing they both had left: fear. His soft plea was hardly a prayer, only barely crossing the thin space between their lips.

  "You." Melchior said. Maybe once upon a time, they'd been words he wished someone had given him. He didn't know anymore--Melchior's mind was melting beneath the gentle heat from his deep sighs. "Can I just know your name?"

  "What?" A laugh filled up the tunnel, and then Melchior, too. "You know my name. Clearly, everyone always talks about me." It would have sounded like ego, but Melchior was in the unique position to understand exactly what he meant. He shook his head until the thought was scrambled into dust. If he looked for the similarities between them, he might never stop. It had been something he'd wanted once, but now, faced with his angelic beauty and the harsh reality of his own situation, he only felt guilty for it.

  "I've heard of someone, but now I'm sure it wasn't you." Melchior said. He knew that his voice was shaking. He could feel the warmth from his skin and hear the quick thump of his heart. He was too close and not close enough, and Melchior was being twisted up by the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.

  "And if I had the same name as that person you've heard so much about?" He teased. Melchior inhaled easily. The thick tension they'd clouded the tunnel in had begun to dissolve.

  "I could call you something else if it'd make you feel better," Melchior promised, "but I'd still want an introduction from my future partner." And maybe executioner, but Melchior didn't give voice to that part. The chute was still. Melchior could have fooled himself into thinking he'd been abandoned, if not for the soft swish of his rising chest and the gentle smell of his soap.

  "Ira," He murmured, "Ira Rule." For a moment, he said nothing, and then he laughed, and it was as sweet as rain. "Now you."

  "Oh," Melchior was glad for the pitch of the channel. It concealed his dark blush. "Melchior Brisbane."

  "It's nice to meet you, Melchior."

  "Yeah." He breathed. "I'm glad to have met you, too, Ira."

  "I thought you promised to call me something else." Ira said. Melchior laughed softly into the thinning space between them. He'd wanted to say it just once. Maybe he'd have admitted such a small thing, but before Melchior could respond, the gentle scuff of Ira's shoes announced his departure.

  ? ? ?

  It seemed almost peaceful again, and Melchior was more scared to do anything to ruin it than he was of dwelling in his own head. So they walked in silence. That was hard for him, but he tried not to complain.

  He tried, really. He even had indents in his soft pink tongue from his sharp teeth trying to keep it still--but Ira was walking recklessly fast, and the scene ahead had begun to change.

  The dark empty hall had become darker and stiller. It was ending soon, and Ira was unaware. A few more steps, and he'd be flat on the wall like one of the ghastly portraits.

  Melchior inhaled sharply. "We've been walking for awhile," Ira wasn't slowing down. He'd barely cocked his head to listen to Melchior's rambling. Melchior winced, taking six great steps to catch up with him, "and hey, wait!" Ira stumbled as Melchior grabbed his wrist, pulling him backward.

  "Angels, what's your deal?" Ira snapped. Melchior had curdled the tolerance Ira held for him. Yet all he could focus on was the rapid beat of his pulse, just beneath the soft skin Melchior had trapped in his tight grip.

  "I thought you'd stop walking to talk to me." Melchior muttered, his cheeks flushed with ruby red heat.

  "Are you seriously critiquing my manners right now?" Ira coughed up a scornful laugh.

  "No! It's just," Melchior might have whined. He shook his head and puffed out an exacerbated breath. "I was trying to tell you that we might be coming up on the exit soon. You should keep your hands in front of you."

  "Oh," Ira said quietly. His heart hummed harder beneath Melchior's fingers. "Right, ah. . ." He slowly pulled away, and it took all of Melchior's strength to let him go.

  Melchior's sour mood from losing him quickly turned sweet when Ira lifted his palms and began to walk more cautiously forward.

  His fingertips met the end of the tunnel only a few steps later. Melchior winced at the painfully sharp thump of Ira's surprise sinking into his previously mellow palpitation.

  Ira reached into the neckline of his silky black shirt. The key dragged down its chain with the rustle of metal on metal. He fit the small key into his palm and began to smooth his free hand up and down the wall. He wasn't finding the pitifully small keyhole, and his pulse was beginning to quicken with the realization that he was stuck.

  "It's okay," Melchior breathed, moving forward to press himself into the small space next to Ira. "Let me try."

  Melchior took Ira's key from his warm hand. His own key sat against his chest, chilling the skin. It was on his mind, as his fingers brushed with Ira's. He fit it into the small worn crevice. Melchior twisted it, pushing the wall with his shoulder at the same time. With a heavy screech of hinges, the door swung slowly open.

  "How'd you do that so fast?" Ira puzzled.

  Melchior's own heart hammered in his throat. "Uh, my mentor had me. . . practice--before. . .so I didn't . . . embarrass myself?"

  "Huh, so that's why you were late to see the Cardinal?" Ira laughed. "That itself is pretty embarrassing."

  Melchior turned pink and said nothing to defend himself. Instead, he turned his attention to the world beyond the tunnel. Dim light poured in the small crack Melchior had opened. He peeked his head out of the hidden passage and cursed. "Oh, angels."

  "What, what? Let me see." Ira peered past Melchior's shoulder and into the cold dark cellar. He exhaled a small puff from his nose and said in a tone much calmer than Melchior could have managed, "Oh, this is the basement beneath the school." Melchior raised an eyebrow, so Ira continued with a suddenly sheepish pitch. "I. . . got locked down here one time."

  "You got left here?" Melchior balked. "Who would have done that?" A pesky buzz in his ear reminded him of his own time spent locked in cold dark rooms. He shoved the thought away before he could trick himself into thinking he was anything like Ira Rule.

  Ira shrugged. "Just some legacies I took classes with." While Melchior pondered this in a dazed, Ira slipped past him into the dirt-floor room. He turned, holding his palm out.

  Melchior, at first, didn't know what he wanted. He almost locked their hands together, he'd been thinking about it since he took the key--the key! Luckily, Melchior's brain kicked on, just barely saving himself from something that was almost really embarrassing. He returned Ira's keys into waiting fingers. Ira tucked the chain back beneath his black collar and slowly rotated to take in the full scope of the small root cellar. Melchior stepped out of the tunnel and turned to shut the door behind them. It swung into place with a solid clunk. Melchior had expected something more inconspicuous--but it was just a door. Feeling a little silly, he placed his own key in the lock and sealed it.

  "The stairs should be in this hall." Ira prompted. His eyes glanced up at Melchior for the first time since they'd left the courtroom. He froze, his heart pounded faster. Melchior wished he could stop hearing it. He didn't want to think about what it meant.

  "Right, uh. . .so, this way." He muttered stiffly. Without waiting for Melchior, he fumbled his way to the westmost side of the basement. Ira smoothed his hands across the root cellars' cement walls until they were met with nothing. He slipped down the hall as easily as a fish in a stream. Soon, Melchior lost sight of him.

  "He really just charges blindly into anything." Melchior mumbled. "Stubborn bastard." Even as the words tumbled over his tongue, he was smiling.

  "Hurry up!" Ira called. Melchior jogged after him to catch up. It seemed a concerning pattern that no matter what, Melchior would follow Ira Rule. Even now, he'd follow him into all the trouble that awaited them.