97
We headed south and east, out of the park, hoping to get lost among the ever-present crowds of people jamming the streets.
Fang put Angel down and she dutifully ran, her small face white and streaked with tears. I felt really, really bad about Celeste. Iggy ran next to me, his hand out to barely brush against me. He was so good at keeping up, following us, that it was easy to forget sometimes that he was blind. We passed Fifty-fourth Street—the police were still behind us.
“Inside a store?” Fang asked, pulling up beside me. “Then out through a back exit?”
I thought. If only we could take off, get airborne—leave the ground and the noise and the crowds and the cops behind, be up in the blue, blue sky, free. . . . My wings itched with the urge to snap open, unfurl to their full size, catch the sun and wind in them.
“Yeah, maybe so,” I shot back. “Let’s turn east on Fifty-first.”
We did. Then we pounded down the pavement. Really fast. I almost laughed when I realized it was a one-way street going the wrong way: The cruisers would have to take a detour.
If only we could find a safe haven before they caught up to us. . . .
“What’s that?” Nudge called, pointing.
I skidded to a halt, the way they do in cartoons. In front of us was an enormous gray stone building. It soared up into the sky, all pointy and lacy on top, not like a skyscraper. More as if gray stone crystals had grown toward the sky, stretching up and thinning out as they went. There were three arched doors, with the middle one being the biggest.
“Is it a museum?” Gazzy asked.
I scanned for a sign. “No,” I said. “It’s Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. It’s a church.”
“A church!” Nudge looked excited. “I’ve never been in one. Can we go?”
I was about to remind her that we were running for our lives, not playing tourist, but then Fang said quietly, “Sanctuary.”
And I remembered that in the past, churches used to be safe havens for people—cops weren’t allowed in them. Like hundreds of years ago. That probably wasn’t the case anymore. But it was huge and full of tourists, and it was as good a place to try to get lost as any.
98
A steady stream of people was filing through the huge middle double doors. We merged with them and tried to blend in. As we passed through the door, the air was instantly cooler and scented with something that smelled ancient and churchy and just . . . religious, somehow.
Inside, people split up. One group was gathering for a guided tour, and others were simply milling around, reading plaques, picking up pamphlets.
It was incredibly quiet, considering it was a building the size of a football field, full of hundreds of people.
Toward the front, people were sitting or kneeling in pews, their heads bowed.
“Let’s go,” I said softly. “Up there.”
The six of us walked silently down the cool marble-tile floor toward the huge white altar at the front of the church. Nudge’s mouth was wide open, her head craned back as she stared at the sunlight filtering through all the stained-glass windows. Above us the ceiling was three stories high and all arched and carved like a palace.
“This place is awesome,” breathed the Gasman, and I nodded. I felt good in here, safe, even though Erasers or cops could just stroll through the doors like anybody else. But it was enormous inside, and crowded, and yet there was good visibility. Not a bad place at all. A good place.
“What are those people doing?” Angel whispered.
“I think they’re praying,” I whispered back.
“Let’s pray too,” Angel said.
“Uh—” But she had already headed toward an empty pew. She eased her way to the middle, then reached down and pulled out the little kneeler thing. I saw her examine the other people for the proper form, then she knelt and bowed her head onto her clasped hands.
I bet she was praying for Celeste.
We filed into the pew after her, kneeling awkwardly and self-consciously. Iggy brushed his hand along Gazzy, light as a feather,
then mimicked his position.