Haunted (Otherworld 5)

"Ascend?"

"Yes. But the gift is a skill, an ability. Not essential in most of an angel's tasks, but obviously Janah thinks you need it for this one, and she's not talking until you have it. But you won't get it until you ascend and you won't ascend until you complete your inaugural quest."

"'Complete'? You think I'm auditioning for angel-hood?"

"It isn't something you can audition for. You must be chosen, and if you're chosen, then you have to complete an inaugural quest. Finding the Nix is yours."

"I'm fulfilling a promise here, not completing an entrance exam. The Fates did me a favor a couple of years ago, a very big favor, and this is how they want it repaid."

"Perhaps I was mistaken, then."

His tone said he didn't believe it for a second, but I fought the urge to argue. The Fates would set him straight eventually. Maybe the misdirection was intentional--assuming Trsiel would be more apt to help a future fellow angel rather than a mere contract bounty-hunter.

"So this gift," I said. "What is it? Maybe we can see whether--"

"See!" He shot up straight in his seat. "That's it. Your father is Balam, right?"

"So they tell me."

"That explains how the Fates expect us to get around the problem." A slight frown. "Or so I think." The frown deepened, then he sprang to his feet. "We'll need to test it."

He grasped my forearm, and the room disappeared.

We emerged in a long gray hall that stank of ammonia and sweat. A young man in an orange jumpsuit mopped the floor, swishing the water around haphazardly, coating the floor in a layer of dirty soap, with no apparent interest in cleaning the surface beneath. At the end of the hall, a door swung open and two armed guards strode through. Their shoes slapped against the wet concrete. The young man gripped the mop handle tighter, putting a little elbow grease into it, even whistling for good measure.

"Exactly what kind of 'gift' is this?" I asked Trsiel.

"You'll see...or so I hope."

He led me through the door the guards had used. On the other side was a huge industrial space flanked with two layers of prison cells.

"Uh, any hints?" I asked.

Trsiel kept walking. "If I tell you what to expect, then you'll expect it."

"Uh-huh."

He continued walking, without a glance either way. We passed through two sets of armored doors, and came out in a long hallway. The moment we moved through those doors, a preternatural hush fell, and the temperature dropped, like stepping into an air-conditioned library. But even in a library, you can always hear sounds, the steady undercurrent of stifled coughs, whispering pages, and scraping chairs. Here, there was nothing. Life seemed suspended, waiting with bated breath.

As we drew closer to the end of the corridor, we heard faint noises--the clatter of a dish, a mumbled oath, the shuffle of feet on concrete. Then a softer sound, a voice. A supplication carried on a sob. Prayer.

We stepped into a single-level cell block unlike the earlier ones. At the ice rink, I'd reveled in the sensation of cold. Here, the chill went right to your bones, and had little to do with air-conditioning.

Each cell here had only one bed, and we passed two vacant ones before reaching an occupant, a man in his late twenties, head bent, face hidden as he prayed. The words tumbled forth, barely coherent, voice raw as if he'd been praying for days, and no longer expected a response, but wasn't ready to give up hope, praying like he had so much to say and so little time to say it in.

"Death row," I murmured.

Trsiel nodded and stopped before the man's cell. He went very still, then shook his head sharply and moved on. "We need someone to test this on. Someone who's guilty."

"Guilt--you mean he's innocent?"

My gaze slid back to the praying inmate. I'd never been what you call a religious person. I've even been known to be somewhat disparaging of faith, and those who throw themselves into it. Too many people spend their lives focused on insuring a good place in their next one, instead of embracing the one they have. That smacks of laziness. If your life sucks, you fix it, you don't fall on your knees and pray for someone to make it better the next time.

But here, watching this man pray so hard, with so much passion, desperation, and blind hope, I couldn't help feeling a twinge of indignation.

"Isn't this what you guys are supposed to do?" I called after Trsiel. "Right wrongs? See justice done?"

He slowed, but didn't turn.