But didn’t hearing voices in your head also mean you were losing your mind?

Follow me, child of Michael. It is your only hope to restore the one who Fell for you.

A sudden image of what had looked like a star plummeting to Earth formed. Zayne. That had been Zayne.

Fallen.

He said he was Fallen.

I knew what that meant, but it couldn’t be.

Follow me.

The voice...it sounded like it bled power. It was no voice I could imagine. I swallowed dryly, my gaze darting around erratically and seeing nothing. Zayne had come back from the dead—he’d come back different in a very Pet Sematary way, and with wings, but he’d come back. That was him, and he was alive, so I could very well be hearing a real voice in my head.

Anything was possible at this point.

But if the voice was real, how in the world was I supposed to follow something I couldn’t see?

No sooner had that thought finished, I heard, Trust your grace. It knows where to go. You’re already halfway to where you need to be.

Trust my grace? I almost laughed, but I was too winded to do so. I was already halfway to where I needed to be? All I had been doing was running...

I’d been running blindly.

I’d run with no real conscious thought. Just like when I touched Zayne. Instinct had taken over both times, and instinct and grace were one and the same.

I was willing to try anything that would help me figure out what had happened to Zayne.

Picking up my pace, I started running and went straight until I took a left. There was no reason. I just cut down a street and then kept going. Then I took a right. It started raining, coming down steadily. I had no idea where I was going. Heart thumping against my ribs, I crossed a congested corner. I hadn’t heard the voice again, and just when I was beginning to fear I had imagined it, I saw the...the church across the street, slowly becoming more clear. Constructed of stone and with many steeples and turrets, it looked like something straight out of medieval times. Every part of me knew that was where I’d been led to. How or why, I had no idea.

I thought I recognized the church as I climbed the wide steps, passing between two lit lampposts. Saint Patrick’s or something? Moonlight glinted off the cross above the doorway, and for a moment, it looked like it glowed with heavenly light.

Stepping under the alcove, I drew in a shallow breath. Rain coursed down the side of my face and off my clothing. Blood caked under my mouth. Was it mine? Zayne’s? I wasn’t sure. I had a sinking suspicion that I might’ve cracked a rib that probably had just healed, but I felt no pain. Maybe because I was feeling so much it didn’t leave room for my body to beg for a time-out.

“Here goes nothing,” I muttered, approaching the door, and halted.

Every hair on my body stood and the sense of unease grew until I found it difficult to swallow. Having no idea what to expect, I opened the heavy doors and stepped inside the building built over two centuries ago. An immediate fissure of electricity danced over my skin, like a warning that I was...that I was somewhere I didn’t belong.

A child of any angel, let alone an archangel, was a big no-no even though I was basically created to fight for all the holy rollers. I shouldn’t be all that surprised by how every instinct in me demanded that I turn and leave.

But I didn’t.

My muscles locked as a small door to my right creaked open. A young priest swathed in white robes with red trim stepped out.

He nodded at me. “This way, please.”

Unsure whether I should be grateful that I appeared to be expected or really freaked out, I got my feet moving. Quietly, I followed the priest down a narrow corridor. As we went, he stopped every few feet to light candles. If he hadn’t, I probably would’ve walked into a wall.

Saint Brendan the Navigator’s statue guarded the entrance to the nave of the church. He held a boat in one hand and a staff in the other. Saint Brigid stood opposite of him, a hand over her heart.

I had a creepy feeling that the statues were eyeing me as the priest led me toward the sanctuary. My steps faltered as my eyes slowly pieced together what I was seeing.

Four stone angels knelt on the floor, their wings tucked back. In their hands were basins of what I guessed was holy water, since I doubted they were collecting rainwater or something.

The priest stepped aside, motioning me forward. With my heart in my throat, I entered the sanctuary. Straight ahead, a thirteen-foot cross hung above the main altar, bearing both the crucified and risen Jesus.

A frigid breeze reached me, and the next breath I let out formed misty clouds. That was...odd. So was the rich scent of sandalwood accompanying the cold air. I turned and found the priest gone. Vanished.

Great.

Not to be sacrilegious or anything, but this wasn’t a place I wanted to be left alone in. I started past the stone angels—

In unison, they lifted their bowed heads and held their basins out.

Oh my God, that was a whole bucketful of nightmares. My stomach dipped as I resisted the urge to run back through the hallway while stone ground against stone. One of the angels’ arms broke away from the basin, moving slowly to point to the right of the altar. Chills ran over my skin as I slowly turned.

I gasped.

He stood before the altar, dressed in some sort of white tunic and pants that no one could buy off Amazon. The outline of his body seemed to shimmer as he took complete corporeal form. From the tips of the whitish blond curls down to his bare feet, he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I opened my mouth to speak, but then his wings unfolded from his body, spanning at least eight feet in each direction. They were so luminous and white they glowed in the dim light. They moved noiselessly, but the power of those wings stirred the air, blowing back my hair even with several feet separating us. I squinted, leaning forward. What was on the tip of each wing? Something was...