The November wind was cold up here, whipping her face, and Scarlet felt the chill. She wanted to get down, to warm up somewhere.
As Scarlet flew and flew, trying to think, the only person that she could see, the only face that continued to flash in her mind, was Sage. He hadn’t shown up as promised at the homecoming; he had stood her up, and she was still mad about that. Scarlet assumed he didn’t want to see her again.
Then again, she wasn’t really sure what happened. Maybe, just maybe, there had been some reason he didn’t show up. Maybe he loved her after all.
The more Scarlet thought about it, the more she felt she needed to see him. She needed to see a familiar face, someone left in the world who cared about her, who loved her. Or, at least, who had loved her once.
Scarlet made a decision. She turned and headed west, toward the river, toward where she knew Sage lived. She continued flying outside the town limits, looking down at the main roads below, and using them as a beacon as she flew. Her heart pounded quickly, as she realized she would reach him in a few moments.
As she flew outside of town, the landscape changed: instead of perfectly laid out blocks and houses, there were fewer houses, larger lots, more trees… The lots morphed from two acres, to four acres, to six, then ten, twenty… She was entering the estate section.
Scarlet reached the river’s edge, and as she turned and flew alongside it, below her she could see all the mansions, replete with their long, sprawling driveways, framed by ancient oaks and formidable gates. It all reeked of wealth and history and money and power.
Scarlet passed over the biggest and most elegant of them all, beautifully set back from the road by several acres, perched right near the edge of the river, an old home of ancient stone, with the most beautiful spirals and towers, looking more like a castle than a house. Its fifteen chimneys protruded into the sky like a beacon to the heavens. Scarlet had never realized how beautiful Sage’s home was until she saw it from above.
Scarlet flew lower, diving down, her heart pounding, so nervous. Would Sage even want to see her again? What if he didn’t? If not, she did not know where she could possibly turn.
Scarlet landed before the front door, coming down gently, her wings retracting, and she looked up at the stone edifice – and as she did, she felt her heart go cold inside. She could not comprehend what she was seeing: the entire house, all of it, was boarded up. In place of the beautiful ornate glass, there was plywood, hastily nailed; in place of all the activity that had been here last time she visited, there was nothing.
It was deserted.
Scarlet heard a squeaking noise. She looked off to the side and saw a rusty gate swinging lightly, squeaking in the wind. It felt as if no one had lived here for a thousand years.
Scarlet flew around to the back of the house, setting down in the wide marble plaza, and looked up at the façade; it was more of the same. The house was completely empty, boarded up. As if all that had been, had never been.
Scarlet turned and looked at the sprawling grounds leading down to the river, peering into the cloud-filled horizon, the blackening sky threatening a storm, looking everywhere for Sage.
She did not sense him here. Not in the house. Not anywhere.
He was gone.
Scarlet could not believe it. He was really gone.
Scarlet sat down, putting her hands on her knees, and wept. Did he truly hate her that much? Did he never really love her?
Scarlet sat there, crying, until she fell hollowed out, numb. She stared at nothing, wondering what to do. A part of her wanted to break into the house, if for no other reason than to get warmth and shelter. But she knew she could not do that. She was not a criminal.
Scarlet sat with her head in her hands for what felt like forever, feeling an intense pressure between her eyes, knowing she had to go somewhere, do something. But where?
For some reason, Scarlet thought of her friends once again. Maria hated her; but there was no reason for any of the others to hate her. They’d all been so close at one point. Even if she couldn’t talk with Maria, maybe she could talk with Becca or Jasmine. After all, Scarlet hadn’t done anything to them. And what were friends for, if not for a time like this?
Scarlet stood, wiped her tears, took three steps, and leapt into the air. She would find her friends, ask for them to take her in, just for the night, and then figure out what to do with her life.
Chapter Eight
Father McMullen knelt before the altar, his hands trembling as he clasped the rosary, praying for clarity. And also, he had to admit, praying for protection. His mind still flashed images of that girl, Scarlet, brought here by her mother so many days before, of that moment when even here, in this holy place, every window shattered. The father glanced up and looked all around, as if wondering if it had really happened – and he felt a sinking pit in his stomach as he was given the stark reminder, the former windows now boarded up with plywood.
Please, Father. Send us protection. Send her protection. Save us from her. And save her from herself. I ask for a sign.
Father McMullen didn’t know what to do. He was a small-town priest, with a small-town parish, and he did not have the skills to deal with a spiritual force of this magnitude. He had read legends of it, but he had never known it to be true, and certainly had never witnessed it with his own eyes.
Now, after spending his entire life praying to God, after spending his life talking to others of forces of good and evil, he had witnessed it for himself. True spiritual forces were doing battle, here on earth, on display for all to see. Now he had experienced it – everything he had ever read and talked about to others – for himself.
And it scared him to death.
Can such evil really walk the earth? he wondered. Where did it come from? What did it want? And why had it all come his way, fallen into his lap?
Father McMullen had contacted the Vatican right away, reporting what had happened, asking for their help, for guidance. Most of all, he wanted to know how to best help this poor girl. Were there any ancient prayers, ancient ceremonies, he did not know of?
But, to his dismay, he had never heard back.
The father knelt there, praying, as he did every afternoon, now praying longer and harder.
The father suddenly flinched as the huge, arched wooden doors to the church banged open, light flooding in behind him, a cold breeze rushing on his back. He felt an immediate chill – and it was not just from the weather.
He sensed that something dark had entered the place.
The father, his heart pounding, quickly gained his feet and turned around, facing the entrance, wondering what it could be. He squinted into the light.
In walked the silhouettes of three men in their sixties, with white hair, dressed in all black, with black turtlenecks and cassocks. He examined them in wonder; there was something different about them, something sinister. They did not look like any priests he had ever seen.
“Father McMullen?” one of them asked.
The father stood his ground as they approached, and nodded back shakily.
“Who are you?” he asked. “How may I help you?”
“You sent for us,” one said.
The father looked at him, puzzled.
“I did?”
They reached him and as they did, one of them held a piece of paper out.
The father took it. It was from the Vatican.
“They’ve sent us to investigate,” one of them said.
The father felt some relief, yet still, he examined them with apprehension, taking in their stark appearance.
“I am honored that you’ve come all the way from Italy,” he said. “Thank you for coming. Can you help?”
The men ignored him, though, all turning, examining the plywood on the windows, looking at each other knowingly, as if they had seen this before, as if they knew exactly what had happened.