15.8

 

Roisin frowned. “How can she not be alive? I’ve met her. Talked to her. She’s a second-year degree student at the university. I touched her and she was warm, just like you and me. What else could she be but a normal girl?”

“I don’t know about you, but my whole concept of the world just opened up like a melon dropped from the Tower of London.” Paul clutched his hammer tight to his chest. She could see the veins in his arm standing out with the weight of it, not that you’d notice to look at his expression. “Angels, devils. Heaven, Hell.” I thought it was all just a fairy tale to keep the peasants in line. Who knows what else is true.” He nudged Steve with his elbow. “What about vampires? And werewolves?”

“I’ve never met any, so I couldn’t say.” Steve glanced back. “Look. Can we save this discussion for when there isn’t a malevolent entity outside our front door?”

“Oh, sorry. Sure.” Paul lowered his voice. “Are you sure it’s malevolent, though? Ros says she’s just a student, and it sounds like she needs help.”

“Please stop calling me ‘Ros.’” She shot him a stern look. “Only my mum calls me that.”

“Fair enough. Sorry. Only I knew a Roisin at school, and she was always ‘Ros’ to her mates.”

“Good for her, but it wasn’t me, okay?”

“Heard, chef.”

“Will you two shut the heck up?” Steve advanced until he was only two steps above the lobby. “I can’t hear myself think.” He glanced back at them. “Thank you.” He approached the door slowly, stopping just short of touching it, then tilted his head slightly, listening, his head movements indicating he was scanning the whole circumference of the door, not just the humanoid figure they could see through the frosted glass.

The assistant spoke again, louder this time. “Roisin, please. I need to talk to you.”

Roisin took a step forward. “Let her in.”

Steve raised a hand sharply. “No.”

Roisin froze. “Steve—”

“Whatever she is, she’d got something with her,” he said quietly.

Roisin felt the pressure pulse again, a faint vibration spreading through her ribs. “How do you know?”

Steve didn’t look away from the door. “Because you’re reacting.”

Roisin pressed a hand to her sternum. It felt more prominent than usual, as if it was being forced outward from withing. An image popped into her head of the cocooned woman the the Aliens film, where the chestburster alien breaks through her ribcage. It was an image that had never scared her as much as it did now. The vibration was stronger now, almost rhythmic. “It’s pulling me.”

“I know,” Steve murmured. “That’s why you’re not opening the door.”

The assistant knocked again — faster this time, the rhythm uneven, almost frantic. “Roisin, please. Something happened after you left.”

Roisin felt a surge of fear. “We have to let her in.”

Steve shook his head. “Not until I know what’s with her.”

Roisin stared at him. “You think the Artist followed her here?”

Steve hesitated. “Who the fuck is the artist? What artist? No. Whatever is out there isn’t human either.”

Roisin felt her stomach drop. “Then what?”

Steve’s voice was low. “Maybe another angel? Not the same one as before, obviously. The cross would react to that.”

The assistant’s voice cracked. “Roisin, I’m scared. Please. I know you’re there, I can hear you. Please open the door.”

Roisin stepped closer to the door. “She’s alone.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “She sounds alone.”

Roisin swallowed. “What does that mean?”

Steve finally turned to her. “It means something could be using her voice.”

Roisin felt the cold settle deeper into her bones. “You think it’s mimicking her?”

Steve didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The assistant knocked again — but this time, the rhythm was wrong. Too slow. Too even. Too measured.

Roisin stepped forward to whisper. “That’s not her. It’s her voice but it’s not… it’s not her.”

Steve shook his head. “No.”

The echo pulsed violently, a sharp jolt that made Roisin gasp. She staggered back, clutching her chest. It felt wet under her palm, as if it was bleeding.

Paul grabbed her arm. “Easy, tiger”

“It hurts,” Roisin whispered.

“It’s responding to whatever’s outside,” Steve said. “It’s trying to align with it.”

Roisin felt a wave of nausea. “Why?”

“Because it recognises it,” Steve said quietly. “The same way it recognised the gallery.”

Roisin pressed her forehead against his shoulder, trying to steady her breath. “What do we do?”

Steve guided her back toward the stairs. “We wait.”

Roisin shook her head. “We can’t just leave her out there.”

Steve’s voice softened. “Roisin… listen to the knock.”

Roisin closed her eyes.

The knock came again.

Three taps.

Perfectly spaced.

Perfectly identical.

No tremor.

No urgency.

No human variation.

Roisin opened her eyes. “It’s not her.”

Steve nodded. “Good. You’re hearing it now.”

Roisin felt the pulse again — softer this time, but insistent. “It wants me to open the door.”

“Yes,” Steve said. “That’s why you won’t.”

The knock stopped.

Silence.

Then—

A whisper through the door.

Not the assistant’s voice.

Something thinner.

Hollow, like the breath of a old man passing through a crack in the world.

“Roisin…”

Roisin’s blood ran cold.

Steve stepped in front of her again, his posture rigid. “Don’t answer.”

The whisper came again, closer this time, as though leaning against the wood. “Roisin… open…”

Roisin felt the echo surge, a violent pulse that made her vision blur. She clutched Steve’s arm, gasping.

Steve held her steady. “It’s trying to use you.”

Roisin’s voice trembled. “Use me how?”

Steve didn’t answer.

The whisper slid along the doorframe, soft and coaxing. “You saw… you saw…”

Roisin felt her breath catch. “It knows.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Knows what? What did you see?”

Roisin shook her head. “Paintings. Paintings that had souls. Paintings that were alive.”

Steve met her eyes. “What sort of paintings?”

Roisin felt the echo pulse again — not painful this time, but warm, almost inviting.

The whisper came again, softer now, almost tender. “Come…”

Roisin’s knees buckled.

Steve caught her before she fell. “Stay with me.”

Roisin pressed her forehead against his chest, shaking. “I can’t… it’s too strong.”

Steve held her tighter. “It’s only strong because you’re listening.”

Roisin squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Steve said gently. “Paul?”

Roisin felt herself scooped up in a pair of strong arms. She felt safe, briefly. Paul was a seriously strong bloke. She just wished he’d had a shower after work.

The whisper faded.

The pressure eased.

Roisin opened her eyes slowly. She was on the floor in the living room, which looked lop-sided because someone had knocked the light over. Downstairs, the hallway was still. She looked up to see Paul staring down at her. “Has it gone?”

Steve entered the room. His cross was missing, but he carried Paul’s hammer and chisel. “It’s gone.”

Roisin swallowed. “For now.”

Steve nodded. “For now.”

Roisin leaned against him, breath trembling. “What happens next?”

Steve hesitated. Then he said, quietly, “I need you to tell me about these paintings.”