The video feed of The Weaver flickered and died, leaving the rotunda in a heavy, suffocating silence. Icarion, the fallen sun-god, had retreated to the far shadows of the library, his flickering golden form dimmed by the weight of the Weaver's warning. He was a creature of logic and light, and the "trap" she mentioned terrified him.
But Hailey didn't feel terror. She felt a low, thrumming heat in her chest that had nothing to do with the Syndicate's satellites.
She stood at the central altar, her hand still resting on the Map. The golden ley lines were glowing, but the light was pulsing in time with her heartbeat—and another heartbeat, deeper and slower, that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards.
"Hailey."
Baphomet's voice didn't come from behind her. It seemed to come from the air itself, wrapping around her like a physical embrace. She turned, and he was there, standing so close she could feel the radiating warmth of his shadow-form.
