The floor here was dark red stone, and it ran the length of a narrow room lined with confession booths on both sides.
James turned in place once, taking in the ceiling that vanished up into shadow, the rotten curtains hanging half off their rails inside the booths, the smell of old wax and damp wood and blood that had dried into the cracks between the stones more times than once.
Finn had been two steps away when the gate came down.
"Finn!"
His voice hit the booths and the narrow walls and came back thinner than it went out. Nothing answered.
Maeve tipped her head back, scanning the dark of the ceiling like there might be another group somewhere above them.
Declan put a flat hand against the nearest wall and held it there.
"Nothing," he said. "No vibration. Whatever's on the other side of this, it's not close."
