Helen could barely hear what the Penitent was saying to her, her heart was beating so fast. Why didn't he stop his praise? She was trapped; it's not like she was going to jump out of the moving car.

It was still possible to escape though. The Penitent's hands only held the steering wheel painfully; they were shaking, and the skin that covered them sank between the bones. He was more dead than alive. If she attacked him unexpectedly, if she gouged out his eyes with her fingernails, she could get away with it. But to fight, to flee, was to abandon Guinevere.

They had already left the inhabited area of the city. The extinguished lampposts were lost in the foliage. Reading street names was difficult in this darkness. She could remember only one, but she could not know in advance which one it would be, so she looked down at the ivy-filled plaques, hidden by night, and washed away by all the rain that had fallen since the Apocalypse.

"We are almost there?

—  It won't be long now."

He seemed more frightened than she was. She wondered what image he formed of her in his head. A dangerous sinner, the whore of Babylon? Or simply his next meal? He was so hungry that she was almost afraid he would faint before he got there. He was so weakened that she could easily push him away. When they got off, she would try to flee. All she needed was the address.

They passed another street name. In the foliage, she could not distinguish it.

"Where are we going?

—  Home. I already said it.

—  Yes, you did. But what street is your house on?

—  Hm? The Azincourt street.

—  Is it near Waterloo?

—  I don't know. I don't think so. I don't know Waterloo Street. "

Helen didn't answer anything and continued to watch the names. Had the guy lied? He wasn't very quick-witted; at least not enough to grasp her historical allusions.

The hard ball clutching her heart was now threatening to strangle her. What made her think that Michael would check his voice mail in the middle of the night? Or, if he did, would he even be able to find her with his power? He looked so bad the last time she had seen him. After she left his message, she had stopped insisting, somewhat because she feared he might be able to divert her from his purpose. Her plan was silly, it was stupid and it was suicidal. In the best case, Michael was asleep. Would she still be alive the next morning?

She took out her cell phone. One last attempt, it was worth playing.

"Hey! What are you doing?

—  Sending a message to a friend. It won't take long.

—  Drop it!"

She felt a burning heat on her wrist, and her cell phone slipped out of her hands. It took her a second before she realized that he had hit her hand, and the skin on her arms was scratched by his fingernails. The force of the blow had taken her by surprise.

"I'm sorry. You'll find out why in a second."

Helen couldn't think of anything to say. Briefly, in the glow of the headlights, a name appeared. Azincourt.

At her feet, the luminous screen of her cell phone was tempting her. She bent down in a panic to catch up with him. She was only a few meters away from Guinevere and her destiny. Her ideas of escape were paralyzed, stuck in the ice. She only had the time and strength to make a last call. Her fingers grasped the device.

On her neck, she felt the caress of a sharp blade.