“Cleanse me as you did the Ilog Pasig . . .”
Noah’s voice rose and fell as he said the children’s prayer under his breath. He wasn’t religious, had in fact denounced it years ago as being of no help to him, and yet despite this, he could never let go of his belief in Sta. Teresa, who he was sure, oh so sure would cleanse him as she had the great river. This, more than anything else, was why he picked tonight, the feast of the city’s patron, to do this.
He said the prayer a few more times, his fingers uncurling, his hand reaching out and taking mine.
The sensation was immediate. An explosion at the back of my brain, followed by the soft lull of sticky-sweetness washing over me. I felt my eyes glaze, my limbs go slack, and it was all I could do to reach out and touch the person beside me—
