“No.”
“Yes. For the Father’s sake, let’s get this over with.”
He lifted Sophia’s left arm and stripped away her skin in one smooth movement.
Sophia never cried out. She barely shed a tear. But her face twisted with a terrible anger, and her gray eyes regressed to those vacant holes Angela feared so much. Israfel let her go, and Sophia stumbled away, clutching her arm while black blood trickled down to her wrist. Israfel dropped the part of Sophia’s arm that seemed more glove than skin—and Angela stared at the white muscle, the black veins that had been hiding beneath it—understanding that she was seeing something alien and inhuman, and maybe worse than both.
“Do you know what she is?” Israfel said gently.
In the background, Naamah screamed and Troy hissed like some gigantic snake as they fought. Candlesticks, altar cloths, tapestries, and glass fell, smashed, crashed. But that chaos was nothing compared to the blow Angela was feeling. Her stomach felt like someone had pulled it out with a hook.
Why? First Brendan, now this.
“She said she’d died—”
“A lie.” Israfel forced Sophia to turn back to them both, pinching her chin between his fingers. She was frightening to look at, her porcelain complexion contorted by the rage that was showing in her unwholesome eyes and quivering mouth. “Or maybe a half-truth: one can never know when it comes to her. In actuality, she is a golem—an artificial creation.”
“Whose creation?” Angela’s mouth went dry. She was torn between screaming herself and wrenching Sophia out of Israfel’s grasp and shaking her like a rag doll. “
Whose?
”
Israfel leaned down, repeating the question like she was a child. “Whose creation, Sophia?”
Now the tears began. Sophia glanced at Angela, her face streaked by water and misery, half sobbing. “Raziel’s.”
Raziel’s . . .
“
You lied to me
.” For the first time since they’d entered the church, Angela took the chance to yell like everyone else. No one was who she’d thought. Everyone seemed to hide behind masks, secrets, half-truths, and martyrdoms. “You lied . . . you said that you died in childbirth, that you had been brought back to life as a punishment—”
“It’s true!” Sophia struggled and squirmed from Israfel’s touch. She held Angela fast, forgetting the horror of her skinless arm. “I did, and I am. Kim was not wrong. I am a
REVENANT
—”
“
Then explain this
!” Angela thrust her away, indicating her inhuman body.
“You weren’t supposed to know,” Sophia mumbled between her tears. “What I really am. But everything I told you before was the truth.”
“Were you ever truly human?”
A wretched sob. “No.”
“Oh God.” Angela clutched her head. “Then what?”
Sophia fell to her knees, pounding the tiles with her fists and screaming. “The Book! I’m the Book of Raziel!
And I’ve been in Hell for eons, watching, and waiting for Her to open me—
”
The darkness behind her eyes was terrifying. Angela stepped backward, seeing nothing but the Book from Tileaf’s memories and its great Eye, gazing through her. The Fae had said that few creatures, if any, knew what the Book truly looked like. Kim had said that if it was opened by the wrong person, they would go insane from what was hidden in its pages. But there lay the horrendous mystery. How did you open a Book that was a living, walking, talking, intelligent creation, and not a tome or collection of scriptures? Where were the pages, and how could they be read? And if you did manage to pry into Sophia’s depths, what terrors would lie in wait for you, sucking away your soul if they couldn’t be withstood?
Sophia stood with incredible speed, turning on Israfel, and she was a frightful vision of grace and unearthly anger. Even worse, her arm was already healing, new skin solidifying and hazing over the white muscle beneath. “Child,” she hissed at him, “and murderer! But I will let all of Heaven and Hell know what you have done, Israfel. It will be through my mercy alone
that you find any redemption
.”
“My sister’s words?” he glared at her coolly. “You speak of Hell, but it was your own fault to follow her there . . .”
“Lucifel was not my master. Neither were you.”
“Why not say,” he smiled delicately, “that your punishment is self-inflicted?”
Sophia’s mouth kept moving, but no sound came out. She paused, her cheeks flaming red, her fingers trembling like she would walk up to him and take him by the neck. No one would have ever guessed, but Raziel’s portentous Book was a golem in the shape of a human young woman, her features and actions doll-like, aching for protection. No wonder Angela had been tempted to dress her, hold her, simply be with her. That must have been the effect she had on people, and once you made the mistake of trying to open her—free her—it was too late.
You saw the worst, and your mind shattered.
Israfel kissed Angela’s hair, wrapping his large wings around her like she’d always dreamed. Sophia’s lips pursed in that dangerous way, her frame shivering. “That’s right,” Israfel continued, “it’s because you can’t. It’s because, no matter how much you threaten and curse, other people can control you, lock you, seal half of you shut. Because you’re nothing more—”
Her gray eyes were full of pain.
“—than a thing.”
Love is desperation. Always.
—
The Demon Python
,
UNKNOWN ORIGIN
“D
o you miss this piece of yourself?” Troy snapped at Naamah, and they collided in midair, wings spread wide.
Instantly, both tumbled to the cathedral floor in a ball of feathers and hands, knives and teeth. The demon swiped at Troy desperately, aiming to murder her with the poisoned blades on her fingers. “You—
annoying shit
.”
Troy scampered aside, and they lifted into the air again, two birds locked in combat, their hair windblown and their speed terrible. Naamah stared at her lost wing bone, tied in a knot of hair near Troy’s ears, and her eyes glittered like cold obsidian. The bloody residue from her wings already slicked Troy’s fingers with the consistency of oil, and more spattered around them as she flew, crazy with rage. She was like all her kind, emotional at the most crucial times. Today it would probably cost her dearly.
Troy waited for her, still aloft and snarling with excitement. “Oh, so now you recognize my little trinket?”
The demon was closing in fast.
“Remember how much it hurt
,
” Troy continued, “when I tore it out of you,
bitch
?”
“
SHUT UP
.” Naamah sliced for Troy’s neck, but attempted to shove her away just as quickly.
Troy bit for the wrist yet again, scraping a mess of bloody bandages with her jaws.
A shrill scream echoed above the storm.
Stephanie, the witch, was running for them, her eyes streaked by water and her hair as wild as the demon’s. She was hysterical, and it took a second longer for Troy to even realize the human was calling Naamah’s name.
“GET AWAY FROM HER—”
“Stay out of this,” Naamah screamed back at her, finally disengaging with Troy.
The demon landed on the opposite side of the platform at the head of the church, clutching at her wrist and panting with the pain. Nearby a stone table had been set at the forefront, its surface half draped with a white cloth and rows of brass candlesticks. A few novices lay dead around the table, and temptingly close by lay a severed head capped in white. The church stank of blood, and the hideous scent of the Supernal Israfel, a mixture of flesh and flowers that reminded Troy of a rotten nest. She landed with Naamah, wiped the blood from her mouth, and hunched down on her hands and feet, flipping her ears back against her hair.
Stephanie, though, was far from obedient. Changing direction, she rushed for Troy head-on. She tore off her sleeve, revealing a tattoo above her elbow that matched the demon’s. A witch’s mark. But before the human could make another move, energy sparked from Naamah’s hand and blasted her onto the floor.
Troy hissed, blocking the light from her eyes.
When she glanced up again, Stephanie had crumpled into a ball, cursing. Then she was on all fours like Troy, her face hidden between the mess of her hair, her eyes wild, screening her rage.
“Don’t make me break your legs,” Naamah said between her teeth.
Troy licked her lips, gazing at Stephanie with new interest. These two shared a bond that went beyond the typical for a witch and her demon. “Perhaps I could do it for you,” she said, smiling at Stephanie.
Stephanie opened her mouth to reply, but Naamah gestured sharply at her and turned back to Troy.
The demon’s tattoo seemed to twist, dancing in the shadows.
Like all those in service to Hell’s Prince, the inked number marked Naamah as Lucifel’s property; the Fourth in a ranking system based on ambition and cutthroat policy. Troy had never entertained the pleasure of meeting the other Three, nor did she have the desire to.
This one represented the younger, copper-skinned generation, and she was horror enough.
“Aren’t you aware of what’s going on down in the Underworld?” Naamah shouted, flexing the blades in her fingers. The pain of having them inserted in the first place must have been considerable. “Your race is merely a step away from extinction. Once the dimensions crumble, where will you go, Jinn? I’m telling you, there will be another alliance between the angels and demons to crush your rats’ nest, only this time, the battle will start where it hurts most. Home.” Naamah glanced at the human corpses, and her dark eyes brightened. “Don’t waste time hunting demons when you have traitors slithering in your caves. You’d be smart to ally yourself with me, as a protection for when the greater battles begin.”
What was this? Was she hedging to protect that irritating human?
More likely her own life.
“You knew the rules,” Troy said, suddenly on guard. There was more to this than compromise. The demon was dangerous, and she was planning. Of course, Troy’s precarious situation was all Angela’s fault. If she hadn’t been locked into that hellish Binding with her, she could have watched the carnage, not participate. “You freely chose to walk into our territory on that day, and since then your life was forfeit. Bribery won’t save it now.”
Naamah opened her hand, gathering another crackling mass of energy. “So I suppose that’s a no?”
Troy flapped her wings, narrowing her eyes beneath the pain of the light.
“That won’t work.”
But that also wasn’t what the demon had in mind. Instantly, the energy arced out from her hands, searing into the bodies crumpled across the tile. Souls materialized above them, vaporous and gray, whispering words of human revenge and anger. They turned to Naamah, following the soft movements of her lips. Then they raced forward and surrounded Troy in a whirling ring. She swatted at one, and it disintegrated to tatters, moaning hideously. But others followed, and no matter what she did, there always seemed to be more of them, coming out of nowhere to confuse her, suck away at her life force. Troy bit through them, catching a quick glimpse of Angela, Israfel, and the one named Sophia. They were still in their own disgusting little world, debating and shouting and crying while everyone else bled around them or dropped dead.
There was something wrong, though.
As much as it satisfied Troy to watch her suffer, Angela’s expression suggested dire things.
“Enough of this.”
Troy beat her wings furiously, scattering vestments and cloths, blowing out the last of the painful candlelight. The ghosts dissipated, like part of the wind.
Naamah fled, her wings creaking in the darkness.
“Get ready,” Troy growled, clicking her teeth together. “This time, I’m going to tear your throat wide open.”
There was a sudden quiet, broken only by Angela’s frantic voice, the incessant rain.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
“
LET ME HELP YOU
.” Stephanie was screaming all over again for Naamah, oblivious even to the debris that crashed perilously near to her.
Troy let her ears find the demon first, and then her eyes.
There she was. High in the air, first the ether and now her powerful wings propelling her near the murals painted onto the ceiling. Their details had been hazed over by deep shadows, but Troy could discern a woman and child, various humans gathered inside a pit of roaring flames, and an angel, his weapon pointed at the neck of a demon with a serpent’s head—and rotten, bloody wings.
Troy sprinted on all fours and crawled up the nearest stone pillar.
She latched onto the ceiling with her nails, scampering toward the demon with all the speed she had left. Of course, Naamah knew Troy was tired now. She knew that she’d have an advantage. Troy couldn’t fly much longer—not with half of her energy drained away—but she also couldn’t let Naamah have the upper hand in this battle.
Naamah must have already realized the balance of power had shifted.
She smiled, her golden braids framing her face like a halo.
Then she touched the tattoo on her neck and tore away the skin. “As Naamah, Fourth Great Demon of Hell, I implore all the power of the Black Prince—”
Blood streamed out of the new wounds on her neck and collarbone, but swiftly spiraled up along Naamah’s arm, melding with the tattoo clenched between her fingerblades, solidifying into a red sword that was all jagged edges and rigid forks. Naamah wrapped her hands around the bottom of her weapon, whispering so softly that only a Jinn’s ears could hear above the thunder, the rain, and the screaming that continued below and around them.
“—and with the offering of my blood and my life, I seek to defend the honor of her wishes and ideals. Come on, rat,” she muttered at Troy. “Come and get me.” Her expression turned to ice. “If you dare.”
Naamah soared for her, the blood sword lifted high.
Troy jumped onto the chain of a chandelier, its brass links hanging from the middle of a painting. The lamp swung wildly beneath her weight, tipping dangerously to the right and tossing her back into the darkness.
The demon screamed, slashing at her.
Her weapon met the chain, scraping into the metal. A second later, the links snapped, and the chandelier fell thundering to the floor.
Boom. Boom.
The noise of the demon’s wings was fury itself.
She swooped in close again, slicing clean through the tips of Troy’s wing feathers, showering a black snow to the ground. But instead of turning to face her, Troy fought her aching muscles and flew ahead, racing for the platform that she sensed was an altar.
Her toes scraped the long table, and she soared up to perch on the top of two wooden beams, their cross-wise pattern reminding her of Sariel’s necklace. A human figure hung from their center, gazing sadly down at the corpses arrayed across the tiles. Naamah was streaking for both the statue and Troy, her sword held out sideways, ready to chop off Troy’s head, the statue’s hands. Everything. Anything.
Troy grabbed a cloth hanging to the right of the cross and pitched the heavy fabric at Naamah.
“Time to learn a little respect.”
“. . . because you’re nothing more . . . than a thing.”
Kim pressed the knife to Israfel’s throat.
The blade cut the angel’s ivory skin slightly, staining his long neck with a tendril of crimson. His enchanting voice had died to gentle breaths that spoke of many future events—events Kim couldn’t handle thinking about—because they had Angela in mind. He didn’t want to blame her for the infatuation she’d fallen into—but it was hard. Angela had been the only woman he’d felt any kind of real connection to besides Stephanie, and the feelings between them had to be based on more than chance, even if they’d blossomed under so much danger. They were just starting to learn about each other, to enjoy the process, and he’d be damned if some angel who danced in her dreams was about to change that.
“You’re a human priest,” Israfel said.
“Good guess, but you’re only half correct.”
Angela gasped from inside the circle of Israfel’s wings.
They’d been so occupied with each other, Israfel’s senses hadn’t been enough to warn him of the worst. Sophia had been the only person to see Kim encroaching on them, and from the torment burning behind her eyes and all over her face, it had been clear she wasn’t going to ruin the surprise. If someone was needed to step on Israfel’s toes, better a half-Jinn than no one at all. And, oh, how that half of Kim burned him inside. Right now, he fully understood what it felt like to be Troy, to become so angry and overbearingly upset that you were blind to what you did and why you did it.
Israfel was still, and Kim was still, his hand trembling slightly, the steel of his knife tickling the angel’s throat. God, how he wanted to slice open his neck.
But Angela wouldn’t ever forgive him.
She burst out of the angel’s arms and rounded on Kim, her face haunted, her expression regretful. Well, it seemed he still had a chance. She wouldn’t look at him with that kind of emotion if they weren’t a possibility. Every time they locked eyes, electricity seemed to snap between them.
“Well, what now, Angela?” Kim said, more softly than he wanted.
The delicate wings along Israfel’s ears flapped, expressing his impatience.
He glanced at Troy, deep in the middle of her latest skirmish with Naamah.
They had trashed what was left of the church, avoiding the interior of the altar more because of Troy’s fear than out of respect. Jinn had no dread of holy objects or symbols, but they steered clear of them whenever they could, unwilling to bring down what they considered to be the wrath of the Highest. How ironic that Troy was the professional murderer, yet out of the two of them, Kim was the one who feared absolutely nothing, God included.
Only Troy. Only death.
“Are you happy,” he said with a smirk, glancing now at Brendan Mathers, dead and messy near the altar, “with how things have turned out?”
Though he was certain the answer eluded her at the moment, Angela must not have liked his tone of voice. She blushed, and then the anger began to show itself in the set of her mouth, the firm stance of her tights-covered legs. Should she be mad at Kim for putting a blade to Israfel’s neck? But like he’d promised Troy, it would have haunted him forever if the Supernal escaped without a flesh wound.