Devious little wench. I swear to God above… when I catch you—and I will—I’m going to paddle your ass for this.
You can try, she muses, not an ounce of worry in her tone.
Another thought slams into me mid-descent. If she steals my bloody horse again, there won’t be a single corner of this world she can hide in where she’ll be safe from me.
Don’t you dare?—
Her voice cuts cleanly over my warning.
Happy hunting, you silver-tongued snake. Hope you enjoy what Karma has in store for you.
A beat.
If you live through this.
Dead. That’s it. She’s dead. I don’t send the thought to her, but it settles deep all the same as I await my fate.
The ground rises fast.
Blinding light.
Impact.
Immeasurable pain.
Not the kind a mortal would feel, but visceral all the same. Bones break. My spine snaps. My skull cracks as it becomes one with the pavement.
An injury I can heal from, but hell’s flaming gates…this will cost me time. Time I can’t afford to waste.
I’ve wasted too much of it already.
To be consumed with thoughts of this woman—distracted by her presence, chasing her through city streets and forest, fighting her, and recovering from lethal falls—vexes me more than anything else.
One small witch shouldn’t have this kind of power over me. She is meddling with forces far beyond what her mind can comprehend.
My twin and I are still human in some ways. In others, not at all. We were chosen for this task, reborn for this purpose, not long after the Second War in Heaven. It was years after our deaths—after the bargain was struck between God and Lucifer. Though we were given no choice, we welcomed the opportunity to serve our maker in this capacity with open arms.
Intense training followed, then endless days of waiting for this day to dawn.
So no, this is not a duty I take lightly.
My calling—my orders—should be at the forefront of my mind.
Not this bloody female.
The world goes black with these thoughts plaguing me.
When awareness settles back into my body, I find myself surrounded.
A crowd has gathered. Dozens of faces stare down at me, wide-eyed and pale. Their thoughts were loud—too loud—racing with fear and awe as they pieced together what they witnessed.
Some saw my fall.
Some saw my body break and mend itself. My hand heals.
Their belief fractures in real time.
Using more force than necessary, I push into their minds and correct the narrative. Fear of this magnitude is harder to temper. Strong convictions are stubborn things. I press harder, smoothing the sharp edges of their panic, reshaping memory into something smaller. Manageable.
