Page 6 of Demon Touched

No. Not now.

His touches have been gentle up to now—careful and probing rather than aggressive. But I’ve been braced for this, the moment he realizes I’ve taken away from him the body and mind he was so happy to puppet. The moment he’s forced to accept that I’m far beyond his reach. I can sense him shoving at the barriers I’ve built up around me now, trying to push the whole thing down.

The ephilium examine me closely, and I fight to keep my face blank, all while desperately shoring up my defenses. I can’t let him break through. If he finds a way inside, the seraphim will surely notice—and unlike that ephilium woman, I don’t think I’ll survive a dose of lightning.

The force of Syrus’s presence grows stronger, bearing down on me like a weight. He’s pushing hard, I can feel it, a surge of intense power rattling at the gates of my mind. I hold strong, the back of my neck going clammy with effort as I try to hide the war raging inside of me.

And maybe there’s a desperate, tiny part of me who wants to give in—wants to pull down the walls and let him flood into me. Goddess, that fullness, the feel of him beneath my skin isn’t something I should crave. But even here and now, there’s a whisper of temptation in my heart.

Then Orelle and Wyvier exchange a look, and fear whisks that temptation clean away. They close their wings—folding away those unnerving eyes—and step back. Almost at exactly the same moment, the force outside my mental wards disappears.

I exhale, trying to ignore that treacherous grief that rises up inside me. It’s good that Syrus is gone, but watching the seraphim bend their heads together and mutter, I don’t feel much safer. Could they sense the demonic energy that spent months making itself comfortable under my skin? Has it left some kind of mark on me that their second sight can detect?

“What can you tell us of your heritage?” Seraph Wyvier asks, and I barely keep myself from sighing in relief. I can be honest about this.

“My name is Leah Polaris,” I say, licking my lips. “I think my ephilium blood comes from my mother’s side. Her name was Cerys. I’m named after my grandmother, who was a midwife. Leah Velanah was her name before she was married, and her husband, my grandfather⁠—”

“He was not your grandfather,” comes a voice from near the front of the crowd. “I am.”

Chapter 3

Leah

Everyone, including me, turns toward the ephilium who spoke. He’s a tall, leonine man with gray hair down to his chin and a dark beard shot through with silver.

“General Garion?” Seraph Wyvier says.

He strides over, offering the seraphim a neat salute. I examine his face more closely, looking for traces of my mother there. His heavy brow frames a square, serious face that doesn’t seem like her at all, but there’s some resemblance in the eyes—green, like hers and my own.

I don’t miss that he studies me too, his gaze hard and calculating.

“You say you are the granddaughter of Leah Velanah?” he demands, every word clipped and precise, though his voice is gravelly with age.

“Yes,” I answer, meeting his gaze steadily, refusing to be intimidated.

“She had a daughter? When?”

His tone gives away nothing as I try to do the calculations in my mind, working out how old my mother would be if she were still alive.

“Fifty-four years ago.”

Something sparks in his eyes. “Then you are indeed my blood, Leah Illidore.”

I internally wince at how easily he claims me, placing what must be his own last name over my father’s. Not that I feel any great loyalty to my father at this point, but still—shouldn’t it be my choice which name I carry?

“Care to elaborate, General?” Seraph Orelle asks, annoyed to be left out of the conversation.

“Leah Velanah was a midwife I hired to deliver my second-born, your honor,” Garion says.

I try not to gape. Neither my mother nor my father ever mentioned my grandmother working in Aradis. But then maybe my mother never knew, either? There are only ever a select handful of humans invited to work for the ephilium—the wingers are very picky, and most humans are too chicken to go to another realm.

“Ah yes. For your first wife, Thalis?” Seraph Wyvier presses a hand to her chest, briefly closing her eyes as if praying. “May she shine in the Everlight.”

“Thank you,” Garion says, though he seems unmoved by the oath. “She was a good wife, but her body was weak. It’s why I resorted to help from the Mire.”

“If there’s one thing Stratans know, it’s babies,” Seraph Orelle says with a smile, as if this amuses him. “They seem to spend most of their lives pregnant.”

I frown, not pleased with the dismissiveness. Yeah, we humans pop out a baby more than twice a century, but that’s hardly a bad thing. Frankly, the only advantage we have over the wingers is that there are so damn many of us. As far as I’m concerned, the more human babies the better. Our numbers are just about the only thing they respect.