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“Who sent you here?” She was angry. He saw this in her darkened eyes, which were now a shade past navy.
Azaiel decided it couldn’t hurt to feed the little bird a few bread crumbs—a bit of the truth would suffice. “An old friend of your grandmother’s.”
“Yeah, I got that last night, but it would sure as hell be nice to a have a name.”
Energy erupted into the air around her. It shimmered around her head like a halo of red, and once more he sensed the true depth of her power. The James witches came from no ordinary line.
“You would know him as Bill.”
Her brow furled, and she repeated, “Bill?” She chewed her lip for a moment, brows furled in concentration. “Would Bill be a short, fat, round little guy? With a motormouth and an insane candy addiction?”
“That would be the one,” Azaiel answered dryly. If she only knew what Askelon’s human facade hid, she wouldn’t be so cavalier. But he supposed that was the very reason that Askelon—or Bill as he was known in the human realm—paraded around in such ill-equipped human skin. He wanted no one to know what really flowed inside his veins.
“I haven’t seen him in years.” She ran her fingers along the top of the kitchen table. “I just thought he was some eccentric guy who was sweet on Nana.”
Rowan looked up at him suddenly. “What are you?” There was suspicion in her voice. He heard it in her words and saw the way it colored her eyes even darker. “You’re otherworld, but I’ve never met anyone like you before.”
Outside, sunlight played upon the window, casting vignettes of shadow that fell from the trees to parade across the windowsill. It was a beautiful fall day. Not a cloud in the sky, and the sunshine was golden. The brightness of it called to a part of his soul that was long dead. The part of him most thought was beyond redemption.
Except for Bill, of course.
“Hello?” Rowan spoke sarcastically and waved her hand in front of Azaiel’s face.
“I am Seraphim.”
She was surprised though quick to hide her reaction. “Seraphim,” she repeated. “As in Angels?”
Azaiel’s face darkened as his thoughts turned to his past. “Humans would call us that, but simply put, Angels is too broad a term. Like the humans who populate this realm, we are many different kinds—different breeds if you will.” He shrugged. “Seraphim are the most powerful sect in existence, and I’m one of the original seven.” He said the words not to be boastful but because they were the truth. The thought of his betrayal and subsequent fall drew a scowl. His eyes flashed, and he took a step toward her. “There is nothing angelic about me.”
For a moment only silence accompanied the whistle of wind and the moaning protest of the old house.
“Bill sent you here because he knew my grandmother was already dead.” She gazed at him intently, blue eyes glued to gold.
“Yes,” he answered simply. “Bill asked me to find the person responsible for your grandmother’s death. He cared deeply for her, which is why I won’t leave until I have an answer for him.”
And until I know Cara’s death isn’t related to her association with the League.
“Is he . . .” She frowned. “Is he like you? How did he know she’d been killed?”
Azaiel shook his head. “That I can’t answer, but it should be enough that I’m here and willing to do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”
She bristled at that. “I don’t need you to keep me safe. In case you didn’t notice last night, I’m more than capable of kicking ass when I need to. I might be a little rusty, but it won’t take me long to get up to speed.”
The lady had spunk. Azaiel had to give her that. He nodded. “I meant no disrespect.” He took a step toward her. “It’s my turn, no?”
She shrugged but remained silent.
“Who placed the mark upon you?”
Azaiel watched the curve of her cheek as she turned to look out the window. She leaned her hands upon the faded, rust-colored countertop and sighed. It was a deep sigh, one filled with resignation, but judging by the jut of her chin, it was also filled with determination.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “My ancestors fled Europe to avoid persecution and as fate would have it they ended up in Salem.” She snorted. “Can you believe it? And only a few months before the Salem witch trials broke out. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to live through that. The ignorance. The hatred. The fear. A whisper in the right person’s ear, a nod in that direction . . . a nudge.” She shook her head. “That’s all it took.”
“So your family came under suspicion. Were they accused of witchcraft?”
“No,” she said softly. “It never got that far. Agatha didn’t let it happen.” Rowan turned back to Azaiel. “Our family has gifts that are special, power that is stronger than most, but as I’m sure you know, everything comes with a price. To save us Agatha did something desperate. She called forth a demon. Of course, not just any demon would do.” She arched a brow. “Mallick.”
Azaiel’s jaw clenched. In all the years he’d been below, he’d never met the mysterious demon lord—but he knew that Mallick was a sadistic son of a bitch. Even in his gilded prison, deep in the bowels of Hell, Azaiel had heard rumblings about the scope of his power.
