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“We don’t discuss our human traumas, dove. It’s rude.”
“Our human traumas make us what we are,” she says with a laugh. “But truly, you told me you were finished with Britain.”
“You know why I’m here.”
“I do.” She sets down the glass on my Louis XVI coffee table. “Our dark lord would like a progress report.”
“Already?” I ask with a scowl to conceal my unease. “I’ve only just begun.”
“He doesn’t trust you, darling. The losses of Casziel and Ashtaroth are not inconsequential.” She sits up suddenly, her black-on-black eyes flaring. “Tell me truly, Ambri. Between you and me, did you send the old man to his doom?”
As if I’d confide anything in her. As if it would remain between her and me…
“Is that what they’re saying?”
“Everyone is saying that you helped the human girl summon him. And that human girl had a guardian angel—”
“What was I to do? Angels are not to be trifled with,” I remind her. “Everyonewould do well to remember that.”
Eisheth reclines and sips her drink. “I don’t like being here on business, Ambri, when you’re so beautifully intended for pleasure. But I have no choice. You’re slow to obey Asmodai’s command—”
“Slow?” I huff. “I attempted, first, to terrorize the human into madness by showing myself to him. He proved more resilient than that…”
Cole was brave. He held out as long as he could.
“Therefore, I returned tonight to learn more of him. To assess his faculties.”
“And to play with him?”
“Can you of all people blame me?”
“No, but anything less than the human’s swift and total destruction has Asmodai suspecting your motives. It should be a simple matter, after all. The Twins have been priming your target for months.”
I mutter a curse. “I should’ve known.”
The Twins, Deber and Keeb, are masters of insidious whispering that drives humans to doubt themselves. It’s called “negative self-talk” nowadays, though there is nothing “self” about it. Most humans believe their thoughts are uncontrollable, and Deber and Keeb have turned that belief into an art form. It’s no surprise that they’ve all but smothered Cole Matheson’s belief in himself—artists make the easiest prey.
“They can rot, the meddling bitches,” I snarl. “If anyone is going to drive Cole Matheson to ultimate despair, it’s going to be me.”
“Your bravado is impressive, Ambri, but that’s all it is. Words.”
“I have a plan.”
No sooner do I utter the words, than it comes quickly, all at once. A plan so perfect, I’m rather impressed with myself. A plan that achieves my objectives while…
Allowing me to keep Cole Matheson a little longer?
“Enticing a wretched human to his demise is a noble cause to be sure,” I say, “but not terribly difficult. Much more challenging to tempt one who has reached the pinnacle of fame, wealth, and success.” I count on my fingers. “Elvis, Hendrix, Marilyn… Our victories, all. Victories that make waves.”
Eisheth’s dubious expression softens. “You’re going to raise this pathetic boy to Hendrix-like heights?”
“Something like that. He’s going to paint me.”
She sniffs. “Of course. Your ego always did require as much stroking as the rest of you.”
“I won’t take advantage of the Twins’ work, I’ll undo it. I’ll lift Cole Matheson up and give him everything he’s ever wanted. When his every dream has come true, I’ll plummet him into final despair. None shall question my loyalty then.”
And if I happen to remedy my erasure from the family lineage with a portrait of myself at the same time, so be it. I deserve that, after all.
