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One book snapped open in my face, its pages like razor-sharp teeth before fluttering away.
“Time to pay up,” Dessi said wistfully. What looked like a medical textbook hovered near me. It creaked as it opened, one of its pages morphing into a syringe.
Sariel sighed. “This is a little much, Dessi. Even for you.”
Dessi ignored him as another book hoisted my hand toward the medical textbook. I gaped when the book froze, that syringe extending until the needle was inches from my hand.
It struck like a cobra, swiftly. I barely felt a thing. Then, the page reformed and changed color, the leaves going from white to a dull shade of red.
It wobbled as it floated to Dessi, all before changing into a small test tube with a daub of blood in it.
Dessi made a dismissive flick of her wrist, and the books returned to their shelves. “Get out,” she said to Sariel and I. “You’re no longer welcome here, Sariel.”
Sariel’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he thanked her and quickly herded me out of the room.
I’d experienced many strange things as a half-blood wolf, but what I’d just seen Dessi do came close to watching Sariel transform.
“How do we know if the spell worked?” I asked Sariel as he hurried me down Dessi’s front steps.
“It worked alright,” he assured me. “She’s one of the strongest witches I’ve ever known. That little slip of a woman is almost three centuries old, Aria. A cloaking spell isn’t easy stuff,yet she just did one in less than five minutes, then proceeded to do another spell right after. Let that sink in.”
I didn’t have to. He’d painted a pretty clear picture for me.
“Where to next?” I questioned.
“First,” he paused to glance down at my bare feet, then at a small boutique across the street, “we’re getting you some shoes.”
I agreed wholeheartedly.
“Then, we’re going to pay my favorite person a visit.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Credence Miller,” he chuckled. “My grandmother.”
12
CREDENCE MILLER
Aria
There were some perks of traveling with an Ambrose that even Sariel recognized as being invaluable.
For example, my thick-soled boots, dark cargo pants, and t-shirt cost us exactly zero dollars,andwe got to keep all of our blood and limbs for them. Additionally, the owner of the little boutique—an aging gentleman with a thick Irish accent—was all too happy to hand Sariel the keys to a beat-up truck that hadn’t seen the light of day in at least ten years. It was a miracle that he’d gotten it to start and drive.
The only downside had been the old man’s Azazel worship. He hadn’t shut up when he’d correctly identified Sariel as Azazel’s son until we’d waved him a genuinely happy goodbye. Sariel had used the worship to his advantage, at least.
By the time Sariel pulled the truck out of Alamo Heights, we’d been loaded with supplies that Sariel had graciously accepted without batting an eye or feeling guilt. After being attacked by Azazel’s goons, neither did I.
It didn’t matter that the man, who was undoubtedly human, didn’t know the truth about Azazel. All that mattered was that he supported and fawned over an abusive asshole. That was enough for Sariel, and I to take what he offered.
Sariel didn’t relax until we pulled into a parking lot, whereupon he picked the lock on a Nissan Altima. Despite my trepidation at stealing someone’s car, I didn't make a peep.
At some point between Sariel being injured and my near-death experience, I had begun to accept that we were genuinely in trouble and would have to do whatever was necessary to survive. Including stealing from Alexis Davenport, a soon-to-be-divorced father of three, going off of the documents strewn across his passenger side seat.
The car was in immaculate condition compared to the old truck, and I was wildly grateful for the cool air blasting through the vents as we sped down the highway.
“How far away is your grandmother?” I asked.
