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Her eyes soften as she shakes her head. “You’ve been through too much. I know you’re strong, but–”
“It is done.” I settle my hand over hers. “This is my fate, and I accept it.”
“Willow.” My name comes out as a whisper and a plea.
She wants me to run away. She wants me to escape, but I can’t. So, I tell her the same thing I’ve told myself my entire life, despite knowing this day would come. I’ve always been aware that my destiny had already been written, and I would be sacrificed to a Delacroix as his wife—knowing all the same that it will end in tragedy.
“It will be okay, Mama. It’s all going to be okay.”
2
AZRAEL
It’s time, boy.
I open my eyes. Sweat drenches me. My heart is racing as if I’ve been running a marathon. But I know I’m in my bed, and from the cast of moonlight in the room, I can see it’s not quite morning yet.
Benedict whines, nudging me with his cold, wet nose. I glance at the huge German Shepherd sitting beside my bed, his wide, anxious eyes on me. I wonder if he’d been trying to wake me.
“It’s okay, boy,” I say, petting him. “It’s fine.”
I rub my face and instantly draw my hand away. Because there, just like in the fucking dream, is the ring. I sit up, tug it off, and hurl it across the room. I should fucking bury it.
I take a deep breath in. It’s not the first time this dream has come, This fucking nightmare. That’s what this is, what all of this is. It’s not the first time I’ve woken up with that thing on my finger.
Scrubbing at my face, I look at the ring in the corner and shake my head at my own idiotic panic. There’s nothing uncanny about it, I tell myself. Nothing supernatural. I must slip it on in my sleep. That’s all.
I get up, pick up the ring, and drop it into the nightstand drawer. Exhausted, I lay back down to stare up at the ceiling, the wood carving there a larger-than-life copy of the one on the ring face. It is the Delacroix insignia, the triangle containing Shemhazai’s sword with wings of fire breaking the crescent moon in two.
That moon was added a few hundred years ago. It wasn’t always part of our insignia. Originally it symbolized the witch’s mark, or, as it was known back in that time, the devil’s seal upon his initiate pledging her into service. Elizabeth Wildblood was born with the crescent moon upon her breast and with every generation, a Wildblood girl is born bearing that same mark. Since the fate of the Delacroixes and the Wildbloods is inexorably linked, I suppose it seemed right to Isaiah to incorporate the mark into our insignia.
There’s a deep crack in the carving. If only it would crash down on me and kill me in my sleep.
But then what?
The curse would pass to Emmanuel. We’ve lost one man this generation. We’ll lose another in time. It’s how this goes, how it’s always been. I won’t let my brother pay that price. That would be cowardice.
The instant I think the words, I regret them.
Fuck.
I sit up and push the damp sheet off, my head pounding already with the fucking migraine that hasn’t abated in three weeks. I glance at my watch, an antique that belonged to my father. It’s barely five o’clock. I take in the light coming from the arched windows. The fading night will give way to day soon.
It’s going to be a long one.
I get up, pull on my running clothes and shoes, and slip out of the bedroom. Benedict follows, tail wagging, excited for this unexpected outing. The house is quiet as I walk down the hall, passing my brother’s and sister’s rooms. I glance at the double doors at the far end of the corridor, the room that mirrors my own. It’s my grandmother, Salomé’s. There’s a line of light beneath it. I sometimes wonder if she sleeps at all.
I walk as quietly as I can to the staircase, although I’m sure she knows I’m up. But she won’t bother me. Not yet.
As anxious as she is about what is to come, she knows to give me space. She knows my temper as well as I know hers. Hell, I inherited it from her.
Benedict's nails click along the ancient hardwood floors as we make our way down the stairs. The house is dark, only the dim light of the outdoor lamps that always remain lit to guide me. It shines through the iron clad window above the double front doors, casting its shadow onto the floor. It is the original Delacroix insignia, minus the crescent moon.
I pass through the hall toward the living room, which is the center of the house. Two wings extend from it like arms, one in use by my family, the other locked up. Using one of the French doors at the back, I exit into the cool morning and set off on a run—no warm up, no stretch. My pace is fast and, tall as I am, my stride is long.
