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Once the service is over, we walk out of the church along with the rest of the congregation. I make it a point to hurry to my car, which I tipped the valet earlier to have ready, not wanting to talk to anyone in particular.
“How do you sit through that weekly? Please tell me I won’t have to,” Willow mutters to me.
“It’s not over yet,” I tell her as I pull out onto the street.
“What do you mean it’s not over?”
I draw a deep breath in, exhale. Mass I can tolerate. The next part, though, takes all I have to get through it.
“You’ll see,” I say tightly, because there is no describing it. I wish there was some way to not have her see the next part, not to have her be present for it. But it’s just a matter of time. As The Sacrifice, she is already a part of the ritual.
When we arrive back at the property, I hand the keys off and walk Willow through the house and out the back.
“Where are we going?” she asks, hurrying along in her heels. “Can you not go so fast?” she asks more than once. I have her hand and need to remember to match her stride. Her legs are not as long as mine.
“Better?” I ask, slowing my step.
She nods. “Where are we going, Azrael?”
“The gifting,” I say.
Something in my tone must transfer to her because she doesn’t ask any more questions. My family joins us a little farther back on the path, and we weave our way to the churchyard. I feel Willow draw back as we near it and tighten my hold on her hand.
“What gifting?” she finally asks, as the shadow cast by the angel’s great wings falls upon us.
“Shemhazai,” I say, turning into the churchyard to face the ten-foot-tall statue.
“What the…” Willow starts but stops, shuddering as I tug her closer. She closes her free hand around my forearm and doesn’t pull away from me.
Grandmother comes up behind us, her own victory apparent as she sees Willow clinging to me before the hulking form of Grandmother’s true God. She faces us, and I’m glad to see Emmanuel holding Rébecca’s hand and coming to stand on the other side of Willow.
It’s strange, this, us gathered as we are, with the great angel looming over us and casting his dark shadow over us here, now just as he casts his shadow over our lives. The altar is cleaned and ready for the offering, an altar large enough to carry a Wildblood witch.
Grandmother stands as if she were Shemhazai’s priestess and the four of us, well, what are the four of us? One a Sacrifice, one a Penitent—truly, that makes two Sacrifices, does it not? And Emmanuel and Rébecca? What are they?
“The gifting, Rébecca,” Grandmother snaps.
Bec steps forward, looking too small, too fragile before the beast. She bends to pick up the bundles of flowers in their baskets waiting to be placed before the angel. The task takes time, with each bloom laid carefully, and Grandmother stands unblinking as she presides over the proceeding.
Willow is trembling now. Does she feel the malevolence of the angel? Or is it that she feels what is buried beneath the altar?
Grandmother doesn’t miss Willow’s discomfort. She relishes it, in fact.
Once Rébecca is done, she looks up at Grandmother, who nods. My sister hurries back to take Emmanuel’s hand. There was a time many, many years ago when we’d be made to kneel here before the statue. That time ended when Abacus and I came of age, and Grandmother no longer ruled.
“Let’s go,” Emmanuel says grimly and without waiting, he takes Bec and heads back to the house.
Before I can walk away, though, Grandmother steps toward us. She looks down at Willow, whom she towers over, then up at me. “The Sacrifice should be presented to Shemhazai. The Penitent must make an offering showing good faith that The Tithe will be paid.”
I see Willow’s face in my periphery.
“You know what must be done, Azrael.”
“Now is not the time, Grandmother.”
Her face hardens, that satisfied smirk diminishing. But she recovers. “I look forward to bearing witness at a time of your choosing then,” she says in that cruel, mocking way of hers.
With that she walks away. Willow watches her go, her mouth hanging open.
“What was church all about if she worships this thing?” she asks, still watching my grandmother’s disappearing back.
“Appearances,” I say flatly, knowing how sick it all is… and realizing how complacent I’ve become.
18
WILLOW
“Do you even realize how fucking creepy that is?” I glare at the statue, that same dark energy I felt at first glance making me take a step back.
“Says the woman who dabbles in magic,” Azrael responds dryly.
“The magic we practice doesn’t hurt anyone,” I tell him. “Meanwhile, how many wars have been started over religion? How many people have died at the hands of someone swearing it was God’s will? I’ll tell you this… if there is a God or gods, they aren't nearly as vengeful as their flock are. In fact, I’d imagine they’re quite sick of the evils performed in their name.”
