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“We were very close, Abacus and me. And Emmanuel too. Rébecca came much later.”
“Did Salomé always live with you?”
I shake my head. “My parents died when Abacus and I were eleven. That’s when she moved here to look after us. The night before we turned eighteen, Grandmother took me to get this tattoo. Well, the first part of it. It took some time to finish.”
“Your grandmother took you to get that? I’d think she’d associate tattoos with Satan or something.”
I chuckle. “Not this particular mark, no. It’s Shemhazai. Our ancestor, according to her.”
“Did you have a say in it?”
“I didn’t even know where we were going, and remember, I’d had seven years of being ruled by her iron fist. I’d learned it was easier to do what she wanted than to fight her.”
“But not anymore?”
“No.”
“Did Abacus get one too then? A rite of passage or something?”
“No. No rite of passage. And no, she didn’t think he was strong enough to wear Shemhazai, even though he was first-born.”
She looks confused.
“Abacus didn’t look like me or Emmanuel. He wasn’t as tall or as strong. He was average. Normal. To Salomé, that meant he was not chosen by Shemhazai. In a way, she chose me to be The Penitent, I suppose. But she doesn’t determine what happens anymore. That’s why I’m telling you this, Willow. You don’t have to be afraid of her.” I touch a lock of her silky hair, brush the backs of my fingers over her arm. “We should go in. The rain is picking up.”
She ignores the last part. “I’m not afraid of her. I just want to understand what is going to happen to me. What is this ‘presenting The Sacrifice’ nonsense?”
“You truly don’t know?”
“How could I? No Wildblood Sacrifice has ever returned to tell the tale.” She shrugs my touch off when she says it and rubs her arms warm.
“Historically, The Penitent presents The Sacrifice to Shemhazai at Shemhazai’s altar.”
She raises her eyebrows, waiting.
“It’s a ritual, like The Tithing, how it’s all conducted. The Delacroix family stands as witnesses, although Bec is too young no matter what Salomé says.”
“What happens at the ceremony exactly?”
“It’s not going to happen. You don’t have to worry.”
“It’s never going to happen, or it’s not going to happen right now?”
I stand up. “Let’s go in,” I say, storm clouds moving closer as the rain picks up.
“Azrael?” She’s on her feet too. “Tell me. Tell me what would happen exactly.”
“You’d be presented. That’s all. You’d kneel before the statue—”
“I wouldn’t kneel.”
“Letting it be known you’re there of your free will—”
“That’s a real stretch, but go on.”
“And I’d make an offering. Something of yours.”
“Like what?” she says tightly. Does she hear the long, low rumble of thunder?
I watch the dark clouds closing in. “It’s not going to happen, Willow. Don’t worry about it.” I push wet hair back from her face. Our clothes are getting soaked. “We need to go inside.”
“You say that so casually, but you’re not The Sacrifice,” she continues as if she doesn’t feel the rain at all, but I watch the sky light up with electricity.
“Willow—” I start but am interrupted by a loud crack of thunder.
She shrugs off my hands and takes a few steps away, folding her arms across her chest. “Tell me what kind of offering. What have your ancestors offered in the past? You keep records, don’t you? I thought you kept a book or something,” she snaps. “What could it be? Clothes we wear? Jewelry? A finger? An organ? Just tell me. Because I felt the same thing at that altar as I did when you wore that ring. The ring with Elizabeth’s hair in it.”
“Christ. When did you…” I shake my head. “I don’t wear the ring.”
“You did wear that ring, Azrael. Own it. Tell me what it is you will offer your demon god.”
“He’s not my demon god.”
“Whatever he is,” Willow says.
“Salomé believes—”
“I don’t care what Salomé believes! What I care about is that you believe it too—at least some part of it or I wouldn’t be here. Or The Tithing wouldn’t have taken place. And I guess in some way, I believe it too, or I’d have done what my family urged me to do. Run. But historically, if we don’t offer the chosen one, more Wildbloods are lost. Killed. Dead. Better one dead Wildblood witch than a whole family, right? So here I am, and here you are. So please just fucking tell me so I know. So I’m prepared. I deserve that much, don’t I?”
Her eyes are ablaze, wet with emotion, so much emotion I’m struck silent. But she’s right. She does deserve to know. And I need to own it, as much as I hate it.
“Hair. I’d offer him a lock of your hair. That’s all.”
“Hair.” Tears well to overflowing, and she takes more steps backward as I try to go to her. Rain is coming down hard now.
