AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“What did you do!” I reach for her, and if it weren’t for Emmanuel appearing at my side and grabbing me, I think I might strangle her here and now.
Salomé sees the book in my hand but meets my eyes defiantly. “I told you I would not let you waste this second chance, did I not?”
“Who took them?” Emmanuel asks. “When?”
I tug free of my brother’s grip and reach to gather the hairs before they blow away, a sick sense of déjà vu as I push the handful of long strands into my pocket.
Elizabeth Wildblood’s hair. A piece of her scalp. The sticky wetness of blood.
I close my eyes, forcing the sensation away. There’s no skin. No blood. It’s just a lock of hair.
“I made the offering. As you should have done, Azrael. Perhaps if you had, your sister would be safe!”
“Willow is mine. Mine!” Emmanuel grabs me again as I lunge for her.
Salomé’s eyes narrow, her lip curves maliciously upward. “Was yours, Azrael. Was. Now she’s fair game.”
“Game!” I spit the word, fury making it impossible to say more.
My brother takes me by the shoulders and turns me to face him, makes me look away from the old woman who kneels once more before the altar. He shakes me hard and opens his mouth to speak, but his phone rings in his pocket. He keeps one hand locked around my arm as he reaches in to glance at the screen, then, confused, swipes to answer.
“Yes?” Whoever is calling must not speak because he asks again, louder this time. “Who is this?”
“It’s Cordelia. Cordelia Wildblood,” I hear her say as Emmanuel pulls the phone slightly from his ear.
His jaw tenses and his grip on my arm drops.
“Is Raven with you?” she asks timidly.
“No. But her car’s here.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
I take the phone from his hand. “We’re on our way. Get your parents up if they’re not already.”
Without another glance to the still-muttering Salomé, my brother and I hurry back through the house and to the front door. I drop the book on a side table in the hallway. I should throw it into a fire.
Outside, we climb back into my car and race to the Wildblood home.
Every light in the house is on, and probably for the first time in history, at least since the Wildbloods have lived in this house, the door is thrown open for us. We’re greeted not only by the parents, Barrett and Clara, but also an older woman, Willow’s grandmother, Celeste, and her sisters, Winter, Aurora and Cordelia.
Barrett steps onto the porch. At six-foot-two, he’s in no way short. He has a solid build but still, we must look like trees next to him. When Clara steps out, he stops her moving too close to us. He glances past me to Emmanuel and his eyes narrow.
“You’ve broken the rules.”
“It’s not the time, Barrett,” Clara says. “We need to find her.”
“You can’t touch another one. You cannot—”
“Barrett,” Celeste says, stepping outside. She’s younger than Salomé and so much more vibrant. Her graying hair still carries wisps of red, and her pale, aging skin is still lustrous. “Clara is right. Now is not the time,” she says to him, and Clara puts her arm around her husband, both of them looking tired, exhausted. Celeste turns her gaze to me. “Willow?”
My chest tightens, my mouth is a thin line. I shake my head once. It’s enough of an answer.
She clutches the amulet around her throat, then turns toward the house. Everyone clears the way for her. We follow her into the living room, passing those photographs I remember from the last time I was here, my gaze catching on the one of Raven and Willow. Raven laughing. Willow trying to.
“Winter, make tea please,” Celeste says.
Winter nods and rushes away.
Celeste settles on the floral print armchair, while Clara and Barrett sit on the couch. The sisters stand with arms folded, expressions moving between disbelief, hate, and concern. A weighted silence settles before Winter comes in carrying a tray with a pot of tea and teetering cups stacked on top of one another.
I’m going to need something a hell of a lot stronger than tea.
As if reading my mind, Celeste points to a sideboard, and the youngest sister, Cordelia, adds a little whiskey into each glass before helping her sister pour from the teapot and passing the cups out. When they get to Emmanuel, who is standing, he holds up his hand to stop her pouring the tea.
“I’ll take it straight.”
“This is not the time for a tea party, Celeste,” Barrett says. “If we serve the Delacroixes anything, it should be—”
Celeste holds her hand out to quiet him before he finishes. She keeps her eyes on me. “They will help us.”
“These Disciples. Who the hell are they?” I hear myself ask, the dainty cup and saucer awkward in my hand. I swallow the too-hot tea, needing the whiskey to calm me down, and place the set on a nearby side table.
