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Sitri and Ezequiel’s relationship was detested by other demons. Watcher Angels were said to be the cowards who refused to fall with the rest of us. They only made their intentions clear afterward, breeding humans like cattle and living among them like kings. There were tales and humors that demons would spin and spread like thin veils of silky disdain. Jealousy was at the root of all those misgivings. Envy that the Watchers remained holy in their own way while the rest of the Fallen had had to watch our abilities rust into broken shards of their former glory.
I, on the other hand, understood Watcher Angels. Maybe more now that I had been given my own human gift. If any of them had a fraction of the love for their human that I held for Celeste, then drowning the Earth for them would have been more than worth the atrocities.
“I have to go, but you owe me a titillating story and a drink,” I said to them and turned to the door.
Sitri stopped me at the threshold and pulled me into a tight embrace. I wrapped my arms around him to feel his heart beating within him.
Broken but still fighting for peace. A trait I would always admire in the Prince of Lust.
Chapter3
Celeste
The library on campus opened at seven thirty in the morning, but all the good tables were often gone by nine. So, with my arms full of books—and hands clutching my latte—I pushed open the door and stepped into the empty entryway. The atrium was still unlit, but the domed glass ceiling was filling the space with golden sunlight.
Janie, the morning librarian, gave me a quick glance of acknowledgment then a wave over the top of her newspaper.
“Morning,” I called as my feet quickened up the first flight of stairs.
The fourth floor was where my favorite scholarly tomes slumbered. I spent most of my time digging through the archives for clips of details to be sifted through and referenced in whatever paper I was working on. Some would say my major was boring, but the thrill I got from hunting for information in the towers of books was similar to climbing mountains. Years could go by without some of these books being touched, but they were impregnated with voices of wisdom from the past.
This week, I was hunting for what recent aspect of human history that would cause someone to hide a demon-possessed planchette in the rareMalleus Maleficarum. The game instrument had been tucked in the pocket on the back cover for long enough to leave a permanent indentation in the pages. It hadn’t been alone in being a misplaced item that called the yellowed pages its burial ground.
Glued into the first chapter of the book was an envelope that held a ring of rusted keys inscribed with a series of unknown etchings. The editorial notes that categorized the contents described many of the items as of unknown origin or collection date. It was more like the book had been tucked into the library’s rare catalog for safekeeping and not for education.
Of all the hidden gems that dwelled in the stacks, the book had been the center of my interest for the last couple weeks. If I hadn’t been Dr. Hou’s TA, the sequence of events that led to a demon from Hell stalking me wouldn’t have occurred.
I wasn’t exaggerating. Vassago had been following me everywhere I went for days. I could feel his tall frame lurking in dark corners, see him out of the corner of my eye, but he vanished when I dared to look. In conversations with my peers, I could see their skin break out in goose bumps as they searched the room for the presence of evil that had brushed over their senses.
The initial fear had subsided into general unease after the shock had worn off, but a newly summoned shadow was keeping his distance. I was in a constant state of waiting for the moment when he finally decided to show himself.
What had started as uncomfortable was becoming familiar and safe. Walking to my car late at night didn’t send anxiety into my belly because I knew that the feeling of being watched was valid. More than once, I’d thought about speaking his name. He wasn’t going to hurt me, I’d told myself, because he’d had ample opportunity to kill me. I didn’t know what he wanted, but I was too scared to ask.
So as I flipped through the pages of another account of the practice of exorcism in the 1660s, I had the distinct feeling of someone reading over my shoulder.
I turned the pages of the history book slower than normal. Having an accelerated reading speed was natural to me, but it was anyone’s guess as to how fast Vassago was reading through the same passages.
When I finally got to a section about the tools of certain rituals, I saw a small diagram in the corner depicting a crude Ouija board. The planchette’s definition and estimated date of creation were bulleted next to it.
I shoved my hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out the planchette that might have been Vassago’s prison—or the key to his freedom. I wasn’t sure which was the truth yet. I turned it over in my hand then brought it closer to my face. Several etchings in the old, stained wood created a pattern that resembled a boxy beetle with pincers and a double-curved tail. It was worn and rubbed almost completely off. It was the only spot on the implement that seemed to have gotten attention from whoever had owned it. The polished edges and painted decorative bits were almost brand new in comparison.
The questions buzzing through my brain were deadened by a chill that ran up my spine when what felt like a hand gripped my shoulder, and the shell of my ear warmed as if his breath were whispering the answer I craved. I let my shoulders melt and my head loll back. There wasn’t a solid form there, but the air felt thick, soft, and warm against my scalp.
A pressure on the back of my hand led me to touch my stomach and push up the hem of my shirt to expose my belly. Then, an unseen tug at the waist of my jeans made my breath hitch. My skin heated under the invisible force as it made itself at home between my thighs. It—no, I pulled my legs apart. The hand at my navel moved down and into my silky panties. I would never touch myself in public, but this wasn’t me—was it?
My lips silently framed the syllables of his name and a plea for him to stop. That was what I wanted after all. For the evil creature I’d unleashed onto the world to stop turning me into a puddle of need when I thought about him for too long.
I swallowed hard and pulled my hand away. I wasn’t going to give in to whatever game he was playing. The choking air in my throat thinned, but the low hum of something sinister in the stale room sounded like the rasp of my name.
I strained my ears hard to hear past the stillness of the books for any resonance.
“You’ve beat me here again.” A very real voice shocked me from my trance and pushed the pressure from my shoulder.
I straightened my spine and pulled down my shirt to erase the proof of my momentary weakness.
It was Liam, my research partner. He was too tall and muscular for a scholar, but he was a beautiful sight. He let his backpack fall off his shoulder then plopped down in a seat at my table.
“Of course I did,” I quipped, not bothering to look up from the pages to meet his inevitably offended expression. “You had to make your latest bed companion breakfast before meeting up.”
