“I’ll think about it.” A solid lie. Angela was coming, and she was going to summon an angel—participating in the very rituals that made other students shudder in fear. Nina would be very, very disappointed in her. But it was the only way to find the angels that haunted her dreams. “What time does it start? Just so I know?”
“Midnight. Of course.” Lyrica nodded at Kim, knowing not to display any further familiarity. Then a shadow darkened her face, and she frowned. “What’s this all about? I didn’t walk all the way here to look at you.”
“Save it, Lyrica.” Nina’s voice, shaky. She stepped forward next to Angela, Sophia’s delicate figure observing in the background. One sight of Kim, and Sophia’s polite, pretty face froze over with the withering glare she’d reserved for him in the church. Only this time, it was worse. “Tell Stephanie,” Nina continued, “that Angela won’t come unless I do.”
“Why?” Lyrica’s tone bordered on saccharine. “So you can botch the whole thing like last time? Face it, Nina Willis, you’re not a blood head. Whether you dye your hair or not.”
Botched? How and what did she botch last time? Is this the real reason why she talks to dead people in her sleep?
Then, things could go wrong. Like Kim had said. Very, very wrong.
“Give me a chance,” Nina begged.
The shadows grew around them. Glass rattled. Sharp wind began to bluster against the hidden windowpanes.
Then the rain started, roaring.
“Give me a chance . . .”
Eleven
I loved him, but he never turned to me again.
I ached for him, and he laughed at my humanity.
This desire would be my certain destruction.
—UNKNOWN AUTHOR, A Collection of Angelic Lore
The doors to the church slammed open with a bang.
Brendan stood at the threshold, his teeth gritted and his hair sopping, lightning splitting through the sky behind him. He’d discarded his coat somewhere, leaving his black clothes to soak through with the torrential rain. Israfel peered at him through sporadic waves of droplets, safe and dry on the large chair at the head of the altar. Rakir and Nunkir had been resting at his feet, sleeping side by side. Now their wings tensed, and Rakir sat up, his chiseled features masking over with distaste. Nunkir remained lying down, her eyes open, watchful.
“This is unexpected,” Israfel said, hoping the message would get across.
It didn’t.
“She’s playing with fire,” Brendan said, not bothering to mention who. “And she’s going to burn. And I’m going to enjoy every second of it.”
He stormed inside the church, forgetting to shut the doors, letting the wind enter and toy with loose strands of Israfel’s hair. Israfel tucked them behind his ears and returned to his lyre, plucking at the strings, timing the rhythm to the relentless pounding in his head. Tonight he’d been free of the usual cramps and nausea, but the headaches had been searing, torturous. The Father’s blood had stopped the worst of the pain, instead leaving him with the world tilting, and his speech slurring at odd intervals. Still, though, he could feel the fluttering movements of the unborn chick inside him, threatening to abort itself at any second in the quickest, bloodiest way possible. Obviously, he wasn’t numb enough.
“What is that?” Brendan stopped short of the altar stairs, ignoring Rakir’s new, threatening stance. Nunkir remained by Israfel’s side. Moisture glistened on her feathers, shellacking them with liquid crystal. “What is that smell?”
Israfel returned to his lyre. “What do you need, Brendan? We were about to retire for the night.”
The human’s mouth slackened, and he stared at Israfel. Hungry. “It’s like blood,” he said, whispering. “And flowers.”
He glanced at Rakir with a sudden wariness, like the scent was a trap.
But the angel kept still, examining him, finally turning to Israfel.
They were in complete agreement.
Brendan’s possession had made him more beautiful than ever—even if he didn’t know it—his broad shoulders and soft face hardened beneath the weight of starvation and thirst. The poor thing wouldn’t last much longer at this rate. He’d fallen to Rakir’s curiosity for hours the other day, every breath he’d remembered to take simply draining more of his scant life. If anything, the fear the Throne caused acted like a stimulant, making him taste that much more addictive. Yet out of the three angels at his disposal, Brendan continually submitted to the one who cared for him least, maybe as a penance for his perceived sins, or perhaps because he simply welcomed the pain.