No, that arrogant priest was wrong.
Naamah thought of her as a daughter, not a cockroach.
The muscles in Naamah’s palm tensed. “I knew I should have killed the novice when I had the chance. He’s using you, you little fool. And it’s infuriating to watch.”
Stephanie choked on her words, holding on desperately. “No, Mother. I’ll be the one to do it, if that’s the case. To kill him. If he chooses Angela over me, it’s his loss.”
“Of course.” Naamah sighed, briefly petting her on the head.
“Most people deserve to die anyway.” Stephanie’s tone hardened, hurtful. “Even Brendan. Especially a weak moron like him. You told me the whole world needs a new finger on its pulse, but I’ve been thinking, why not just stop it for good? How much easier that would be.”
“True.” The demon’s own voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s the same world that abandoned you, after all. My little Stephanie. Your witch mother sold you to me like a piece of meat, orphaned you, leaving her little cursed blood head for dead—and I thanked her for you by draining her like a pigeon. But then—I have the means for that, don’t I?” Naamah laughed, and the rolling muscles of her hand hinted at the blades buried beneath her skin. “You should take pride in the fact that you’ve been mine at all. I taught you everything you know, even the ideals of the Prince herself. If you happen to be the Archon, well, that’s a deserved bonus on my part. But—”
Stephanie stiffened. “But?”
Naamah’s reminders were just like her blades. The demon had mentioned Stephanie’s birth mother to make a point: Stephanie’s bitterness was a part of her now, important to them both, the reason for so much of her happiness and the spur toward her future.
She could barely remember the facts of her past, mostly relying on Naamah’s word. But all she’d ever held on to was the idea that her mother had sold her to a demon in exchange for one night of meaningless sex. Unfortunately for her mother, even demons sometimes delivered justice where it was due.
Stephanie had been all of three years old. Filthy, starving, and utterly alone.
Naamah had been the angel who’d saved her, or so she’d thought.
“Story time.” Naamah lifted Stephanie’s head by the chin, forcing them to look at each other, much like she had when Stephanie was small. Her adoptive mother’s black eyes were large and mesmerizing, hypnotic. But her red eye shadow resembled the blood on the walls, and it was difficult to stare at that contrast for long without withering beneath it. “When I was a chick, I had a brother.”
“A brother.”
Why did that sound so awkward when Naamah said it?
“Yes. And I guess you could say, I loved him. However, the Second War arrived when we were still young, and my mother was obligated to make a sacrifice in Lucifel’s service. You see, our Prince has always survived on the essence of others, but those sources must be replenished. Her only”—Naamah lifted a finger—“weakness. At the time, we were low on hostages, prisoners of war, and criminals. That left children—chicks. Unlike adults, we were relatively useless, and when it came down to it, my brother possessed none of my admittedly meager talents or accomplishments. And so my mother readily offered him as the sacrifice, consoled by the simple fact she could always bring another chick into the world to take his place.”
Naamah smiled down at her, teeth blazingly white.
“In the end, he was of more use to us dead than alive. Though that never changed my feelings for him. Or my mother’s.”
Stephanie’s breath felt like it had stopped. Terror pounded inside of her, aching to burst out. “Are you—are you saying that if I’m not the Archon—you’ll kill me?”
The demon only stared back at her.
Beneath Stephanie, the pigeon twitched in the mess of its own feathers, aching for someone to put it out of its misery.
“Think carefully about what you want,” Naamah continued at last, her tone abnormally soft. “You want to be the Archon. And if you are the Archon, and you take the path of Ruin, I will stand by your side, of course. Yet there are many demons loyal to Lucifel who will also try to kill you—and in the most certain and painful way possible—long before you ever set a toe on her Throne. And that’s only if you manage to open the Book without risking your sanity. Ask yourself if the sacrifice is worth the cost, daughter of mine. Ask yourself if you can stare into the eyes of death and not regret your desires. Before it’s too late for us both.”
“Regrets,” Stephanie said in a numb echo. She slid out of Naamah’s embrace and picked up the dying pigeon. The bird was gasping for air like a little fish. Exactly like she had felt seconds ago. “You just want to protect me from being disappointed.”