Archon(47)

“That’s one way of seeing it.”

Naamah allowed her words to sink in heavily.

“The human way.”

But Stephanie was the Archon. In all of history, no blood head had shown Stephanie’s supernatural promise, her ability to learn and grow in the ways of the other Realms, and none could compete with her either. Why would Angela Mathers be any different? The best thing that girl could hope for would be for Kim to use her and throw her to the side. Something he’d never tried with Stephanie, tellingly enough, even if sex alone held them together.

Fate always had a reason for working out one way or another.

There was a reason she and Kim were so much alike. There was a reason Naamah had become her mother. And there was a reason Stephanie had taught herself to kill so easily. Now, it was time to upgrade—the Archon had to be as ruthless as the Devil herself. To choose the path of Ruin, you needed the conscience of a killer.

None at all.

Naamah had made that clear from the beginning. Perhaps the moment was now. Otherwise, even her mother might not find her useful anymore, and Stephanie wanted her love as a living, breathing person—not a corpse.

“You knew from the start what kind of person I was,” Stephanie hissed at Naamah. “Well, if you need proof that I’m the Archon, you’ll have it soon enough. There’s no way some scarred bitch is going to take that Throne away from me.”

One twist of her hands snapped the bird’s neck.

She tossed the body back onto the floor, breathing hard.

Naamah smiled in her terrifying way, gathering Stephanie close for a surprisingly affectionate embrace, her voice cool and comforting. “There, there. Don’t feel guilty for being ambitious, dearest.”

The demon’s cold lips met her cheek.

Stephanie fought with her shivers again, unable to stop when the tears reappeared. Soon, deep sobs followed, her anguish increasing whenever she glanced up and saw only darkness. There was still a shred of conscience in her. It was stupid and pathetic, but for the first time in a long time, she wished the bird was still alive, flying free. She knew she probably could have staked her claim some other way, and it made her sick enough to die.

To imprison herself in the blackest pit imaginable.

“As they say . . .” Naamah actually sounded proud. “Like mother, like daughter.”





Thirteen



Witches are defined by blindness.



—THE DEMON PYTHON, TRANSCRIBED FROM The Lies of Babylon





Kim lifted his hood, letting the rain stream onto his cheeks.

The weather had never looked so foul. It was as if all the darkness in the universe had gathered around Luz, intending to swallow it whole. From his spot on the veranda porch, the city spread out to the west, glimmering with decay and a dampness that never seemed to disappear. Lights from thousands of candles flickered dimly, struggling to brighten a world that could no longer tolerate it, and the towers twisted around him, some leaning so precariously it was a miracle they hadn’t tipped into the abyss below. Many poor souls would be swept into the ocean tonight. Even within the Academy grounds, poverty equaled death, the most needy students forced into dormitories that would put a wet jail cell to shame. If the water rushed in—an accident no matter how much the Vatican was at fault—then the will of God would certainly determine the survivors.

“Enough of patience . . .” Troy said. Her hiss sounded faintly above him, erupting from a sagging gable. She herself was lost amid the silhouettes of other statues, some of them perched with the same predatory talent. “Your newest mate had better come.”

“She will come,” Kim whispered back, unable to stop seeing Telissa’s arm. Her ring. He struggled with the bile in the back of his throat.

“. . . or I will break her open myself . . .”

Then Troy was gone. Like a shadow.

Kim scanned the second level of the Bell Tower, unable to find her yellow eyes boring into him. Fury stood alone, preening her black feathers near a saintly carving, her occasional croaks almost imperceptible below the storm.

“You’re nervous.” Stephanie appeared by his side without warning, her ponytail streaming behind her in the wind. Now that the Halloween party had ended, she’d slipped back into her sorority overcoat, its red pentacle glittering beneath the lights of the chapel. More so than ever, he noticed her skirt, too short and flapping in the breeze. Her legs were long, soft. That—and her demonic friend—was all she had in the end, when he really thought about it. “Don’t be. I have everything under control.”

“You weren’t under control this afternoon.”

She’d been crying again, and deservedly so.