Series: The Sacrifice Series by Natasha Knight
Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
There’s a long moment of silence after those final words are spoken. Azrael doesn’t let me go, but we’re both quiet as we process everything I just told him. Even though I know it’s foolish, part of me fears he may blame me in some capacity, that he’ll be angry that I ever indulged Caleb’s advances in the first place. But he lays those fears to rest when he turns my face to his, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry, Willow,” he chokes out. “That never should have happened to you.”
I force a nod, which is all I can manage in my current state.
“He will pay,” Azrael promises darkly. “He will never touch you again. I’ll make sure of that.”
12
AZRAEL
Willow falls asleep the instant I lay her down in our bed. I climb in beside her and pull her to me. Her body is soft and yielding, and when I wake at first light, she hasn’t moved. Her eyes are still closed and her hand rests on my bicep the same as when she fell asleep. It’s the first time she’s slept through the night since that bastard took her.
My muscles tense at the thought of Caleb Church. Willow must feel the shift because her brow furrows and she mutters a sound as she curls in on herself a little.
“Shh,” I tell her, brushing my lips over her cheek before I slip out of the bed and tuck her beneath the covers. I don’t let my gaze linger on the mark on her forehead.
Fiona, who was at the foot of the bed, takes my place. Before I turn to leave, she gives me a look of what I might say is approval if I didn’t know better. I grab clothes out of the closet and walk down the hall into an empty guest room to shower so as not to wake Willow.
The house is quiet, as usual, as I pad down the hall. Salomé’s light is on, and I remember that protein shake that’s locked in my desk drawer. It was the only place I could think to put it even though I realize Salomé can access it. She had no qualms about taking the Book of Tithes. I don’t know if she has a second key or if she picked the lock to get it. I don’t even know how she knew where it was to begin with. She clearly didn’t care that I’d know what she’d done. Her need to hurt Willow, to do what she believes Shemhazai wants her to do, is greater than anything else.
Salomé is dangerous to Willow. As far as she is concerned, Willow is the Sacrifice. Period. The end. And she is determined that the Tithe be paid, the sacrifice made.
The only thing I can think of that will keep Willow safe from her, at least for now, is that as far as history goes, the Penitent must be the one to spill her blood. If Salomé obeys tradition and history, as she has done to the letter thus far, then she cannot hurt Willow. It has to be me to do it.
But her words haunt me as I walk into the library and toward my desk.
Was yours, Azrael. Was. Now she’s fair game.
I shake my head, unsure what to make of that. I glance up at the stained-glass window that depicts both Penitent and Sacrifice, but I don’t linger there. There’s no point. Instead, I look to the glass case set on a pedestal nearby. It’s where the dagger Abacus used to cut out his birthmark used to be displayed so fucking proudly. I wonder if Salomé is hoping to somehow replace it. There are other antiques, artifacts historically important to our family, but I’m not interested in those. There, beside the empty place where the dagger stood, is the Book of Tithes, back in its prominent position from where I’d taken it down after Abacus’s suicide, once I became the Penitent. I assume it was Salomé who put the book back there after I confronted her. I lift the heavy tome and sit down at my desk. There’s something I want to see.
Last night, after Willow had fallen asleep and before I had, I noticed something. Just as Shemhazai’s altar had split from two to three sometime after we learned about Willow’s pregnancy, I noticed that the crack in the carving above the bed had lengthened and deepened to a point that for the first time ever, I could see the white of the ceiling behind it.
Shemhazai’s altar splitting in that storm, the thunder that accompanied the angry bolt of lightning almost felt like a scream. His scream of rage. There is a malevolent energy in that churchyard. I’ve always sensed it, and Benedict won’t set his paws over the border of the path.