8. Azrael
One of Councilor Hildebrand’s men greets us as we exit the Rolls Royce at the compound gates of The Society’s headquarters in New Orleans.
“This way, sir,” he says.
I nod, and we follow him. The wide expanse of the courtyard is nearly empty, only a few of the staff working to prepare for the marking ceremony. The men who will stand witness have not yet arrived.
Willow slows her step as she takes in the courtyard. Her gaze moves over the fountain with its gently spilling water to the lampposts and flickering candles that light the way to the ivy and rose draped canopy. Abruptly, she comes to a stop and gasps.
I follow her gaze to the man at the firepit as he sets the iron inside it.
“Let’s go. You’ll see it soon enough,” I tell her.
She glances up at me, wide eyes searching mine, but her gaze is inevitably drawn back to that fire. The iron.
“What is that?” she asks, and for the first time tonight, I tighten my grip on her hand as she tries to pull free. She looks up at me again, and I see her trying to muster her courage.
“Branding iron,” I tell her, my head pounding. “Let’s go.” I shift my hold to her arm and turn her toward the building where Hildebrand’s man waits impatiently. It’s the Tribunal building, which houses The Councilor’s office.
“Wait. What?” Willow digs her heels in.
I close my eyes, press my fingers into my temple to try to ease the pain of this monstrous headache—not that it does anything. Two cloaked, masked men walk in through the gates.
“The witnesses are arriving. Let’s go.”
“Branding?” She shakes her head. “Branding… me?”
“I will only use it if you force my hand,” I tell her, irritation clear in my tone as more members of IVI enter, their curious gazes falling on us. “Let’s go.”
“Wait—”
I tug her along and she follows. She has no choice. When we near the man at the door, he opens it and gestures for us to enter. Another one of The Councilor’s men is waiting inside to take us where we need to be.
I haven’t been in the Tribunal building before. I’ve never needed to be and don’t really want to be now. But the Wildbloods are not members of The Society so, as ever, there is paperwork on this night of nights. I would have preferred to do this another time, but Councilor Hildebrand is not one to budge on the rules, so here we are.
We follow the man, who leads us up a wide, winding stone staircase as if we’re heading up to the tower with all the meaning that holds, especially in a place such as IVI. The Society holds its members accountable to their own rules, in their own court of law. When a member is found as guilty of some offense, they carry out their own ritualistic and often archaic punishments here, within the high walls of the Tribunal building.
Willow’s heels click on the stairs. She has to hurry to keep up, and she keeps glancing at the man behind us. As we reach the landing where Hildebrand’s office must be, her shoe catches on the dress and she trips on the final step, gasping, and instinctively reaches for me.
I catch her before she falls, and for a moment we stand on that last step, her hands on my biceps, mine around her elbows. Her face is flushed, and she’s out of breath-probably both from our pace and her near fall. My gaze moves over her hands, to my ring on her finger with its manicured nails that match the garnet. Is it strange that she reached for me when she nearly fell? No. Instinct. Like one would grab a nearby chair. This Wildblood hates me. As she should.
My gaze falls to the swell of her breasts above the bodice of her dress, and I remember how she trembled at my touch during the Tithing ceremony, how her nipple tightened. She takes a shuddering breath and draws away as if she, too, just realized she’s holding on to me. She pushes a lock of hair behind her shoulder, and I catch a glimpse of the crescent moon.
“You should have worn the dress I ordered for you,” I say, irritable as I release her and she takes a full step away from me.
“Why? So you can hide from what I am? Or maybe you want to hide it from your friends.”
I grin, walk toward her so she takes another, final step away. The wall at her back stops her. “Friends?” I ask, eyebrows rising.
She looks anxiously away and waves her arm in the direction of the courtyard. “Your little friends playing dress up out there.”
“They’re not my friends. I have no friends.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Now I’m entertained. I am close enough to feel the warmth of her, to remember the taste of her lips and how they parted for me when I kissed her at the church. I lean one hand against the wall and brush the knuckle of my other hand over the crescent moon birthmark.
“And no, it’s not to hide from what you are.” I lean toward her ear to whisper the rest, watching goosebumps rise where my breath brushes her skin. “But this little witch’s mark along with the rest of you are for my eyes only.” I inhale her scent, savoring it before I draw back to watch the flush that creeps up her neck.
Someone clears their throat, and Willow startles.
“Councilor,” I say without turning. I take my bride by the elbow and move her along toward him. “I hope we haven’t kept you waiting.” I don’t actually give a shit, but Hildebrand is powerful within The Society. There’s no need to make an enemy of him.
Councilor Hildebrand’s gaze moves disdainfully over Willow before shifting to me. He smiles, steps forward to offer his hand. “Of course not, Azrael. It’s always good to see you at the compound and on such an occasion. Congratulations to you both.”
Willow snorts.
I slide my hand under her mass of hair and grip the back of her neck in warning.
“Thank you, Councilor. If we can get this finished? I’m anxious to take my bride home,” I say, giving Willow my best cat-like grin that I can muster even as my head resumes its pounding. I hadn’t realized it had stopped briefly in a small reprieve.
“I’m sure you are, but there are protocols considering the Wildbloods are not members of our Society.”
“And I don’t need to be,” Willow says.
I squeeze a little, but I don’t mind her mouthing off to this man I don’t much like.
Hildebrand takes in her dress but addresses me when he speaks. “White is customary. I thought I’d glimpsed a proper wedding dress, actually.”
“You had. My bride is… creative.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll address her creativity this evening. She is new to our ways, but young wives, like children… you know what they say.” He turns his back and walks toward his desk.
“What do they say?” Willow asks.
He doesn’t stop as he answers, “Well, in this case, spare the rod, spoil the wife.”
Willow’s hands fist and I feel her gearing up for a fight. “Easy,” I lean down to whisper so the old man doesn’t hear. “Don’t give him what he wants.”
She looks up at me, but before she can say another word, we’re inside The Councilor’s office and the door is closed behind us. I guide Willow to a seat and remove my hand from her neck to reach into my pocket for the small bottle of painkillers. I’ve already had too many, but they’re not doing enough so I pop the lid and take two more. Hildebrand sees and gestures to one of his men to pour me a drink, which I take and swallow in one gulp.
“This will only take a few minutes,” Hildebrand says, moving behind his desk where he has already prepared the document that needs to be signed by both Willow and myself. “Then we can get on to the marking ceremony. I’m told all the witnesses have already assembled.”
I skim the document. I’ve already read a copy. It’s basically a contract stating that as my wife, Willow is now a member of The Society and as such subject to its laws. It emphasizes the importance of confidentiality.
“Your father… well, let’s not rehash history but leave it at I’m glad to see you will not shun us, Azrael.” I am tempted to tell him it was the other way around, not that either my father or mother cared. “The Delacroix family is an important pillar of The Society.”
I force something resembling a smile. “Pen?”
He does the same. “Of course.” He twists the lid off a fountain pen and hands it to me. I sign where I am required to sign, then hand the pen to Willow.
“What is this?”
“It says you will not discuss Society matters outside of The Society, basically,” I tell her.
“And that you will conform to our rules,” Hildebrand adds.
“I’m not signing that without reading it.”
“Would you excuse us, Councilor?” I say, not taking my eyes off my bride.
“Of course.” He expected this, I’m sure, and he leaves Willow and I alone in his office.
“I’m not signing anything like that,” Willow tells me.
“It’s a formality, and it is part of the contract your family signed.” I hold the pen out to her. She looks at it, then down at the document, and I can see how out of her element she is here. See she feels it. “He can’t touch you without my permission, and I have no intention of giving it. Sign it so we can go.”
She looks up at me. “So I’m property now.”
“Just sign it.”
“Your property.”
“Who else’s? Don’t make this difficult.”
“Or you’ll use the branding iron?” She folds her arms across her chest but her eyes water, betraying her discomfort, her fear.
“You belong to me. You know that.”
“I’m not?—”
“You know the rules as well as I. Your sisters, your parents, they are safe for our sacrifice.”
“Our?” Willow snorts, quickly swiping away a traitorous tear. “What sacrifice are you making exactly?”
I press my hands into my temples and close my eyes, but it does nothing to relieve the pain.
“It’s not you who has to face a courtyard of strangers where you’ll possibly be fucking branded. It’s not you who will have to submit herself to a man so he can take his pleasure no matter the cost. It’s not you who lost her family?—”
“Enough!”
Willow jumps.
I grip her wrist and tug her to me. “It was your ancestor who cursed us both. Yours! You think I haven’t lost? I have lost more than you. At least your family is still safe and sound and alive. Now fucking sign or I will use the branding iron, and I will relish your screams.”
She stares up at me, her mouth opening as a crease forms between her brows but the instant I see what I read as pity, I slam my fist on the table.
“Fucking sign! Now!”
Anything kind or pitying vanishes. Willow sets her mouth and her blue eyes turn to ice. When her lips start moving, I have a vision of Elizabeth again in her final moments cursing us, cursing me. “May the blood of all the Wildblood women your family has killed forever torment you, Azrael Delacroix.”
“Are you cursing me, Little Witch?” I ask with a sneer.
“Little Witch?”
“It fits, don’t you think?”
“Fuck you!” She tugs free of my grip and scribbles her name on the document then tosses the pen down. “You want to go? Let’s go!”
I make to grab for her, but the door is opened and Hildebrand, with a big smile on his face, reenters followed by his two men.
He walks around the desk and gathers up the pages. “Please, take your bride and prepare her for the marking. I look forward to bearing witness.”
I grip Willow’s arm and walk her toward the door.
“Tell me, Azrael,” Hildebrand starts, making us pause and turn back to him. His arrogant tone making me remember why I don’t interact any more than necessary with The Society and its members. “Will you keep up the Delacroix tradition and use the iron? Salomé mentioned you might. And I suppose given the circumstances…” He trails off, every breath calculated, and turns to Willow. “Do you know, young lady, that in Europe witches were burned at the stake? The colonies were… gentler.”
“Gentler?” Willow goes to take a step toward the old man, but I hold her back.
“Your ancestor was hanged for witchcraft, was she not? On Proctor’s Ledge, I believe. A mercy.”
Willow’s face is stone, her eyes bright and glistening to overflowing.
“So, Azrael, will it be fire tonight?” The Councilor asks, almost unable to hide his excitement at the prospect of a branding.
Willow looks up at me, and it’s neither defiance nor fear I see. It’s pain.
I look at the old man. “I’ll thank you to keep your comments about my wife’s family to yourself in the future, Councilor. In fact, going forward, you will address only me, not my wife. And no, I won’t use the iron. I suppose I will disappoint both you and my grandmother tonight.”