17. Azrael
Ilie awake, staring up at the crack in the wood carving over my head as Fi, or the asshole as I decide to call her, sits on my chest watching me. She was perched there when I opened my eyes, but I didn’t have the same nightmare as usual. No pressure, no choking weight. We have a moment, the asshole and I.
“Scram,” I tell her.
She doesn’t. Instead, she decides to clean herself in a show of defiance she probably learned from her master. Once she’s finished, she resumes her staring.
“You don’t scare me, cat,” I tell her.
With a sigh, I turn my head to look at Willow. She has her hands tucked beneath her cheek. Her eyes are closed, her lips slightly parted. Her face is completely relaxed, and her hair is everywhere. I extend an arm to cup a lock of it, and the cat digs her sharp little claws into my chest in warning.
“Relax,” I tell the asshole. She does only once she sees I’m not hurting Willow.
What happened at the tree last night was… Well, I’m not sure what it was, but her blurted words betrayed her fear even if she won’t admit it. She knows some tragedy will befall her. Does she know that it will be at my hands? That it must be at my hands?
The thought of it, though, of what she said about hanging her from that tree makes my hands clench, makes me feel both sick and furious at once.
I am not those things she accused me of being. Not yet. But my ancestors were, weren’t they, if I’m being honest? It’s all written in The Book of Tithes locked in my desk drawer in case I ever doubt it. Every Wildblood witch whose life was stolen by a Delacroix logged, like you’d log inventory at a warehouse.
Christ. We’re a sick bunch.
I draw my hand away, take a deep breath in, and move to get out of bed. The cat jumps off me—good riddance. Once I’m off the bed completely, she makes herself at home on my pillow. I roll my eyes and walk into the bathroom to have a shower and get ready for this day, which I am sure will be a long one.
When I return to the bedroom, I find Willow awake and sitting up against the headboard cuddling the cat.
“Morning,” I say, not missing how her gaze moves over my chest to the towel I have wrapped low around my hips.
“Morning.”
I pick up my father’s watch from the nightstand and wrap it around my wrist, checking the time. “You’d better get up. We leave in half an hour.”
“Church? You’re really going to make me go to church?”
I shrug. “It’s easier to just go. I don’t care if you believe or not.”
“Do you believe?”
I study her, but rather than answering, I turn and walk into the closet to get dressed. I know she’s been looking through my things, but haven’t said anything. I smelled her subtle perfume on my coat. The idea that she put it on is unexpected, and I like it.
I’ll go through her room soon myself.
Once I’m dressed, I return only to find she hasn’t moved.
“You really do need to get up and ready.” I walk into the bathroom to comb my hair and grab the things I need to clean her tattoo.
“Do you believe in God, Azrael?” she asks again. “I mean, you are supposedly descended from angels, aren’t you? Fallen ones, at least. That makes you Nephilim, I believe?” she says, her tone mocking.
“Come here,” I tell her as I sit on the leather chair. “I need to clean the tattoo.”
She gets up and walks over to me. I notice she’s wearing one of my T-shirts and I raise my eyebrows.
“I was too tired to search for my own,” she tells me with a shrug as she pulls it off and tosses it onto the bed. My gaze sweeps over her naked breasts, her flat belly, the pink thong through which I glimpse that tiny triangle of dark red hair at the apex of her thighs. When I look up and meet her eyes, she’s grinning.
I clear my throat. “Kneel.” I point to the space between my knees, annoyed at how unselfconscious she is and how like a fucking teenager I am whenever I see her naked. Hell, she’s not even fully naked.
“Kneel,” she mimics and settles on the floor between my legs, her back to me. “Why don’t you answer my question?” she asks as she gathers her hair and draws it aside.
I notice she hasn’t removed the wedding ring. The deep garnet nestled in a bed of diamonds suits her so perfectly. I chose it instinctively, thinking I didn’t much care. Grandmother was beyond irritated when she came to give me the brass band she’d planned to have me present to my bride.
I take my time to look at Willow like this, liking my mark on her, liking it very much.
“I believe there are things I cannot explain,” I say as I begin the task of cleaning the area.
“So, you believe you’re descended from fallen angels?”
“I don’t think about it.”
“Wasn’t the great flood sent to wipe you all out?”
I wait for the area to dry as I squeeze lotion out of the tube and meet her taunting gaze when she turns her head.
“Sad we survived?” I ask, pushing her head down to make her look away. “I like you like this, by the way.”
“What? On my knees? You would.”
I smear lotion into the mark, tracing the lines of the Delacroix insignia, and I don’t miss how her back arches in response to my touch. When I’m finished, I weave my fingers into her hair and tug to shift her position so she’s facing me.
“Ow,” she mutters, although I’m not hurting her.
I draw her face closer to the erection currently pressing against my slacks. “I actually prefer you positioned facing this way if you’re asking.”
“Like I said, you would.” She clutches my thighs as I draw her higher on her knees. I take in her tits, brushing my knuckles over one nipple and watching it tighten. “I need to get ready, Azrael.”
I let go of her, and she stands, thinking this is over. But once she’s up, I take hold of her hips and draw her toward me. I’m eye-level with her pussy, and I bend my head to inhale deeply.
“Azrael!”
“I like you better with my smell on you,” I say and tug the thong down to lick her sex. Her breath hitches, and I chuckle as her fingers weave into my hair. I stand, snapping the elastic back into place. “But I don’t have time to fuck you properly, so it’ll have to wait. You think you can wait, Little Witch?”
Her face is flushed, and she’s clearly disappointed. She rallies, smiling broadly as she closes her hand around the crotch of my pants. She squeezes. “You think you can?”
I lay my hand over hers and slide up and down once, twice. My chest rumbles, and I lean down to kiss her before scraping my teeth over her lower lip. “I think I’m going to take that mouth of yours tonight. Make better use of it.” I draw back, spin her around and slap her ass. “Get dressed.”
“Asshole,” she mutters as I walk to the door.
I open it and stop to look back in. “Wear something appropriate.”
“Appropriate,” Willow says, all innocent smiles that show off those pretty white teeth. “Yes, sir.” She mock salutes.
“Appropriate,” I emphasize, and step into the hallway. I close the door just as Emmanuel steps out of his room. He looks like he just got home, never mind if he slept.
“Morning, brother. Long night?” I ask, patting his back.
“I fucking hate Sunday mornings,” he grumbles, pushing his hand through his unruly wet hair. He glances at my closed bedroom door. “Where is your bride? Can she walk this morning?”
“She’ll rally.”
The bell chimes, announcing five minutes before we need to leave. Grandmother likes us to be prompt. Emmanuel and I head down to find Grandmother and Rébecca coming out of the kitchen.
“Hi!” Bec says, brightening when she sees us. My mind wanders to what Willow said about her being terrified of Grandmother. Is that true?
“Not so loud, Bec,” Emmanuel says to her.
Grandmother clucks her tongue. “You look like you’ve been out all night.”
“Hey, I showered, so at least I don’t smell like it,” Emmanuel says. “I need to grab toast.”
“There’s no time!” Salomé yells to his back as I bend to kiss my sister’s cheek.
I notice the necklace Bec is wearing. It’s new, or at least, I haven’t seen it before. I almost comment but she notices me looking at it and tucks it into the collar of her dress with a quick glance up at Grandmother. I’m reminded again that she’s almost sixteen but looks like a much younger child. I wink to tell her I’ll keep her secret because she’s clearly hiding it.
“Where is your witch?” Salomé asks as I straighten.
“My wife, you mean?”
She makes a dismissive motion.
Before I have to answer, we hear a bedroom door open and close and heels clicking down the hall. Emmanuel comes around the corner just as we all turn to see my wife stop at the top of the stairs. She’s practically beaming, and I see why when she slowly, ever so slowly, descends the stairs, giving us all time to take her in.
“What in the name… Azrael! You cannot allow this… this…” Grandmother is practically spitting.
Emmanuel chuckles. “This morning just got more interesting.”
“Oh, Willow!” Bec says when Willow stands on the bottom step. “You look so beautiful!”
“What she looks like is a harlot. We will be a laughingstock!”
She does look fucking amazing in a black dress, red cloak, and over-the-knee boots that I may have her leave on when I punish her for this transgression. The flame red lipstick is the cherry on top.
“Change! Now!” Salomé orders.
Another chime sounds. We have to leave.
“No time,” Willow says sweetly, shrugging her shoulders. “We don’t want to be late for my first ever Mass!”
“I will not allow you to shame us this way!”
“She’s fine, Grandmother. We’ll be late. Let’s go.” I wrap my hand around the back of my wife’s neck and lead her out, not missing her victorious grin—which I am sure Salomé will make her pay for later. “What happened to appropriate?” I ask as I open the passenger side door to the Series 1 Jaguar E Type. It was my father’s, and I’d had it modified to fit my taller frame. This car put a smile on his face like nothing else could. Willow looks at it, raises her eyebrows, and gives me an approving nod before climbing in. I close the door and get into the driver’s side. The rest of the family will follow in the Rolls Royce.
“Whatever do you mean?” she asks innocently.
“I’m going to enjoy punishing you, wife.”
She sets her hand on my thigh. “Oh, I’m sure you will, husband, but it is already worth it. Nice car, by the way. Wouldn’t expect it of you.”
“It was my father’s,” I tell her, then shut my mouth because I have no idea why I’m telling her this.
“Really?” she asks, and I see her studying me in my periphery. “The jacket too?” She touches the ornate gold threading on the lapel.
I nod once, surprised she has noticed.
“You must miss him,” she says softly.
My jaw tightens, as do my hands on the steering wheel. She rubs my arm and drops it. I’m sure she noticed my white knuckles.
Mass at St. Trinity Cathedral is a long, drawn-out affair. Emmanuel nods off. Bec kneels and stands and kneels again on the hard wooden kneeler from which Grandmother has removed the cushions for both herself and my sister. My wife is, as expected, gawked at by the men and women alike, with the former wearing a very different expression than the latter.
The men at least wither at my glance, and I keep my hand around the back of my wife’s neck for the entire Mass, not liking anyone’s eyes on her.
Once the service is over, we walk out of the church along with the rest of the congregation. I make it a point to hurry to my car, which I tipped the valet earlier to have ready, not wanting to talk to anyone in particular.
“How do you sit through that weekly? Please tell me I won’t have to,” Willow mutters to me.
“It’s not over yet,” I tell her as I pull out onto the street.
“What do you mean it’s not over?”
I draw a deep breath in, exhale. Mass I can tolerate. The next part, though, takes all I have to get through it.
“You’ll see,” I say tightly, because there is no describing it. I wish there was some way to not have her see the next part, not to have her be present for it. But it’s just a matter of time. As The Sacrifice, she is already a part of the ritual.
When we arrive back at the property, I hand the keys off and walk Willow through the house and out the back.
“Where are we going?” she asks, hurrying along in her heels. “Can you not go so fast?” she asks more than once. I have her hand and need to remember to match her stride. Her legs are not as long as mine.
“Better?” I ask, slowing my step.
She nods. “Where are we going, Azrael?”
“The gifting,” I say.
Something in my tone must transfer to her because she doesn’t ask any more questions. My family joins us a little farther back on the path, and we weave our way to the churchyard. I feel Willow draw back as we near it and tighten my hold on her hand.
“What gifting?” she finally asks, as the shadow cast by the angel’s great wings falls upon us.
“Shemhazai,” I say, turning into the churchyard to face the ten-foot-tall statue.
“What the…” Willow starts but stops, shuddering as I tug her closer. She closes her free hand around my forearm and doesn’t pull away from me.
Grandmother comes up behind us, her own victory apparent as she sees Willow clinging to me before the hulking form of Grandmother’s true God. She faces us, and I’m glad to see Emmanuel holding Rébecca’s hand and coming to stand on the other side of Willow.
It’s strange, this, us gathered as we are, with the great angel looming over us and casting his dark shadow over us here, now just as he casts his shadow over our lives. The altar is cleaned and ready for the offering, an altar large enough to carry a Wildblood witch.
Grandmother stands as if she were Shemhazai’s priestess and the four of us, well, what are the four of us? One a Sacrifice, one a Penitent—truly, that makes two Sacrifices, does it not? And Emmanuel and Rébecca? What are they?
“The gifting, Rébecca,” Grandmother snaps.
Bec steps forward, looking too small, too fragile before the beast. She bends to pick up the bundles of flowers in their baskets waiting to be placed before the angel. The task takes time, with each bloom laid carefully, and Grandmother stands unblinking as she presides over the proceeding.
Willow is trembling now. Does she feel the malevolence of the angel? Or is it that she feels what is buried beneath the altar?
Grandmother doesn’t miss Willow’s discomfort. She relishes it, in fact.
Once Rébecca is done, she looks up at Grandmother, who nods. My sister hurries back to take Emmanuel’s hand. There was a time many, many years ago when we’d be made to kneel here before the statue. That time ended when Abacus and I came of age, and Grandmother no longer ruled.
“Let’s go,” Emmanuel says grimly and without waiting, he takes Bec and heads back to the house.
Before I can walk away, though, Grandmother steps toward us. She looks down at Willow, whom she towers over, then up at me. “The Sacrifice should be presented to Shemhazai. The Penitent must make an offering showing good faith that The Tithe will be paid.”
I see Willow’s face in my periphery.
“You know what must be done, Azrael.”
“Now is not the time, Grandmother.”
Her face hardens, that satisfied smirk diminishing. But she recovers. “I look forward to bearing witness at a time of your choosing then,” she says in that cruel, mocking way of hers.
With that she walks away. Willow watches her go, her mouth hanging open.
“What was church all about if she worships this thing?” she asks, still watching my grandmother’s disappearing back.
“Appearances,” I say flatly, knowing how sick it all is… and realizing how complacent I’ve become.