20. Azrael
While the Wildblood sisters visit in the sitting room, Emmanuel and I meet in the library.
“Five witches in the house. Is Gran twitchy?” Emmanuel asks.
I grin and close my laptop. “See the papers this morning?” I ask and watch the casual look on his face darken. He nods once. Two women have been found murdered over the last week in the New Orleans area. “Both are from families who have been known to dabble in witchcraft.”
“Or pretend to,” Emmanuel says. “It makes for good business in New Orleans. Didn’t one have some sort of shop in the French Quarter reading cards or some nonsense?”
“You already looked into it then?”
He shrugs a shoulder and slides into one of the armchairs. “I was bored.”
“Is that so?”
“What else would it be?”
My brother doesn’t get bored, and he doesn’t do anything that doesn’t somehow serve him—unless it comes to Bec. For his sister, he’ll do anything. I drop the question for now.
“You’re right about the shop,” I start. “Girl was young. The second woman was over sixty and lived alone in a small, decrepit house outside of the city. Doesn’t sound like the police are linking the murders.”
“Are you worried for your witch?” he asks.
“She’s safe here. But her family may not be, if it’s what we’re thinking.”
Emmanuel’s jaw tenses. I’m not sure he’s aware of the movement. “The Disciples have been off the radar for years. You think they’re back?” The Disciples are basically witch hunters who gave themselves that title centuries ago, as if they act in the name of some god. They’d been around since before the time of Elizabeth Wildblood, having originated in Europe and spread, like a disease, to North America and beyond.
“There’s no mention of the mark they leave on their victim but that could be on purpose. Don’t want to scare the general population into thinking there’s a serial killer on the loose, and it protects against a false confession. Talk to your detective friend yet?”
“I have a visit planned tomorrow afternoon, in fact,” Emmanuel says.
“Good. The family, are they safe?”
“I’ll walk by the house after my meeting.”
“Will you?” I ask, standing, wanting to wrap up this meeting because there’s something I want to do while Willow is occupied. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with Raven Wildblood, would it?”
He stands too. “What would it have to do with Raven Wildblood?”
“You think I didn’t feel your eyes boring into my back when I looked her over during The Tithing ceremony?”
“Hm. Well, this is just me doing a good deed, brother.” He puts an arm over my shoulders as we walk to the door.
“Mhm. You know the rules, right?” He can’t touch another Wildblood. None of us can as long as The Sacrifice is given to us.
“I know the rules,” he says.
I stop to face him squarely and take him by the shoulders. “She’s not for you, brother. Leave her alone.”
He studies me, takes a long minute to answer. “Just walking by the house to make sure they’re safe. That’s all, Azrael. Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a Boy Scout.”
He just shrugs, and we walk out of the library. Emmanuel heads to the front door, both of us pausing when we hear the combined laughter of all five Wildblood sisters. It’s so rare to hear laughter like that in this house.
No, not rare. It just doesn’t happen.
With a sigh, I walk up the stairs, to my bedroom and through it to Willow’s connecting room. I close the door behind me, feeling a little twinge of guilt as I take it in.
She’s unpacked most of her things, the suitcases now out of sight. I see the asshole’s large bed and play area in one corner and wonder why the damn thing chooses to sleep in my bed rather than here. Well, maybe not sleep. It’s more like staring me down as she sits comfortably on my chest, probably trying to steal my breath or whatever it is cats do.
The drapes are open, letting in the light. It smells like her in here, sweet and woodsy, citrusy even. I’ve never smelled the perfume on anyone before and wonder if she makes it herself. I wouldn’t be surprised, judging from all the vials.
I cross to the vanity and the first bottle I pick up and sniff confirms what I think. It’s her scent. Palo Santo something or other. I put the lid back on and set it down, looking at the various tubes and bottles and finding her lipstick. I remember how it ringed my cock when I fucked her mouth. Her black eyeliner is here, too, and several containers of powders and little pots of pigment in every possible shade. Bec would have a field day in here. She doesn’t so much as own a tinted lip balm. Salomé’s doing. I’m going to change that, I think, as I look at Willow’s collection.
Over the back of her chair, she’s draped her red cloak. I pick it up then set it back down. I don’t throw my clothes over the backs of chairs. I am meticulous with my things. It’s how I’d noticed she’d been in my closet. The hangers were askew. She’s not as neat. Throughout her room are scattered various silk scarves and knick knacks that remind me of the room where the Tithing took place. I look into a plethora of bottles, sniffing contents, unsure what they are. I pick up crystals and set them back down, wondering what she does with them. I go into her bathroom. Although she mostly uses mine, and I suspect she’s been using my shampoo and soap, she has her own here and I pick up the first bottle and look at the label. It’s from a local shop in the French Quarter that I’ve seen in passing. Zen Apothecary. I open it, sniff the contents. It’s exactly how her hair smells when it doesn’t smell like me. I reach for the bar of soap but stop myself. What the hell am I doing? Looking through her room is one thing, but sniffing her shampoo? That’s a little creepy.
I walk back into the sitting room and flip through the stack of magazines, leaving the notebooks she’s written in alone. I’m not going to snoop into a diary if she keeps one. When I’m finished and on my way out, my gaze falls on the tall glass jar with its burning candle within. I go to blow it out, although it’s not going to do any harm, but when I do, I see among the dried flowers and crystals a small frame containing an image. It’s a sketched portrait. I’d noticed it briefly the first time I’d come in here. It’s black and white—well, apart from the tell-tale red hair that is the Wildblood inheritance. The hair on my arms stands on end as I pick up the frame and look closer at the picture.
I know who it is. Of course, I do. I see her almost nightly in my dreams, although that’s changed since Willow has been sleeping in my bed.
This is Elizabeth Wildblood exactly as I see her, exactly as my imagination conjures her up. It’s uncanny.
Except here, it’s not hate in those eyes that look so much like Willow’s. Her expression is earnest, serious, but kind. Not as though she is looking at the face of her enemy but at her kin.
I wonder at the age of the portrait. Wonder if it’s been passed down through the centuries.
The candle in its glass flickers although there is no draft. I meet Elizabeth Wildblood’s eyes again. I’m not welcome here.
I set my jaw, put the frame back where I found it, and walk out of the room. I walk down the stairs, feeling irritable when I hear the murmur of voices coming from the sitting room. I observe the Wildblood sisters in a huddle almost, their faces serious, none of the laughter of earlier now. I wonder what they’re up to. I clear my throat to make my presence known.
They practically jump, and I don’t miss the panic in Willow’s eyes as she quickly tucks envelopes into a shirt she’s holding.
When she meets my eyes again, she’s flushed.
“Dinner is ready,” I say.
“Okay,” she nods.
My gaze rakes over her, lingering on the skin left exposed by her top.
“I just need to finish saying goodbye to my sisters,” she tells me. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
My cue to leave. I glance at the sisters, pausing for a moment on Raven. Have she and my brother met before tonight? Have they had any contact at all?
Willow clears her throat and I realize I’m hovering.
“Right. Don’t be too long.” I turn and walk away, hearing her usher her sisters out and saying a hasty goodbye before hurrying up the stairs.
When she returns, her hands are empty. I lead her into the dining room for dinner.