22. Azrael
The whole of the following day, Willow seems off. I don’t know if she’s seen the news of the murders or if it has to do with the bundle of letters her sisters gave her that she was quick to hide. As I’m walking her down to dinner, I decide now is the time to ask exactly what they were. “What did your sisters give you yesterday?”
“Huh?” she asks, eyebrows rising.
“You had a bundle you took to your room.”
“Oh. That. Just some clothes and things. Nothing really.”
“Hm. I got the impression you didn’t want me to see them.”
“Did you?”
I study her, see how she doesn’t quite meet my eyes. She’s a bad liar.
“There was a stench in the house today, Azrael,” Grandmother says, ending our conversation as Willow and I enter for dinner.
Willow rolls her eyes.
“I’ve opened all the windows in the sitting room to air it. I hope we can get it out.”
“Is that the best you can come up with?” Willow asks her. “Really?”
Grandmother holds her dish out to be served a slice of roast, her lips tilted upward in one corner. “Your sisters won’t be welcome here going forward. You belong to us now, girl,” she says to Willow directly.
“I belong to you?” Willow raises her eyebrows. “I certainly do not?—”
I put my hand on hers, a gesture Grandmother doesn’t miss.
“Bec, how did your appointment go?” I ask my sister, ignoring my grandmother altogether. Bec had an appointment with her doctor.
My sister opens her mouth to answer but Grandmother is quicker. “No change. They’ve increased her dosage.”
“I don’t want more of the medicine. It makes my stomach hurt,” Bec says, eyes pleading.
“What is the medicine?” I ask.
“Are you a doctor now?” Grandmother asks me. Admittedly, I’ve always let Grandmother take the lead when it comes to Rébecca. I was young when she started to have strange bouts of illness, but they went as mysteriously as they came. Although over the last year she has only seemed to grow sicker.
“If her stomach hurts when she takes it, then they need to find her an alternative.”
“Medicine isn’t candy but it is necessary.”
“Bec, what is the diagnosis exactly?” Willow asks.
“I don’t think the witch needs to be involved in a private family matter, do you, Azrael?”
“They don’t know,” Bec tells Willow, ignoring Grandmother. She seems different tonight. More confident or something. I wonder if it was her dress-up session with Willow. “They can’t figure it out.”
“Where is your brother?” Grandmother asks, changing the subject as she stabs a bloody piece of meat.
I notice Willow helping herself from a casserole dish set beside her and don’t comment although I am sure Grandmother has noticed. I requested something appropriate for vegetarians, and Willow seems to be enjoying it, so I’m glad.
“Yeah, actually, where is Emmanuel?” Willow asks.
“He had an appointment,” I say, realizing how late it has run and fairly certain where he is.
“Your sisters seem nice,” Bec says.
“You should meet them,” Willow answers. “You’d love them, and I know they’d love you.”
Grandmother snorts, cutting into her meat angrily.
We finally get through dinner, and I’m glad to see Bec eat about half of her dessert, which is more than she usually does. I make a mental note to ask the chef to make it again. Just as coffee is being served, I hear the front door and a minute later, Emmanuel enters the dining room, eyes bright and looking energized.
“Where have you been? You missed dinner,” Grandmother says, her disapproving gaze moving over him.
“I’ll grab a sandwich later,” he tells her dismissively. He glances at Willow, then at me. “Talk later? Bec and I are binge watching the last season of The Vampire Diaries. Ready?” he asks her.
“Haven’t you two watched the series like three times now?” I ask.
“Yep.” Bec smiles wide and pushes her chair out. “I hope you’re not going to get all emotional like you did last time,” she mutters to Emmanuel with a roll of her eyes.
I raise my eyebrows.
He holds up his hands. “I’m a romantic at heart. What can I say?” He pokes Bec in the ribs. “Snitch.” He picks up her spoon and shoves the last of her dessert into his mouth. “Now I may have to eat all the popcorn myself.”
“You got popcorn?” she asks as they disappear down the hall.
“Salty and sweet. And MMs.”
“Yes!” Bec touches her fists to his. It’s such a normal gesture for a normal girl and to see it fills me with something akin to hope, at least momentarily.
“She’ll be sick tomorrow,” Salomé proclaims, then stands. “Goodnight,” she says to me and heads out of the dining room but stops on the threshold and glances back at us. “Oh, I meant to ask if you’ve chosen the date to present The Sacrifice to Shemhazai yet?”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“Good. It’s about time Rébecca understood what is coming. Before she forms any attachments. The girl has been shielded from the reality of what being a Delacroix means for too long.”
I don’t have a chance to respond before she’s gone.
“Christ,” I say, standing. I turn to Willow who is staring at the empty space where Salomé just stood. “Let’s go.”
“What does she mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Clearly, it’s not nothing. She’s brought it up twice now.”
I hold out my hand for her and she pushes her chair out and stands.
“Azrael, I want to be prepared.”
“Let’s go outside. I could use some fresh air.”
“It’s going to storm.”
“I’m not afraid of a little rain. Are you?”
“Azrael—”
“We’ll talk outside.” She opens her mouth, but I interrupt. “I want to go to the lake.”
At that she pauses, then acquiesces, and we head out to the lake. It’s been a warm day and the temperature is still high although a storm is expected.
“My grandmother may talk, but she has no say in anything that happens to you. All right?” I tell her once we’re out of earshot of anyone listening from the house.
“Yes, sort of, but here’s the thing. Something is going to happen to me. You and I both know that. Within a year, I’ll be dead.”
I keep my gaze on the path and am silent until we reach the clearing. Strangely, since the other night out here with her, it doesn’t feel so bad to be here. In a way, I feel closer to Abacus.
“Let’s have a quick swim,” I say, pulling off my shirt.
“Why won’t you answer me?”
“Willow. Drop it. It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters a great deal to me.”
“What I mean is…” I start but stop when her gaze falls to my tattoo and I see how her expression changes, I stop talking.
“Wait a minute.” She reaches out to touch it, tracing the lines of the angel curving around the right side of my body. Did I think she would somehow not know what it was after our visit to the cemetery?
She moves around me, her fingers feather light on my back, her breath warm on my shoulder. When she comes to stand before me again, she takes my hand, opens it. In astonishment, she takes in the golden cuff inked into my skin. It’s the same as Shemhazai’s battle-ready statue wears.
All I’m missing is a cloak and a sword to be him.
To be Shemhazai.
And that’s the point, isn’t it? That was Salomé’s point.
Willow has seen the tattoo before, but she didn’t know exactly what—or who—it was.
“It’s him.” She shudders, wrapping her arms around herself. Her shoulders curve inward, and in her eyes is something akin to disbelief or disgust. “It’s the angel from the cemetery.”
“He’s a demon, not an angel,” I say because it’s true. I know it, and I think she does too. All that talk of witchcraft aside, she has a sixth sense.
Color drains from her face before my eyes. “Is that what you’ll be when you do what Salomé seems to expect from you? When you present me to that thing? A demon?”
It’s hard to look at her, but I make myself do it. She deserves that much. I brush her hair back, let my fingers move over her chest to the crescent moon on her breast, gliding lower to undo the top buttons of her dress until I expose a part of the tattoo.
It’s in that moment I make the decision. Or perhaps I’d already made it on the night of The Tithing. Maybe it was having her in my house. My bed. I don’t know. But I do know that I don’t want to hurt her. I can’t hurt her.
“Mom used to bring us here when we were little,” I say, turning away from those too-keen eyes. Because if I don’t do what I’m supposed to do, what Salomé expects of me, what will happen to my family?
“It used to be a happy place with so many happy memories,” I hear myself say, wondering how I sound remotely normal. “I often wonder why he chose to die here.”
She follows my gaze to the tree. “Your brother?”
“His name was Abacus.” A light rain begins to fall, the start of the coming storm. I pull my shirt back on, wanting to hide Shemhazai from her view. Wanting to hide her from his eyes.
“Maybe Abacus felt the happy memories too. Maybe it was a comfort for him to be here at the end,” she says gently.
I smile at her kind words. I think she means to comfort me with them.
“He was first-born, did you know that?” I look at her as we settle on a stone bench beneath a sheltering tree. “By a few minutes, but still.”
She remains silent and I’m not sure why I’m telling her any of this. I think I need to.
“We were very close, Abacus and me. And Emmanuel too. Rébecca came much later.”
“Did Salomé always live with you?”
I shake my head. “My parents died when Abacus and I were eleven. That’s when she moved here to look after us. The night before we turned eighteen, Grandmother took me to get this tattoo. Well, the first part of it. It took some time to finish.”
“Your grandmothertook you to get that? I’d think she’d associate tattoos with Satan or something.”
I chuckle. “Not this particular mark, no. It’s Shemhazai. Our ancestor, according to her.”
“Did you have a say in it?”
“I didn’t even know where we were going, and remember, I’d had seven years of being ruled by her iron fist. I’d learned it was easier to do what she wanted than to fight her.”
“But not anymore?”
“No.”
“Did Abacus get one too then? A rite of passage or something?”
“No. No rite of passage. And no, she didn’t think he was strong enough to wear Shemhazai, even though he was first-born.”
She looks confused.
“Abacus didn’t look like me or Emmanuel. He wasn’t as tall or as strong. He was average. Normal. To Salomé, that meant he was not chosen by Shemhazai. In a way, she chose me to be The Penitent, I suppose. But she doesn’t determine what happens anymore. That’s why I’m telling you this, Willow. You don’t have to be afraid of her.” I touch a lock of her silky hair, brush the backs of my fingers over her arm. “We should go in. The rain is picking up.”
She ignores the last part. “I’m not afraid of her. I just want to understand what is going to happen to me. What is this ‘presenting The Sacrifice’ nonsense?”
“You truly don’t know?”
“How could I? No Wildblood Sacrifice has ever returned to tell the tale.” She shrugs my touch off when she says it and rubs her arms warm.
“Historically, The Penitent presents The Sacrifice to Shemhazai at Shemhazai’s altar.”
She raises her eyebrows, waiting.
“It’s a ritual, like The Tithing, how it’s all conducted. The Delacroix family stands as witnesses, although Bec is too young no matter what Salomé says.”
“What happens at the ceremony exactly?”
“It’s not going to happen. You don’t have to worry.”
“It’s never going to happen, or it’s not going to happen right now?”
I stand up. “Let’s go in,” I say, storm clouds moving closer as the rain picks up.
“Azrael?” She’s on her feet too. “Tell me. Tell me what would happen exactly.”
“You’d be presented. That’s all. You’d kneel before the statue?—”
“I wouldn’t kneel.”
“Letting it be known you’re there of your free will?—”
“That’s a real stretch, but go on.”
“And I’d make an offering. Something of yours.”
“Like what?” she says tightly. Does she hear the long, low rumble of thunder?
I watch the dark clouds closing in. “It’s not going to happen, Willow. Don’t worry about it.” I push wet hair back from her face. Our clothes are getting soaked. “We need to go inside.”
“You say that so casually, but you’re not The Sacrifice,” she continues as if she doesn’t feel the rain at all, but I watch the sky light up with electricity.
“Willow—” I start but am interrupted by a loud crack of thunder.
She shrugs off my hands and takes a few steps away, folding her arms across her chest. “Tell me what kind of offering. What have your ancestors offered in the past? You keep records, don’t you? I thought you kept a book or something,” she snaps. “What could it be? Clothes we wear? Jewelry? A finger? An organ? Just tell me. Because I felt the same thing at that altar as I did when you wore that ring. The ring with Elizabeth’s hair in it.”
“Christ. When did you…” I shake my head. “I don’t wear the ring.”
“You did wear that ring, Azrael. Own it. Tell me what it is you will offer your demon god.”
“He’s not my demon god.”
“Whatever he is,” Willow says.
“Salomé believes?—”
“I don’t care what Salomé believes! What I care about is that you believe it too—at least some part of it or I wouldn’t be here. Or The Tithing wouldn’t have taken place. And I guess in some way, I believe it too, or I’d have done what my family urged me to do. Run. But historically, if we don’t offer the chosen one, more Wildbloods are lost. Killed. Dead. Better one dead Wildblood witch than a whole family, right? So here I am, and here you are. So please just fucking tell me so I know. So I’m prepared. I deserve that much, don’t I?”
Her eyes are ablaze, wet with emotion, so much emotion I’m struck silent. But she’s right. She does deserve to know. And I need to own it, as much as I hate it.
“Hair. I’d offer him a lock of your hair. That’s all.”
“Hair.” Tears well to overflowing, and she takes more steps backward as I try to go to her. Rain is coming down hard now.
“I’m not going to do it, Willow. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“But you’re going to. We’re both here, aren’t we? You’re going to. Salomé wants?—”
“Salomé can want whatever the hell she wants,” I try to maintain control of my tone, which is raised. “She can say what she wants. But I decide.”
“Tell me why, at least. Explain to me why your ancestors and you, now, in this modern time, still come for the chosen Wildblood. Explain to me why we’re still doing this centuries after Elizabeth’s death.”
I shake my head, then push a hand into my hair because she’s right. It is outrageous that I believe in this curse, but I do. So does her family. So does she. It’s why we’re here. Exactly why she and I are both here.
“My parents” yacht disappeared years ago; their bodies were never found. No crew was found. It’s like they were never there at all. Abacus? Abacus went insane. I found him. I found him, and do you know what he’d done before hanging himself? He’d tried to cut out the birthmarks. He’d butchered himself. That’s how badly he’d wanted to escape the Wildblood curse.”
“A curse you don’t think you deserve for what your ancestors did to us?” She turns to walk away.
I go after her, grabbing her by the arm and turning her back to me. “My ancestors, maybe, but Abacus? My mom and dad? Do you think they deserved to be punished? Do you think Rébecca does?”
She tries to shrug free, but I don’t let her go. “No, I don’t, but do you really think taking me, offering that thing a lock of my hair, do you really think it will heal Rébecca? Will it bring your parents or Abacus back?”
“It won’t bring anyone back from the dead.” I loosen my hold and she takes two steps backward, tilting her head as she studies me like she’s trying to make sense of something nonsensical.
“But you think it will heal Rébecca?” she asks, sounding astonished.
I hear what she’s saying, how unbelievable it sounds. How fucking ridiculous. I shake my head.
“And what about you?” she continues, yelling now over thunder and sheets of rain, wiping away the hair that’s sticking to her face. “What happens to you after some accident befalls me and I’m off your hands and all your problems are solved? Your sister is miraculously healed. Hell, maybe your parents are found and your brother rises from the dead. What about you, Azrael? Because historically, no Penitent has lasted more than a few months after the Wildblood witch is dead. You’re not going to walk away from this, either.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
She shakes her head, a deep line between her eyebrows. “Are you willing to throw away your life along with mine?”
“I’d happily give up my life if it would save Rébecca’s,” I say over the pounding rain.
“What about taking her to a different doctor then for starters? What about modern medicine instead of?—”
A blinding blast of lightning makes her stop mid-sentence as it strikes the center of the lake.
Willow stares, mouth agape.
“Fuck!” Without waiting for her to say another word, I bend to lift her, haul her over my shoulder and run for the chapel because it’s closer than the house.
She bounces on my back, clutching the waistband of my pants for balance.
I turn to watch the storm that seems to be chasing us. When we get to the churchyard, I weave through the path, not slowing when I have to pass Shemhazai’s altar. Only when we reach the stairs to the chapel do I slow down, setting Willow on her feet beneath the overhang. Her eyes are locked on the demon-angel.
“Willow,” I say, taking her small face in my hands and turning her to look at me, wiping away water, seeing something I haven’t seen in her eyes yet, not really.
Fear.
“That thing is evil, Azrael.”
She looks up at me, shivers. I hug her close.
“I’m not him,” I tell her. “And I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I swear it.”
Her forehead creased, she opens her mouth to answer. Before she can utter a sound, a bolt of lightning strikes the very altar at the angel’s feet, and for a moment, the night is electric. A sound like nothing I’ve heard before rumbles louder than the thunder that follows, and as I push Willow through the door into the church, I look back over my shoulder at the thing. At the altar now split down the center, the malevolent angel wearing his hood, carrying his sword and watching us. As if he heard every word we just said.