Chapter 17
RAPHAEL
Look in the mirror.
Dumbfounded, I stare at my reflection, willing some sort of answer to manifest.
Look in the mirror.
It’s all I’ve done for the last three hours since I awoke, and nothing about what Azrael said has been made clearer.
I’ve studied my appearance to the point that I’m sick of it. Then, I wracked my brain, trying to remember anyone in my realm who might resemble me and could be this elusive lover the sorceress is searching for.
Will you at least divulge what he looks like? I had asked.
You, incidentally.
You. The longer I stare at the man in the mirror, the less recognizable he becomes. Not entirely in appearance, but in the way his eyes dim and resemble a gilded amber rather than pure, undiluted gold.
What if…
A knock at the door pulls me from my rumination.
“Enter,” I say, pulling my attention from my reflection as I tug a shirt over my head.
Baal enters, walking over to me with a somber glint in his eyes.
“What the fuck is the Angel of Death doing here?”
I rise from the bed to greet him. “I was hoping you would tell me.”
“I have no fucking clue.” He sighs, running his fingers through his thick locks. “I’m actually grateful I was spared meeting with him this time, because in all candor, he creeps me the fuck out.”
I laugh before Baal threatens, “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”
I grip his shoulder. “Your secret is safe with me.” My hand drops at the same time my smile does.
“Why is he here, Raph?”
I search his face before I answer. “For her.”
“Her?”
“The sorceress.”
“Oh.” His eyes widen. “Her. Liv.”
“Don’t call her that.”
“It’s her name,” he says in bewilderment.
Yes, it’s the name she gave me, and yet, hearing it spoken aloud is an assault on my ears. “Just do me a favor and don’t call her that in front of me.”
Baal studies me, eyes creasing. “Raph, are you sure you’re ok? If you believe Azrael is a threat to her, we can always send a message to the prick upstairs, tell him to put his Reaper on a leash and—”
“He knows who he is.” My interruption is met with another confused stare.
“He knows who who is?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Azrael. Azrael knows who the sorceress’ lover is.”
“Oh.” Baal scratches the back of his head, grimacing. “Well, that’s a horse of a different color.”
Is he fucking quoting The Wizard of Oz? I need a drink. Baal follows me as I head to the small table across from the fireplace housing the bottle of demon liquor. I pour us each a glass then knock it back swiftly before I pour another.
“At least he left,” Baal says, setting his glass down on the table. I pour myself another, disregarding Baal’s shocked expression at my indulgence.
“I very much doubt that.”
Baal stares at me as I down another drink, then another.
“We have to find this phantom lover,” I say, the effects of the liquor making my blood hum. “Azrael’s unexpected arrival is tied to both him and the sorceress. I want to find him first before the Reaper can exact whatever plan he has involving her.”
“Finding him has proven to be impossible.” Baal’s gaze flicks to me. “There is absolutely no one in this Court who looks like you, not even remotely close.”
“He could be hiding. We need to draw him out.”
“I have an…idea…” Baal says hesitantly. “But you aren’t going to like it.” I stare back at him expectantly, and he heaves a mournful sigh. “Throw another ball tomorrow night…announcing your wedding-”
“No,” I retort, the thought sloshing the liquor around in my stomach at an uncomfortable pace.
I barely tolerate the facade I put up with now with Isadora as my betrothed, never mind officially announcing my wedding, which would only please Lord Argos, and I sure as fuck don’t want to placate that slimy motherfucker.
Something also tells me my sorceress wouldn’t be pleased to hear that news, and I don’t want her pulling away from me, not when I am so close to having her.
“Raph…” Baal sighs and takes another full glass of liquor from my hand, earning a scowl from me. “Did you think I hadn’t noticed the hourglass on her wrist? The sorceress is on borrowed time, as are you, if Azrael is here and has something brewing in that dark mind of his.”
I mull over his words, hating that they make sense, but they lend themselves to another idea of my own.
“Veritatem.”
“Why would we need a truth potion?”
“Spike the wine. Ask questions subtly. Let the truth slip from every attendee’s tongue so any information about this sorceress and her lover will be known to us, even from his own lips.”
Baal raises a brow, the side of his mouth lifting with it. “You think he’ll show? If he has any semblance of a working brain, it’s likely he won’t.”
My mouth curls in a similar smirk. “Of course he will. He’ll come for her.” The blood thrums with the conviction in my words, the feeling of absolute certitude that this phantom will manifest tomorrow night to claim her, and I need to do that first.
Baal gives me a friendly slap on the shoulder. “I’ll start making the arrangements.” He turns to leave before I call out to him.
“Not a word of this to her. She is to receive no formal invitation. I will tell her I expect her at the ball tomorrow evening, but she is not to know of its substance. Am I clear?”
“Crystal.” Baal winks and disappears.
The rest of my afternoon is spent in much needed solitude, running over the thousands of scenarios that could play out tomorrow evening.
My biggest concern is the sorceress discovering the reason for the ball, and while I’m confident I can convince her to attend without word reaching her of its purpose, once she arrives, I have no doubt she will figure out its intention.
And I can’t lose her, not when I’m this close to having her.
It’s then I decide I must see her, if only to assure myself she still stands by her former proclamation: I’m yours.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. I lie like the Devil I am as my brain tries to convince me the urge to touch her, to breathe in her scent, to stare into those glistening ocean eyes and watch her mouth curve in that beautiful smile, is not the real reason I long to see her.
Or that my body yearns for hers in a way that is both disarming and bewitching.
The suns dip below the horizon, the last of their rays dancing along the ocean as I make my way toward the sorceress’s chambers. Perhaps I’ll dine with her in her room this evening. Perhaps I’ll stay—
My mood sours when I recall a scheduled visit to Isadora’s chambers later. Normally, I’d blow it off, but the crude markings around her neck earlier today reminded me Lord Argos’ patience is slipping, and since he cannot retaliate on me, his daughter bears the brunt of his wrath.
And that’s something I won’t fucking tolerate.
The sorceress’ ladies’ maids intercept me before I reach her room.
“Your Majesty,” they say in unison, both dropping into a curtsey.
I nod in response and wait for them to rise.
“Your mistress is not in her room,” the dark haired one says with a strange exuberance, as though she cannot wait to offer me information.
“Where is she?”
“She decided to take a walk on the beach,” the one with gold hair supplies, a bit timidly.
“And you allowed her to go alone?” I don’t hide the vicious bite in my tone.
“She has a particular knack for eluding us,” the dark haired one replies.
“Does she?” I try to smother my grin, because that sounds like her. “Perhaps you are not efficient at your task.”
Both demoness’ mouths drop in sync. The fiery dark-haired one speaks first. “Your Majesty, we—”
I hold up a hand, halting her excuse. “How long ago did she leave?”
They glance at each other, and this time, the tall blonde offers, “About half past the hour.”
“Thank you.” I turn on my heel, taking the winding steps down to the first floor.
Rather than exit through the main hall, where numerous eyes are watching, I pause behind the thirteenth pillar from the entryway.
Upon pressing my hand into the shimmering marble, the structure shifts, revealing a staircase leading to darkness.
I was born of darkness, crafted from it, so I welcome its warm embrace as I descend the steps, the scent of salt and brine strengthening the farther I sink beneath the castle.
The tunneled steps spit me out into a sea cave.
The sand is soft beneath my shoes as I take slow steps towards its mouth.
The view before me is breathtaking, and I don’t mean because the sky is a bruised palette, a symphony of soft purple and rosy pink while the suns make their descent beneath the ocean’s glimmering blanket.
No, it’s because the body of a woman glides gracefully from the sea, water sluicing down her naked flesh in scintillating rivulets that give the appearance of diamonds dancing down her skin.
Sea foam frolics around her toes, her smile wide and exuberant as the suns’ final rays hug her body.
I meant what I said that night in her room: it fucking hurts to breathe looking at her, because taking a breath feels impossible when my heart pounds furiously in my chest, as though it again is trying to tell me something my brain won’t grasp.
Like an innocent man pleading his innocence, it is desperate to unearth the truth before suffering devastating consequences.
She turns, perhaps to take in the setting suns, but the view she offers me is far more spectacular.
Her hair hangs like a thick, wet rope down to the small of her back, water dripping from the tail end.
The urge to wrap it around my fist and yank her towards me surges through me with savage abandon, but I withhold, if only to let my eyes drink in her firm, round ass and let my thoughts stay to more unsavory territory.
I spot her gown in a crumpled puddle of fabric not far from where I stand, and with a swiftness that rivals the wind, I snatch it and return to my hiding spot among the rocks.