Page 13 of Light

“A witch.”

Adalaide let out a small laugh. “I have met many witches in my lifetime. That woman was no witch.”

Gabriel leaned back in his chair. The way she ran over the multitude of variations of a question before she settled on the one she would speak aloud was confounding. She meant: I can’t feel Sanura’s magic and, therefore, cannot conceive of a scenario in which his statement could be true. Yet, I can taste lies, and that was no lie. So, where does that leave me?

He answered the question she hadn’t asked aloud.

“Your seraph blood has gifted you with elemental magic. Only Nephilim carry the gift of all four elements. Witches are a dilution of our line. Somewhere along the line, human blood polluted their magic enough that they no longer carry all four elements.

“Sanura, the witch who hunts you, is of the line of a fallen angel; as such, her gifts are different from ours. She has the gift of necromancy. When she died, with help from her analogous umbra—her soulmate—she resurrected herself so she could exact revenge on those who killed her: your ancestors.

“I have hunted her for more than three thousand years.”

Chapter 12

Adalaide

Adalaide sat back, slouching into her chair. She was glad for the hundredth time that night she’d chosen to forego her corset. If she weren’t staring at massive wings draped over the back of her sofa as he spoke, and if she couldn’t taste the truth in his words, she would have wondered what poison she had ingested.

But the moment he’d caught her on the stairs, something had changed inside her. Irreparably.

He’d said they were soulmates. Though she tasted the truth in that statement, she couldn’t wrap her mind around it. In fact, she couldn’t wrap her mind around any of it. An angel? Her? No, her soul was as dark as they came.

She held in a groan as she remembered the knife coated in his golden blood clattering to the floor. Had she actually stabbed an angel? If she weren’t already destined for eternity in a fiery pit, certainly she was now. He didn’t seem to be affected by the injury, though. Perhaps that counted for something.

A bout of exhaustion hit her and she yawned loudly, covering her mouth.

Gabriel sat forward. “What happened to your arm?”

She twisted her wrist, lips turning down at the dots of red soaking into her white sleeve. “It’s nothing.”

Gabriel slid to the edge of his seat, holding out his hand. “Let me see.”

Adalaide tugged self-consciously at her cuff. “Pardon my saying so, but I hardly think it appropriate.”

“Unbutton your sleeve and show me your injury.”

A small thrill shot through her at his demanding tone. She bit her lip, glancing at the immense snow-white wings draped over her settee and slowly undid her cuff. Carefully, she folded back the sleeve, wincing at the angry line running down her arm. It had darkened at the seam, but the bright red under her skin was a bad sign. In the evening’s excitement, she’d nearly forgotten the injury until now.

Gabriel sucked in a breath. “This shows signs of infection. Why didn't you tell me of your injury sooner?”

Adalaide huffed a laugh. “Am I meant to share the details of my life with you? I did not receive the missive.”

His sable brows fell into a flat line as his eyes darkened. “I’m going to heal you. Remain still.”

Adalaide’s heartbeat picked up speed as he cupped his hands over her forearm and soft white light spilled from between his fingers. Her arm warmed beneath the healing glow before becoming blessedly cool as the infection dissipated.

When his hands lifted, her skin was smooth and creamy, all signs of her wound erased.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Her cheeks flushed. But she shook her head.

“Do not lie to me.”

The crimson staining her cheeks burned down her neck, and she rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. “I will manage.”

“You will not. The necromancer’s talons are poisoned. You’ll only grow weaker. Show me.”

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