Page 8 of Light

Letting her mind drift, she thought back to the events of the evening. The woman, not a witch as she’d first thought, had an air of something unique.

When Adalaide crossed paths with other witches, her own gifts recognized whichever of theirs was strongest. Sometimes, she could feel more than one gift, and once, she’d met a witch with three, but never all four elemental gifts like herself. The woman last night was powerful, but none of Adalaide’s gifts had responded when she had appeared in her foyer.

And Adalaide would be dead now if not for the man. Man wasn’t the right word. He’d felt like her.

Her senses had gone haywire when he appeared. It was as if he had materialized from nothing. But unlike the night-creatures or even the other witches who displaced the world around them, he was a part of it. Molded from the very fabric of existence.

She had been so distracted by his appearance that she’d forgotten to use her third eye to get a better look at him. Still, there had been a feeling. Something she couldn’t put words to.

She touched a finger to her bare chest, remembering how her ember had pulsed as if to say, good day friend.

The old grandfather clock downstairs chimed the third hour. If she hoped to ward the house and fix the door before nightfall, she had no more time to waste.

Chapter 9

Gabriel

Gabriel made a fifth circle and landed on the adjacent roof to the Naphil’s home.

Workers had replaced the door, and the woman had spent the better part of the afternoon warding it with various spells. Her magic was powerful for a Nephilim. Something uncomfortable twisted in his chest. He had strong magic, the strongest of all his siblings. Possibly even enough to rival the Fallen.

His other half would be equally powerful when compared with her kind.

“No,” he said the word aloud as if giving voice to it could deter the tiny ember attempting to take root. He would not let that feeling grow again, only to have his hope dashed against the rocks of despair when it turned out she was not his. Being Nephilim did not make her his. And being of the Gavras line marked her for premature death.

If she died… or rejected him…

“No,” he said again, shaking his head to put more emphasis on the word. He would not become like Aniel, lost forever to his grief.

Once he had rejoiced in a day when his two halves would reunite. Once he had looked upon every born Naphil with hope.

After so many millennia, that hope was dead.

The woman, Miss Graves, the workers called her, took a bite of cookie and set it back on the plate beside her. She had dragged a small table and chair out onto the footway and sat with a leather journal and cookies, weaving spells throughout the early afternoon.

From his vantage point, there wasn’t a bare patch of stone or glass. Whether it would be strong enough to keep out Sanura was a different matter.

Gabriel smirked as she jumped up from her seat, dusting crumbs down a deep burgundy skirt. They fell to the cobbled sidewalk as she cursed the crumbs in a very unladylike manner and glared at the offending cookie.

She was taller than he’d first thought. It was more noticeable now as she stood beside the low table, brushing out her skirts. Her dark hair, though bound, was loosely done, and a knot of curls rested against her shoulder rather than being secured beneath a bonnet, as was expected when a lady was out of doors.

Miss Graves’s journal ruffled in the wind, and the pages turned several times. She sat cursing again and began flipping through them.

He snorted as she flicked furiously, mumbling more curses under her breath. Not ladylike at all.

The air shifted as Dina landed silently beside him, and he schooled his features into blank indifference.

“A Naphil,” she breathed.

He glanced sideways at her. “Don’t.”

“Gabriel, you must know what this means.”

“I said don’t.”

Dina opened her mouth, but, seeing his expression, closed it.

They watched in silence as she continued flipping pages. When she had finished her work, the woman stuffed the leather journal under her arm and pulled the chair behind her, going into her townhouse.

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