Page 15 of Grave Revelations

“What happened to not leaving me alone?” she asked. “I’m not useless. In case you’ve forgotten, I killed at least a few dozen of the night-beings in Bermuda.”

Azazel snorted. “And yet you’re still afraid to use your gifts.”

Rebecca frowned. She had used an immense amount of power, yet she was still here, feeling better than she ever had. Could he be telling the truth? But she’d grown so weak all those times and only ever felt better when a healer had funneled magic into her. Even if she didn’t use her own magic, Ada’s sacrifice hung over her, counting down her life.

She ran her gaze over Azazel’s reclining form. Was there a way to break the deal? Would he tell her if there was?

“If I’m not growing weaker from using magic, what exactly kills me when I turn twenty-five?”

He rested both arms on his armrests, meeting her stare. “Dina trapped a very powerful Naphil named Sanura in Sheol, but only another Naphil’s blood—the last Naphil—was strong enough for the spell.”

Sanura. She had heard that name before.

Azazel continued, “But there were two parts to her sacrifice. To remove a necromancer from the human plane, Dina needed a willing supplicant. Adalaide,” he tripped over her name, “gave herself too freely. When the magic was woven around the spell, Sanura’s other half corrupted it, pulling not just the life from Adalaide’s body but from every single one of her future descendants.

“Gabriel traded one of his gifts for the lives of the males of her line. It was the only deal he would make.”

Rebecca’s mouth hung slack as she stared at the creature across from her. “But… you said I’m Nephilim. If Adalaide was the last one, how can that be?”

“Rebecca, youareAdalaide.”

Chapter 8

Azazel

Rebecca’s cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson, a lovely contrast against the pale alabaster skin running along her jawline and down her neck. The emotions warring across her face would have been comical had the expletives rolling through her mind not been directed at him.

Why she was mad at him, he couldn’t fathom. All she did was ask for truths, yet when he gave them, her temper flared. Not that it was ever truly in check; it hadn’t escaped his notice that she’d been far too calm since he rescued her.

Shock. It was the only explanation. When she’d processed everything, he fully expected her fiery rage to make itself known.

“You can’t… I’m not…” she closed her mouth, working to compose herself. “What exactly do you mean?”

Had she forgotten he could read her mind? She wasn’t asking what he meant at all. She was demanding he turn her world right side up and make sense of it for her. But that would require dishonesty, and lies were something he would never give her.

“I’ll give you answers. But first, I need to check our surroundings. I had expected a several-hour head start on the necromancer, but if she has creatures who can travel by day, they may already be close. Let me scout the area. I’ll return shortly.”

The flush in her cheeks burned brighter, but she said nothing—definitely shock.

Without giving her a chance to argue, Azazel stood, misting through the wall, and shot into the sky. The familiar burn in his chest—his constant companion these many decades—intensified, shards of glass slicing into him as the distance stretched between them, but dulled as he cleared the tree line, stopping just out of range of the worst of the pain.

He scanned the surrounding area, searching for any signs of the necromancer’s creatures. Drifting left, he hovered above the only harbor in the town of Sfakia, seeing small, battered fishermen’s skiffs docked there, but no larger vessels.

He circled the peak. Far down the mountain, a light glimmered dimly between the densest trees on its north-facing side.

He dropped, sinking into the shadows. Drawing on the energy pooled there, he followed the darkness running along the path. He slid over the ground, coming up alongside a makeshift tent steadied between two large cypress trees. The forest was alive with the sounds of insects and animals—a good sign.

He slid under the tent flap, stretching with the shadow cast along a flashlight’s beam. Two men sat together, huddled close. The first man’s hands trembled as he fumbled with the straps of his backpack. Alive then. Not the necromancer’s creatures.

“Fire,” Azazel breathed into the air.

“We should make a fire,” he said to his friend. “It will only get colder.”

The other nodded. “I’ll collect firewood.”

Knowing the cold wouldn’t kill them, Azazel nodded to himself and left the tent, breaking from the shadows to lift above the canopy.

Sweeping over the area, he expanded his circle until he’d reached the beaches on the opposite side of the island.

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