Page 37 of Grave Revelations

“Rebecca, I—” she choked on the words, standing, preparing to run.

Rebecca’s face changed; betrayal replaced by fear. “Don’t go.”

Sophia hesitated. The witch was powerful. Was it a trap? Would she retaliate? Either way, she deserved it. Sophia had been with them for less than an hour and had attempted to suck the life from them both.

She reached for the pearls that had been lost to her during those nights underground before she’d been turned, surrounded by screams and moans and sounds of dying people.

In her delirious state, she’d assumed it had only been her and her coven in that dark cave. But now, her mind was clear for the first time in days, and she knew the truth.

“I know where all the people are.”

Chapter 23

Azazel

Azazel hit the ground, cursing. The nerve of Dina, sending him down here over a rule he was no longer bound to uphold.

He stood, blowing out a breath.

He touched his chest just over the spot where his soul rested, feeling its faint pulse. Separated by the planes of existence, it was weak, but he could feel her. He would know if she was in danger.

Azazel strode through the dark caverns of Primoria. Misting through stone, he cut a path straight for the throne room and the portal beyond.

Howls, moans, and screams echoed off the walls; he ignored them all. The place did seem a bit more crowded than usual, but that wasn’t his problem. Rebecca was in very real danger, and the longer he remained down here, the more likely it was she would be hurt.

At the entry to the chamber, he halted before the two thrones. He moved, stepping up to the second. It was smaller than the first, but not by much, and built of the surrounding earth, brown and dry. His gaze landed on the larger, crimson chair, molded of volcanic fire with a triangle at the head, pointed up. To sit atop that throne without fire magic was to invite death, the eternal kind.

Gaze darting back to the second throne, Azazel pressed a hand to the symbol at the head of the chair: an upside-down triangle with a line bisecting it—earthmagic. Only a handful of his brethren had earth magic as their primary elemental gift, and only one archangel.Sariel. Perhaps Dina had been right to worry.

He left the chair, moving to the swirling vortex against the opposite wall.

“Leaving so soon?” The voice cut like nails at his psyche. He took another step toward the wall, but the pull was too strong, dragging him back. If the king of this realm would not release him, he was not free to go.

Biting down on his anger, Azazel turned, facing the devil. “I have work to do above.”

“Come brother, stay awhile.” Samael moved to his throne, patting the arm. Azazel took halting steps toward him, fighting the urge to obey. Samael rolled his eyes, looking bored. “You’re being difficult. If you want to be free of my control, accept my offer. Join me. Then you won’t have to wear those human rags.”

Azazel stopped in front of Samael and fought with every fiber as his knee hit the floor and his head dipped low. He remained that way, pushing against invisible restraints.

“Rise.” Samael’s voice matched his apathetic expression. “Why are you here, brother?”

Azazel gritted his teeth together as he rose, but even his truths weren’t his. “Dina… killed… me…”

At this, Samael sat forward. “Oh, thatisa surprise. You must be up to more trouble than I realized. Tell me, what did you do to make our dear sister so upset?”

His jaw ached, but he pressed his molars together. His lips parted as words slid between his teeth. “I… told… seraph secrets.” He gasped out the last words.

“Wonderful!” Samael laughed, clapping his hands together. “I hope it was to someone up to no good.”

It wasn’t a direct question, and Azazel felt no coercion prying the words from him. He tested his restraints, finding he could move his arms but not his legs. The interrogation wasn’t over yet.

He slid his gaze to the chair beside Samael, looking for any marks to indicate it had been claimed. Samael followed Azazel’s stare.

“Looking for your brother? He’s not in at the moment, but the chair is promised to him. I’ll craft yours the moment you give the word.”

The words tasted like truth even as they slithered over Samael’s forked tongue. But the careful wording could mean Sariel hadn’t agreed to anything. Azazel had to get back. Had to get to the lance first.

“I won’t consider your offer unless I know my analogous umbra will be safe from your kind,” Azazel countered.

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