Page 159 of Wicked Believer
“Your secrets have always been safe with me,” I reassure her.
Her tone turns urgent. “We don’t have much time, not before Michael grows suspicious.”
“Is that why you’re here? Now that you see how cruel he can be?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I ... do not believe Father’s absence was intended to lead to this.” To Michael’s little apocalyptic temper tantrum. “And I’m not the only one.”
I shove my hands in my pockets, lifting a smug brow. I suspected as much. “And what information do you have for me that might help put a stop to all this bloody apocalypse nonsense?”
“That’s truly your goal?” Her eyes widen.
I give a curt nod.
“The lance,” she says, nodding toward Longinus’s spear. “When I first heard the rumor it had resurfaced, I jumped to the most logical conclusion. I thought for certain Michael had been truthful when he said he had it, but when your wife’s actress was killed by the true blade,therealblade, and Iknewwith complete certainty that Michael wasn’t responsible, because he was withmethat night and he’d never allow the lance to leave his sight, I knew something was amiss.”
“What do you mean, sister?”
“I did some digging, turned over some old stones, and it turns out there are other versions of the blade in play, blessed copies that Father must have had Gabriel forge, but the real one is still out there. I’m certain of it.”
My blood runs cold. “What are you saying, Seraph?”
She looks toward me, her expression grave. “I’m saying that the blade Michael has is a fake. He’s been lying to us all, which means ...”
“The real killer is still out there.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Charlotte
I’m headed back to the penthouse, to mine and Lucifer’s engagement party, after my final fitting before the CFDA Awards, which is less than a week away, and the backseat of the Town Car smells like the amber-laced perfume I just sprayed.
I smile at my reflection in my phone’s camera, admiring how on point my makeup looks. The girls are front and center tonight, since I’ve managed to squeeze my boobs into a new, sexy, scaled-up version of my too-tight purity dress.
Lucifer is going to love it.
“Eat shit, Dad,” I mutter as I make a quick kiss face and take a selfie.
Tonight, I’m feeling bolder than I ever would have been a few months ago.
I caption the picture with something vague along with a few of my favorite hashtags and hit post before only the seat belt stops me from tumbling out of my seat.
The Town Car comes to a stop abruptly.
“Dagon?” I call out. “Dagon? Why are we stopping?”
From what I can see, there’s no traffic jam on the road. I try to lower the window partition and ask, but the button seems to be jammed. I roll my eyes. What else is new? Sighing, I unbuckle my seat belt and move off the bench seat to knock on the glass.
Dagon doesn’t respond to me.
What the hell?
My heart starts to race.
I fist my hand and pound the glass harder. It’s bulletproof.
Nothing.
I shout, but when that doesn’t do any good, I start to seriously panic. Adrenaline shoots through me. My iPhone and none of the car’s electronics are working.
