Page 45 of Touched By Darkness

“Define villain.”

Now she smiles, as if my reply surprised her in a good way. “A villain is someone who’s against Daemon. Tell me, new girl, are you an enemy?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Okay, that was a cheesy comment. The urge to face-palm strikes me like a thunderclap cracking through a valley.

Me and my mouth.

She watches me for a moment longer, then gets to her feet. “Will you be okay now?”

My response is a nod. I don’t want her to leave, but I have no choice but to let her go. “I’ll be fine.”

* * *

I’m on my front with my feet crossed in the air. The fireplace warms the side of my face as I turn another page and skim my eyes over the text.

I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I’m entranced regardless, reading about Hell’s history. The information in here is so different from anything the elders told us. Their stories were so cutthroat.

“Fallen angels are bad.”

“Stay away.”

No wonder I was always curious.

Amenadiel once told me my curiosity would get me into trouble, and I think it’s safe to say that trouble didn’t just find me; it completely owned me.

I turn another page, then pause. The picture on the page depicts the fall: seven angels walking out of Hell, covered head to toe in blood.

Chills run down my spine. I slowly sit up, pulling the book onto my lap.

Amenadiel walks beside Lucifer, and even though it’s a drawing, the likeness is undeniable. Five other angels trail behind, but my eyes stay glued to the brothers in the lead.

The darkening sky surrounds their group like a vengeful God, and their white, crimson-stained wings sprout black feathers.

I turn another page, my eyes scanning the drawings. Their wings are now fully black, and their once-blue eyes are dark pits of nothingness.

The picture on the next page depicts fangs and horns.

As I reach up to my hair, my fingers glide through the silky strands to poke the small, protruding horns.

Daemon didn’t like it the first time I touched his, but he let me explore them, as if he fed on the stunned curiosity in my gaze.

The paper crinkles in the silence, which is only interrupted by the sparks in the fireplace. I turn more pages, skimming the text, until I come upon a picture of an angel engulfed in flames.

I’m mesmerized by the dark, wolfish smile on his lips. There are no screams of agony, no signs of fear, and no hesitancy. His power is an extension of him, and he wields it like a deadly, destructive weapon.

Looking down at my own hand, I bring a flame to life, watching it flicker wildly.

It dances across my palm, a graceful performer on a lit-up stage, before growing still, like the glassy surface of a quiet pond.

I stretch my arm out, and it spreads along the surface in a symphony of flames.

A lit match to a trail of gasoline.

“You’re growing stronger.”

I startle, and the flames go out as if doused with a bucket of water.

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