After Saraqael left him and Hell changed, he finally believed the council of Seraphim he’d once been part of had become venal. He should’ve come to that conclusion years ago, when I mentioned their immoral practices. But he chose not to believe or trust me. After all, I was a Dark Seraphim. My powers tortured and controlled. And yet, this Council ofRighteousnesscreated me. When the only being in existence who should be able to create angels was the Weaver and his dagger, which hid behind my arm.
But Lucifer provided me refuge, so I didn’t question him.
Why he chose not to believe Saraqael, I had no idea.
“Add the Nephilim too.”
I raised a brow. “The Nephilim?”
“She might as well have one friend watching her back. Put him with the Tormentors too.”
Moira was going to roast my balls for this new development. I’d be going over her head to place two weak, tiny, unseasoned—not even warriors—in her squadron.
Seven Hells.
I sucked up my griping words and accepted my orders.
An unnerving smile graced his face as he dismissed me. One I recognized—and hated.
“Good luck.”
I walked to his door.
“Oh, Ronen.”
My hand paused on the door handle while my arm pressed firmly into the sheath hiding the Weaver’s dagger.
“Yes?”
“Was there something you needed?”
Now was my chance. I could tell him we had one of the two items we needed for the Unmaking Ceremony.
“Just wanted to report we found no sightings of the Damned today.”
The words just popped out. They were the truth, but they weren’t the ones I should’ve said.
He nodded and waved me away.
The dagger burned a hole in my arm as I made my way back to my rooms.
Why didn’t I tell him?
Chapter
Three
LUCILLE
Grogginess weighed down my eyes as I blinked into a canopy of red and black fabric. I twisted to the right, tracing a line of deep red pillows that ended at a trio of floor-length, gothic windows. Pale light spilled through their decorative panes, casting shadows across the floor. A popping sound pulled my attention to a small fire flickering in a stone hearth.
I sat up.
Where was I?
Scooting over to the edge of the bed, I pushed off my blankets. A loose camisole fell over my chest, ending at a pair of tiny black shorts. I froze at the sight of the giant pink scars. They ran from the hem of my bottoms down my thighs, their stitched edges overlapping.
Who healed me?
