I'll rip this little trollop to pieces.
I snapped my mouth closed and glared, calling to the ether in my blood.
The spring breeze became a gale, violently swishing the branches of trees in a cacophony of sound.
"My Lord." Samael released something that sounded like a swallowed snicker, then laid a hand on my shoulder. "I can handle this. You've told me everything and I'll relay it all. I'm sure you have much more important matters to handle anyhow."
I knew a save when I heard it.
"Tsk." A speck of dust landed on the lapel of my suit jacket, and I flicked it away. "I do have many important matters to handle." I gave Cain and Phoebe my back. "Just remember any bit of information is a potential clue, so do not return until you know for certain. Either way."
"Of course." Samael nodded, then pushed past me.
The ring of a small bell told me the door opened as they walked inside.
Dismissed. The Prince of Hell ignored like common garbage. I wanted to smash something, yet I forced myself to remain calm. If I can lower myself to grovel in front of God and ask for a Nephilim’s help, then I can learn to control my emotions.
Perhaps I'll check in on Anna one more time, make sure she's okay and not stealing the communion wine or some other ridiculous thing.
Really, though. If the woman had been stealing since I'd known her, she should have a hoarder's collection of trinkets by now.
Her little rebellion of thievery excited me. Sin, in any form, could get me in the mood anytime.
I blinked to the church. I reached out and searched for her presence, but it wasn't in the classrooms where I'd assumed she'd be. Instead, I found her in the same library from all those years ago.
With her feet tucked up under her, she sat in a worn chair covered in burgundy velvet that had seen better days. Ear buds plugged both ears as she listened to music. Balanced on the arm of a chair rest, a small white box held watercolor paints. She used a pen-like brush with water in its handle and stroked the bristles across a pad.
I'd always loved her perception of the world, even when she'd been a small child, so I found myself standing behind her shoulder.
She stopped for a few seconds and sniffed the air.
Damn it. I forgot to mask my scent.Her keen sense of smell was magnificent.
Her head tilted to the side, then she began painting once more.
The half-finished image confused me. It looked like the man at the bar the other night. The one she'd swiped the wallet from. In her painting, he kneeled beside a small grave with his head bowed.
What in damnation?Did she know him? And why did she steal his belongings in the first place and then ghost him?
Nothing made sense anymore.
"I know you're here, Lucian," she whispered, never pausing as she stroked the brush then dipped it into more green.
I didn't know if I should answer or not.
"And I don't think I can ever forgive you. I know that's what God would want me to do, but I can't, so get out. I'm not kidding."
"I'm sorry, Anna," I murmured, even though I knew she couldn't hear me. "I never meant to hurt you—hurt us."
She didn't respond, but her brushstrokes became more frenzied and erratic.
"I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I'm willing to do anything to make it up to you."
The only sound in the room was the scratch of the brush on paper.
I wanted to reach out, to comfort her, but knew that would be the absolute worst thing I could do.
"Anna?" asked an older female voice.
