There’s been no time to cope with what happened last night. We kissed. Zuriel and I almost had sex. I begged him for it.
That’s not me. I’m not a sexual person. I’ve tested the waters and came away underwhelmed.Books are better than boys.I have a shirt that says something to that effect in my closet. Sure, on those nights I struggle to fall asleep, I’ll whip out my vibrator and reach a quick orgasm. I figured I’d end up with an intellectual, someone with shared interests. I never expecteddesireto become part of the equation.
The world has made me jaded. Men haven’t helped. Accidentally clicking on an incel article online has made me even warier of the opposite sex.
On the rare occasion I’ve had a boyfriend, we never lasted long, deciding we were better off as friends. I never became too attached or saidI love you, and the breakups were hardly heartbreaking. Once my curiosity was disappointedly satisfied, sex became a relationship responsibility. Part of getting older, I thought.
I’d become fine with it.
Yet last night, I begged for sex from a creature I didn’t believe existed until recently.
This desire is going to get me killed. I clear off my glasses again and turn away from Zuriel, wishing I could wipe my thoughts clean as well.
I walk deeper into the museum, down into the basement, stopping at the back corner room with a door that readsManuscripts and Old Texts.
It’s one of the few rooms that stays locked—only visitors cleared by Hopkins are allowed to enter. Opening the door, a familiar dusty smell fills my nostrils. More scrolls than books line the expansive shelves. There is a higher shelf that he has explicitly warned me from touching, and I give it a wide berth.
I take a few minutes to review the collection and then gather the books and scrolls that appear most promising, those with titles ranging fromThemistocles’ Theories on the Darker DivinitiestoThe Modern Take on Ancient Demons.
I backtrack to the base of the stairs where a cement-floored room opens to several doorways that lead guests through the basement. The green walls are lined with art, while fatigued armchairs and antique tables clutter the edges. What matters is that the lighting is good, and I’ll have space to spread out. Settling on the floor, I drop the texts next to me, not knowing where to begin.
I pick up the closest one and flip to the first page.
Chapter16
Omissions
Zuriel
My limbs loosen,letting me fall from my stiff pose. Waiting until my eyes adjust and moisten, I crack my neck and flex my hands, releasing a growl.
My bond with Summer has strengthened.
Scanning the museum’s front room, my nostrils flare, taking in a myriad of scents, including burnt skin and bird droppings, traces of rot, and Summer’s lingering fear. None of these resemble blood despite the destruction of Adrial’s human form.
She came away unharmed.
She will be spent…My power is not meant for humans. I may have saved her life, though she may be broken in other ways.
Where is she? I take in the drawn curtains. There’s a whisper of wings on the other side.
I step out from behind the counter and look down at my feet. A scraggly long-haired cat peers up at me, her bright green eyes piercing. Her tail flicks, once, twice, and after making up her mind, she trots up to stand beside me. When she nuzzles my leg, I reach down and streak my claws behind her ears. Summer’s smell is all over her.
I caress my hand down the feline’s back. “Good cat. Where is your mistress hiding?”
She runs across my leg once more before darting off into the museum. Some of the lights are on, casting soft gold shadows, giving the space an even older, mustier appearance than usual. Floorboards creak under my foot as I wander from one exhibit to the next. The cat leads me even deeper, where the dangers become real.
I pause at a glass case containing a talon, the claw wrapped in a single translucent hair. It’s from an angel of the hierarchy’s lowest ring, although the angel’s name eludes me. More than glass, it is protected by fresh holy water and enchantments.
The cat mews from the top of the staircase. She looks pointedly down and then scurries away. I head her way.
At the base of the stairs, Summer huddles on the bottom step, facing the antechamber. Stacks of books and unfurled scrolls are sprawled around her.
She’s speaking to someone on a phone. Her fingers tap a parchment in her lap, annoyance in their rhythm, too entranced to notice my approach.
“Yes, Dad, I’m still here. Uh, John Beck stopped by earlier and invited me to join him at the Watering Hole, so I'll be out late tonight.”
John?
