My stomach churns, tangling with self-hatred. I shake uncontrollably.
Murderer.
I back away.
Murderer.
I killed him! He was innocent.
I’ll never be able to forgive myself.
A voice crackles, offering a solemn reply. “Then don’t try.”
Jerking, I shift back to the mass, shocked. “John?”
My vision sharpens upon him.
He blinks with yellow eyes.
With a toothy grin, his mouth stretches open. He rises over me.
And swallows me whole.
Chapter25
His Name
Zuriel
Straining,my limbs rip from their shell. I storm from behind the counter and cast my gaze upon the quiet room. Summer isn’t here.
She’s nearby.
A meow screeches from outside the front door, and I hasten to it, unlocking and yanking it open, not caring who might see me. Genevive sprints past my legs, scurrying inside.
Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.
With hisses and yowls, her voice surges into me. Her coat raised, and the sour smell of demon rot wafts from her.
Leaning down to offer her my hand, comforting her with a pet, I ask, “Where’s Summer?”
Alley. Alley. Demon. Alley.
“Stay here. It’s safer,” I order.
As I stride outside, several onlookers stare. I snarl at them, scaring them away as bats swarm around me, and advance down the closest alleyway between the museum and bakery.
The putrid rot of blood and death emanates from there. My heart twists. Rushing forward, I unfurl my wings, claws dragging against the walls. My sense of her is faint but not gone. She’s wounded, weak.
Her huddled form is propped against the wall at the end of the alley. Beside her lies a charred mass with worms clustering over it, consuming it. Smoke trails from it, rising into the air. The walls are black with char, and drying blood pools around her. Rubbish from the bakery’s repairs, heavy bricks, and a burnt oven is sprawled throughout, blocking the museum’s back door. I crouch, pulling Summer into my arms.
“You are okay, little one. I am here now.” I side-eye the worm-covered lump, unable to make out any features from the black and red mass. “You have destroyed him again.”
I still sense Adrial, which means his menace is lingering.
Summer sags against me, moaning when I pick her up. Her blonde strands are dry and frizzy, crisped and dirty. Blood mars her cheek, her chin. Her clothes are burnt and singed. Her eyes are closed tightly, her glasses gone. They’re broken, a few steps away.
“Please,” she rasps. “I need…”
