I don’t know who Mad and Killian are or how Gabriel can hear us through the heavy metal door, but a moment later, the two men walk in, breathing heavily. A drop of blood stains Gabriel’s lip. Sinclair pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his knuckles.
“Men,” Zoe mutters. “What was it this time?”
“The archangel called me an ass,” Sin says, his tone so mild he might as well be ordering a turkey sandwich. “I was merely earning the title.”
Gabriel sinks into the chair next to me and takes my hand. “You are tired,deliciae.I wish you had slept more.”
His touch calms me like nothing else can. “You keep calling me that. What does it mean?”
“Deliciae?” He stares down at our joined hands. “It is ancient Latin for…well, darling would be the closest translation. If the word makes you uncomfortable…I will not use it again.”
I try to force the lump in my throat away, but the damn thing won’t budge. We’ve known each other less than a day—unless you count the few moments we spent at the cathedral weeks ago—but we’re connected in a way I’ve never experienced before.
Do all angels have this effect on humans? Or…witches?
“Willow?” Gabriel skims a knuckle along my cheek. I blink hard, then meet his concerned gaze. “You were somewhere else.”
“This…this isn’t real.” My eyes burn, the first hint of tears pricking at the corners. “None of this. Angels, demons, my whisper…it can’t be. I’m in a coma. Or dead. Or?—”
Gabriel’s lips crash against mine. His tongue demands entrance, and I part for him. The kiss sets me on fire. I griphis arms, my fingers digging into the firm muscles as if he can ground me in this reality I so desperately want to believe in.
“Ahem.” Sinclair clears his throat. “If the two of you would prefer to be alone…”
Gabriel breaks off the kiss, but keeps me caged in his arms. “This is real, Willow. All of it,” he whispers in my ear. Turning to Sinclair, he levels the demon with a withering gaze. “I thought a sex demon would be more comfortable with public displays of affection.”
Sin straightens his shoulders, one hand curled protectively around Zoe’s waist. His deep blue eyes are ringed with red. “The amount of energy you sent into the room just now was…disorienting.”
Oh, my God. This isn’t happening. I stare into the coffee mug to hide my embarrassment.
“My apologies,” Gabriel says, his tone subdued as he scoots his chair a few inches away. “I did not think of that.”
“Can we focus on the real problem?” Zoe holds out her hand for Sin’s phone, then connects it to the conference room system. “Mad and Killian are waiting for us.”
With a few taps to the screen, Sinclair launches a video call.
Greatest Warlock of All Time
Gabriel snorts. “You cannot be serious.”
“He spelled my phone,” Sin mutters. “Every time I attempt to change it, the title gets more and more ridiculous. If try again…I fear he could end up calling himself ‘God.’”
Gabriel brushes his hair over his shoulder. “And piss off the Almighty? Not even Killian is that stupid.”
“I heard that.” On screen, a dark-haired man, exhausted, wearing a thick, wool fisherman’s sweater, stares back at us. Next to him, a shorter man with features so much like Sin’s, they have to be related, crowds closer. “We tracked down theValkyrie, Kàra. But she’s a bloody vampire, so we only had an hour with her before she had to go to ground.”
“Well?” Sinclair asks.
Killian stifles his yawn. “The last time Kàra heard anyone talk about a whisper was 1756. She only heard rumors. But not long after they started, her sire—he’s dead now—started hunting for the whisper’s keeper. This Keeper could apparently wield an ancient weapon with so much power, every vampire, witch, and shifter was pissing themselves, convinced the world was going to end.”
The other man, the one related to Sin, leans closer to the camera. “If the weapon is in play,” he says, “the whisper—and the whisper keeper—will know where it is.”
“Any idea what this weapon is called?” Sinclair asks.
I clear my throat, and everyone in the room turns to me. “The Blade of Liminal Transference. It…” Can I really tell them? If I do, I lose any chance to run. Or worse. Sinclair or Killian—or anyone else at the Bureau—could decide they want the power for themselves.
“Willow, you can trust them,” Gabriel says softly. “I can sense your fear, but Sinclair is one of the most honorable men I know. And despite his hubris, Killian is utterly devoted to protecting this world. Maddox—his mate—is half angel. You could not have found better allies in this realm.”
I force a deep breath. Gabriel’s conviction infuses his every word. I want to trust him. I want to trust all of them.
