all it took; she slumped to the side as though drugged, sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted.
Sherlock padded into the living room, furry gray tail held high, and leapt onto the couch beside her. Gabriel smiled at the faithfulness of such a fickle creature, further evidence of Hope’s kind nature.
“You were a stray, weren’t you?” he murmured to the cat, who answered him with half-closed eyes and the twitch of the tail.
Knowing patience was a virtue, Gabe took a seat in the chair opposite, content to watch over his charge while she slept. Perhaps, if he was lucky, she’d be in a better mood when she woke up, and might even cease to snap at him. His eyes roamed the room, lighting on yet another picture of Hope with her sister. Charity, she’d said her name was, and Gabe smiled grimly as he realized the irony: Hope and Charity, together as one. The one thing required, yet conspicuous by its absence, was Faith.
He looked at her, so pale and slight against the cushions, and saw again her aura, surrounding her with a faint white glow. The black swarm he’d seen was absent, but he didn’t fool himself into believing it was gone. This woman had her own demons, and until she confronted them head-on, they would never go away.
Chapter Five
“H e’s taken the bait, Master.”
Samael, Prince of Darkness, did not stir from his contemplation of the fire. He spent many hours here, in this hard-backed chair, carved with arcane symbols and blackened with age. In this chair he heard nothing but the crackle of flames, and thought of nothing save the yearnings of his own heart.
“Did he now?” he asked Nyx idly. He knew exactly who Nyx was referring to, having arranged the meeting between Hope and Gabriel himself, and chosen the Throne of Nothingness to await the results. Gabe thought himself so clever, keeping an eye on Nicki Styx while thinking Sammy none the wiser; he would learn that Little Five Points, Georgia, was no safer for an angel’s heart than it was for a devil’s, and maybe even learn to mind his own business in the process. “Why am I not surprised?”
Nyx edged closer, stepping from the shadows into Sammy’s line of sight. The tips of his wings quivered, a sure sign of anticipation, eyes glowing red in the firelight. “The Lightbringer is in her apartment,” the Chief Servant reported. “Shall I challenge him now?”
“No.” Unconcerned, Sammy leaned back in the chair, extending his long legs toward the fire and hooking bare feet at the ankle. His robe, woven from cobwebs by the Dryads of Doom, kept him warm when all else about him was cold. “The game is barely begun, my friend, and all the sweeter for it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
Of course Nyx wouldn’t understand; the delicate dance between man and woman was far beyond him, for when Sammy created him, he hadn’t understood it himself.
Now he did, perhaps too well.
The walls of the bedchamber, his private sanctuary, were hung with tapestries that had once adorned the palaces of kings. Gold and silver thread caught the glitter of firelight, deceiving the eye into thinking the pageantry they depicted—colorful jousts, processions, hunting scenes, mythical creatures—were real, and important, when in actuality they were flat, lifeless memories of days long past.
“But the Darkness, my lord,” Nyx made bold to protest, disturbing Sammy’s reverie. “It’s hungry. The ethereals are sorely depleted in number, as are the imps. The demon Ashtaroth has traditionally been given the souls of suicides to replenish himself; he needs them now more than ever.”
“The hounds of Hell are always baying, old friend. There’s not enough blood on Earth to satisfy them.”
The door to Sammy’s bedchamber flew open, banging loudly against the opposite wall.
“Where’ve you been, Father?” Cain, Sammy’s nine-year-old son and the current bane of his existence, burst into the room with no regard for
Sherlock padded into the living room, furry gray tail held high, and leapt onto the couch beside her. Gabriel smiled at the faithfulness of such a fickle creature, further evidence of Hope’s kind nature.
“You were a stray, weren’t you?” he murmured to the cat, who answered him with half-closed eyes and the twitch of the tail.
Knowing patience was a virtue, Gabe took a seat in the chair opposite, content to watch over his charge while she slept. Perhaps, if he was lucky, she’d be in a better mood when she woke up, and might even cease to snap at him. His eyes roamed the room, lighting on yet another picture of Hope with her sister. Charity, she’d said her name was, and Gabe smiled grimly as he realized the irony: Hope and Charity, together as one. The one thing required, yet conspicuous by its absence, was Faith.
He looked at her, so pale and slight against the cushions, and saw again her aura, surrounding her with a faint white glow. The black swarm he’d seen was absent, but he didn’t fool himself into believing it was gone. This woman had her own demons, and until she confronted them head-on, they would never go away.
Chapter Five
“H e’s taken the bait, Master.”
Samael, Prince of Darkness, did not stir from his contemplation of the fire. He spent many hours here, in this hard-backed chair, carved with arcane symbols and blackened with age. In this chair he heard nothing but the crackle of flames, and thought of nothing save the yearnings of his own heart.
“Did he now?” he asked Nyx idly. He knew exactly who Nyx was referring to, having arranged the meeting between Hope and Gabriel himself, and chosen the Throne of Nothingness to await the results. Gabe thought himself so clever, keeping an eye on Nicki Styx while thinking Sammy none the wiser; he would learn that Little Five Points, Georgia, was no safer for an angel’s heart than it was for a devil’s, and maybe even learn to mind his own business in the process. “Why am I not surprised?”
Nyx edged closer, stepping from the shadows into Sammy’s line of sight. The tips of his wings quivered, a sure sign of anticipation, eyes glowing red in the firelight. “The Lightbringer is in her apartment,” the Chief Servant reported. “Shall I challenge him now?”
“No.” Unconcerned, Sammy leaned back in the chair, extending his long legs toward the fire and hooking bare feet at the ankle. His robe, woven from cobwebs by the Dryads of Doom, kept him warm when all else about him was cold. “The game is barely begun, my friend, and all the sweeter for it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
Of course Nyx wouldn’t understand; the delicate dance between man and woman was far beyond him, for when Sammy created him, he hadn’t understood it himself.
Now he did, perhaps too well.
The walls of the bedchamber, his private sanctuary, were hung with tapestries that had once adorned the palaces of kings. Gold and silver thread caught the glitter of firelight, deceiving the eye into thinking the pageantry they depicted—colorful jousts, processions, hunting scenes, mythical creatures—were real, and important, when in actuality they were flat, lifeless memories of days long past.
“But the Darkness, my lord,” Nyx made bold to protest, disturbing Sammy’s reverie. “It’s hungry. The ethereals are sorely depleted in number, as are the imps. The demon Ashtaroth has traditionally been given the souls of suicides to replenish himself; he needs them now more than ever.”
“The hounds of Hell are always baying, old friend. There’s not enough blood on Earth to satisfy them.”
The door to Sammy’s bedchamber flew open, banging loudly against the opposite wall.
“Where’ve you been, Father?” Cain, Sammy’s nine-year-old son and the current bane of his existence, burst into the room with no regard for
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