“The scanned records I'm seeing in the academy's digital archives are barely legible, but I think I see Harper Bishop, Cheryl Nurse, Leon Redd, and—holy shit. OctaviaMorgenstern?How is that even possible? She was an only child, wasn’t she? You wouldn’t exist if she died this young.”
“Unless she had a child of her own before her death.”
“I don’t think so, Pops. It says here that Felix kept detailed records of each student he recruited. There were several entries about Octavia’s supposed struggle with infertility.”
A chill spiders down my spine. Maybe the stories about my ancestor having struck a deal with the Devil aren’t fiction after all.
“It’s not important,” I say, skimming a thumb over the demonic mask. “I’m going to see what else I can find. I’ll be back soon.”
“I’ll be here, willingly getting my ass handed to me by LuciImHome to keep Fiona’s spirit happy.”
“You know she wanted you to win eventually, right?”
“Oh, please. That cheeky bitch would’ve bet on me losing for the rest of her life out of spite for how many times I swapped the mocha in her coffee for Ex-Lax.”
Chuckling, I hang up and wander the graveyard. Jezebel lurks around a crypt dwarfing the surrounding headstones. The stone structure is framed by a trio of fallen angels: one sits upon the stout steps and tilts his beatific face toward the moon; the opposite is curled in on herself and weeping into her knees; the last guards the entry with a holy tome in her arms. Carved on a plaque above the door is the nameAurelius.
I snicker. “The pompous prick had to have the biggest crypt, didn’t he?”
Twigs snap nearby. Jezebel grumbles a low growl.
Fuck.
I tap my cell light off, tuck the mask into my jacket, and dart behind an angel. I skip my mini Glock in favor of my butterfly knife, having no interest in waking any residents living close by with a gunshot that could wake the dead. Jezebel crouches by my side, ready to pounce. Snow crunches twenty feet away. Ten. Five. Imagining a hooded figure in a creepy demon mask, I raise my knife.
The footfalls grow closer…closer.
Then they stop.
Firelight casts the shadow of a masculine silhouette across the ground.
Jezebel’s growls fade, her demeanor suddenly changing at the same moment I lunge forward and strike. A tattooed hand catches my wrist mid-air, halting the blade an inch from an angelic warrior inked in black.
My eyes snap up, and my arm drops. “Mon ange?”
“Bonjour, Petit Diable.” Brontë, features lit by the lighter in his hand, hitches a dark eyebrow as Jezebel greets him with a purring yowl. “Fancy meeting you two here.”
“Wh-what are you doing here?”
“Stalking you,” he says, deadpan, a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes. I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “The better question is: What areyoudoing here? Aren’t you under strict orders to stay away from all this?”
“I’m an adult who’s capable of making her own decisions, fuck you very much.”
“As has every victim of Leviathan been thus far.”
“Why do you care?” I snipe, my mood souring as every unspoken word between us since our last encounter at the manor comes rushing out. “We’re not working together anymore, remember? And it’s not like we’re friends. You have zero reason to give any fucks about my well-being.”
“That doesn’t mean I’d celebrate your demise, Poppy.”
I scoff and step backward, putting distance between us before I do anything rash like give him a matching scar on his other cheek. My heel catches a sheet of ice.
And I slip.
Too fast, my body pirouettes like a ballerina. My arms pinwheel. My knife tumbles to the ground, bouncing with the tip up as gravity yanks me down.
Stars save me.Despite the books I read, I really,reallydon’t want a blade in my ass.
Brontë lunges for my arm, hauling me into him. My face kamikazes off his hard chest as we stumble gracelessly. We slam into a statue so hard, the granite cracks.