Series: The Sacrifice Series by Natasha Knight
Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
“Why? Is she okay?” How do I answer that? But I don’t have to answer because Emmanuel speaks again. “The doctor’s here. I’ll call you back. Go take care of your wife.”
We disconnect, and I get up, pace the length of the corridor while I try to work out what to do. When I am almost at the door to the examining room Willow is in, I see a kid with a large bouquet of white lilies at the nurse’s station, and I think I hear Willow’s name. I walk over as the nurse tells the kid to leave the delivery and she’ll make sure Willow gets it.
“Just a minute,” I say, stopping him from leaving.
“Mr. Delacroix. They’re for your wife. I’m not sure how someone would know she was here—”
I take the card from the flowers, keeping hold of the kid, and pull the note out of the envelope. My heart pounds against my chest when I read it.
You look like a whore is scribbled in angry red and beneath it, a capital letter A. I know what it is. The Scarlet Letter. Adulteress.
“Goodness, this is odd,” the nurse says.
I look up to find her unwrapping the paper around the bouquet and there, from the bottom of it, drops a heavy, familiar rosary. One similar to what was hanging on Shemhazai’s wrist. One similar to the fragment I’d found on the driveway the day the Disciples kidnapped Willow, Raven, and Bec.
I turn to the kid, slam him against the wall. “Who the hell are you?”
“What?” Terrified, he puts his arms up to block me.
“Where did you come from?”
“Sir! Mr. Delacroix!” The nurse pulls at my arm.
“This guy. He gave me twenty bucks to carry it up.”
“Yeah? Where is he? Where the fuck is Caleb?” I bark.
“I don’t know any Caleb. I don’t know… He gave me twenty bucks. I swear, man. I swear!”
Two men pull me off the kid, and I look at him—at his mop of curly hair, his hoodie and shorts, his sandals. He doesn’t look like a Disciple. He looks like a scared kid.
I scrub my face, then pull free of the men holding me back. I pick up those flowers and throw them against the wall at the back of the station, that rosary crashing along with the lilies, then I stalk back into the examining room, determined not to leave Willow alone again. Not for a second. Because they’re here. They can get to us. It was foolish of me to ever think otherwise.
18
WILLOW
Azrael is on edge during the drive home, and I don’t have it in me to offer him false assurances. I know he saw the look on Salomé’s face, along with her determination to see me dead.
As I stare out the window, the thought crosses my mind that perhaps I should stay with my family until the situation with Salomé is resolved, but it doesn’t feel right. I refuse to run from an insane old woman or allow her to drive more wedges between Azrael and me than she already has.
“When Salomé came to our room, I asked her if she left the gate open,” I tell Azrael, my voice muted beneath the sound of rain pelting the windshield.
We couldn’t finish this conversation earlier, but now it’s more important than ever that he knows. I feel him glancing at me as he drives, but I can’t look at him. I just need to get this out, and what he does with the information is up to him.
“She didn’t deny it.”
Silence swallows up the space between us, and I know he’s lost in his thoughts, but it doesn’t deter me from going on.
“She didn’t deny that she knew I’d take Bec with me either.”
Again, Azrael doesn’t respond.
“She said it was a cute story, but who would believe me? She told me I’ve deluded myself into thinking you care and that you were probably with another woman as we spoke.”
“Willow.” Azrael reaches over to take my hand in his.
“She said the Tithe will be paid, and soon I’ll be nothing more than a burned corpse rotting in the ground.”
I feel him flinch, his grip on me tightening. I hold my breath, waiting for his response. I don’t know what he’ll say. Honestly, I don’t know what I expect him to do. Salomé is an old woman. A sick old woman, at that. While I harbor no pity for her, I know this isn’t easy for Azrael. As twisted as their bond may be, she’s the only parental figure he’s had in his life for a very long time.
“It isn’t safe for me around her,” I tell him.
“I know,” he chokes out, pain lancing his voice.
“Maybe I should stay with my family for a while—”
“No.” His declaration holds a weight of finality.
“Azrael—”
“There’s a cottage on the property,” he says. “I’ll keep her there under guard, with a nurse to take care of her. In the meantime, you, too, will have your own guard inside the house when I’m not around.”