Allow the sight to reach its goal
Bind to us our long-lost soul
The bowl rose into the air, and Rowan watched it closely, sweat dripping from her brow as she concentrated and held the power still. She couldn’t lie—the thrill she felt as her energy connected with Hannah’s was intoxicating. The conduit of power from Azaiel and Priest electrified her cells in a way she’d never felt before.
For one brief moment as the connection between the four of them solidified, images and emotions assaulted her. It was a heady mixture that left her panting. A cross. Instruments of torture. Fire. Rage. An eagle. Despair.
They were gone as fast as they’d come, but a lingering touch stayed behind—an intrusion inside her head. Rowan gritted her teeth and slammed her mental doors shut—the ones that protected her innermost secrets—and pushed back. Hard.
Someone wanted something from her, but who? Irritated, Rowan easily cleared her mind. She’d deal with it later.
As she and Hannah continued to chant, the bowl turned in the air, slowly to the right four times, then back to the left the same number of turns. It hovered over the map, seeming to drift aimlessly. The weight of that bowl in the air was like a slab of stone pressed against her chest. It seemed to hover forever, but she knew that, in fact, mere minutes had passed.
All eyes were on the bowl as it slowly stopped turning, and the cracks that ran along the circumference liquefied into long, spidery arms of black. Blood seeped through. One single drop slipped out and fell onto the map.
Rowan tugged her hands from the men, grabbed the bowl from the air, and set it beside her. She pushed several strands of hair from her neck, hating how they stuck to her slick, sweaty skin. She was light-headed and jittery, but all was forgotten as she gazed upon the map. Hannah studied it closely as well, her eyes alive with a fever that Rowan knew all too well. Magick was like a drug, and the euphoric feeling that accompanied its use was indescribable.
It had led many a weak witch to an early grave.
Cedric, Frank, and Nico moved in closer, and they all stared down at the table. Rowan’s fingers trembled as she pointed toward the map. “There,” she whispered.
Frank leaned in and nodded. “Okay then. Guess we’re headed to Maine.”
Azaiel nodded to Priest. “A word?”
Priest and Nico followed him outside. They left Rowan and Hannah quietly packing up their tools of magick, while Cedric and Frank had disappeared into the basement to check out the weapons situation.
Azaiel’s long strides didn’t stop until he’d reached the far end of the property. A large oak tree spread its branches above him, most of the leaves dead and missing. The sun still shone—he felt the warmth on his face—but coldness settled inside him and left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Priest lit the end of his cigar, his eyes hard as he clenched the cigar tightly between his teeth. “You felt it? You saw?”
Azaiel nodded. “The power inside her is impressive. Above the norm even for a James witch.”
Soft swirls of smoke blew between them. Nico glanced back toward the house, eyes flat, voice subdued. “What the hell is she?”
“I have no idea,” Priest offered up, his gaze sharp as he stared at Azaiel. “But this changes things. A lot.”
The coldness inside Azaiel fisted. He knew what the Templar was getting at. And he knew Priest was right.
“Yes.” Azaiel nodded. “It does.”
Azaiel followed Nico’s gaze and exhaled a long, slow breath. Mallick would never stop searching for Rowan. She held something inside her that made it impossible for the demon to do so—which meant that the demon had to be destroyed. He could not be allowed to claim her. The balance between the realms would fall apart and plunge their worlds into chaos.
But Mallick was a demon lord. Destroying him wasn’t going to be easy. If only . . . Azaiel turned away in disgust, his hands clenched into fists, his jaw sore with tension. If only he had the full extent of his power, it would be within reach. But he’d been cut off, and rightly so.
“If we can’t defeat Mallick . . .” Priest said, the cigar held tight in his mouth.
“She’ll have to be destroyed,” Azaiel finished. Hearing the words spoken filled him with anger, and he rolled his head, stretching out the muscles in his shoulders and neck.
“A shame,” Nico said grudgingly. “Even though the witch hates my guts, there’s something about her I like.”
The coldness inside Azaiel evaporated, leaving a rush of heat that electrified his spirit and mind. He might be weaker than any other of his kind, but he was still Seraphim. He could still do damage. And he wasn’t alone.
He addressed the two men, for the first time really feeling his own power—one that was fed with purpose.
“Remember that, shifter, because I have a feeling this is going to be the toughest assignment you’ve had, and I”—his eyes bled black—“don’t intend for her to die.”
“Well then.” Priest tossed his finished Montecristo into a pile of browned, dead leaves. “Let’s get this done.”