Jegudiel (Deadly Virtues 2)

Noa rocked back and forth on Diel’s lap, feeling every inch of him move inside her, feeling him in her soul. When she opened her eyes, he leaned in and kissed her, their hands never breaking. And after they had both reached their silent climaxes, Noa lay over Diel’s chest and listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Minutes later, his breathing evened out in sleep.

Lifting her head, she stared at his pretty, relaxed face, his mass of messy hair, and she knew that invisible cord remained around them, keeping them bound together.

She thought back to what they’d talked about—her past, her spirituality, her beloved family. And her heart shattered. She had known her family. She mourned them, missed them every single day. But she had known them. Known that people had loved her.

Diel had no memory of life before Purgatory. He didn’t know if he had a family beyond his Fallen brothers. He didn’t know where he came from, how he came to be taken by the Brethren. Dinah had learned from Gabriel that Diel’s history had never been in any records; he had never existed on any database. At least not one that they could find.

Noa held his hand tighter, silently vowing that she would discover who he was. And as she pressed a kiss to his chest, over the brand that they shared, she knew she would never give up until she had found out. Until they found out just who Jegudiel, her fallen angel, used to be.

Chapter 17

“Again!” Father August shouted, and he watched as his Witch Finders started the drill again. He shook his head at their ineptness, their lack of understanding of the complex moves. Auguste marched forward, grabbed the newest priest by his arm, and threw him to the ground. “Get up,” he spat. The fledgling priest crawled to his feet. His face was pale, and Auguste could practically smell the fear pulsing off him, as putrid as week-old milk.

Auguste sliced his hand across the back of the priest’s cheek, and with a kick to his stomach, the young man fell to the ground, groaning in pain. Auguste’s fists shook with disappointment and rage. He looked at the rest of his Witch Finders. Father Quinn had sent more recruits for Auguste to train; fear of another attack plagued his mentor’s mind.

But these men …

“Is this it?” Auguste said, arms held wide. The recruits were sweating, gasping for breath. They were unfit and right now did not have what it would take to withstand an attack from the Fallen. Father Quinn’s ruined face was evidence of that. “Is this the best we Brethren can offer against evil?”

Auguste felt his lip curl in disgust. He would not let his little brother’s fellow heathens best him and the centuries-old organization that had secretly stopped the world from going to shit too many times to count.

Auguste was the Brethren Witch Finder General of Massachusetts. He had been given the much-coveted position due to his devotion to the Brethren cause. He policed his city against sinners, protected it from the devil and his many, never-ending demons.

He would not fail now.

“Again!” he shouted. The rain started to pour on their heads, dark clouds circling above like vultures. Auguste didn’t care if they all got pneumonia. He wasn’t letting them go until they could fight, until they could ensure the Brethren victory over its enemies.

Let God spare the strong and rid the world of the weak. Because he knew the Fallen were coming again. And this time, when they attacked, the Brethren would not be caught off guard. They would be ready, God’s agents armed with truth and good on their side, and hearts that would see the denizens of hell sent back from where they came.

“I said again!”

Chapter 18

A gunshot sent him running from the driveway and toward the house. He dropped the dead rabbits he’d just hunted—dinner was forgotten. The sun was scorching and his hair was sweaty; drops fell down his cheeks as he approached the old, dilapidated house. His young heart beat furiously as he climbed the broken wooden steps and burst through the front door, running toward the sound of screaming.

He knew that scream. He knew he had to protect the one who was scared.

“You ugly little shit. Did you think you could protect your bitch of a mother? She was nothing but a drugged-up whore.”

The air grew still, but the rushing blood echoed in his ears as loud as Fenway Park on game day. He edged toward the kitchen, but he stopped when he slipped on something under his feet.

He looked down, and fear seized control of his body. Blood. Blood was flowing from under the kitchen door. He fought to breathe, fought to hold on to the rage that was building inside of him. The same rage that had been growing for years and years, festering. It was getting harder and harder to control. He didn’t want to control it any longer.