In the Blood by Adrian Phoenix
“When necessary.”
He chuckled. His blue eyes gleamed in the darkness pooled beside the window. “That’s my Lilith.”
“I am not your Lilith,” she said, throwing her veil at him. It floated like a crimson leaf to the pale, polished floor. She stared at the veil in frustration.
“Funny,” Star said. “I could’ve sworn that for the last five centuries or so, you’ve been exactly that.”
A nephilim servant in a rose-colored kilt entered the room and lit the incense brazier. As he tucked a lock of hair the color of sunripened wheat behind one ear, Lilith was able to put a name to him—Vel, another of the Morningstar’s half-blood and never-ending brood. The myrrh’s smoky scent mingled with the fragrance of the white-blossomed jasmine climbing the room’s north wall.
After a glance at his father for any other instructions, Vel padded from the room.
“You must’ve spoken to Gabriel,” Star said, ambling away from the window. “Since he’s the only one I told about this meeting.”
“I went to see the Chaos Seat,” Lilith said, deciding to tell the same story she’d told Gabriel. She had no doubt he and Star would compare notes. “I wanted to remind myself of everything we’ve lost because of Lucien.”
Star arched one white eyebrow. “Lucien?”
“Samael,” she clarified. Before she could say another word or draw in another breath, a faint song curled through her mind, dark and beautiful and haunting. The song faded like a half-heard whisper, like the last dregs of sleep, then disappeared. Lilith’s pulse raced.
Anhrefncathl.
One look into the Morningstar’s wide blue eyes told her he’d heard it too, but the furrow between his brows told her he wasn’t certain. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Chaos song. Faint, but…” He searched her eyes. “I didn’t imagine it.”
“I heard nothing,” Lilith said, keeping her voice even. “Are you sure?”
She crossed to the window and looked outside to see if anyone else had heard and was now winging with joy into the predawn sky. The graying skies were empty. She breathed a little easier. Perhaps no one else had heard because they still slept.
“Yes, I’m sure. I’d wager my wings that our so-called Lucien knows exactly where this Maker is.”
Lilith swiveled to face Star. “Why do you think Lucien knows?”
“He was living in the mortal world, my love. The creawdwr’s song would’ve plucked at his essence like fingers upon harp strings. Drawn him. And Samael or Lucien or whatever he wishes to call himself would’ve answered.”
“If you did hear a creawdwr, then we need to claim him or her before Gabriel does,” Lilith said. “And, if Lucien has hidden this Maker like you believe, you’ll need my help to discover where.”
Star regarded her for a long moment through his silver lashes, his handsome face thoughtful. “You betrayed his name. Why would he want anything to do with you?”
“He owes me,” Lilith said, her hands gripping the tiled windowsill behind her. “He’s even admitted as much. If I arranged for his escape, he might trust me enough—”
“To lead you to the creawdwr,” Star mused. “Perhaps…”
“Of course,” Star murmured. “But first the throne.”
“Whatever you desire, beloved,” Lilith said. She marveled at how her voice managed to sound so tender when her heart felt so cold.
THE CLINK OF CHAINS drew Lilith’s gaze up from her cup of wine and its pomegranate-red depths. Escorted by a fluttering-winged chalkydri, Lucien walked into the room, wrists manacled, wings banded.
Lilith’s former cydymaith stood proud, his black hair spilling to his waist, shoulders back and head high, a cool smile on his lips as if he’d just strolled in from a dawn flight, hoping for refreshment.
But his pale face and bloodless lips revealed the lie. His vitality ebbed with Gehenna’s, his fate now blood-bound to the land.
A pang of regret nicked Lilith’s calm. She took a sip of wine, tasted the tang of limes beneath the pomegranates and grapes. For Hekate, she told herself. For Gehenna.
“Welcome, brother,” the Morningstar said. He reclined on a velvet and gold-brocaded couch beside Lilith’s. “It seems you found something that fit.”
“I did,” Lucien said. “Although it wasn’t necessary.”
“Or even desired?” Star said with a smile.
The clothing Star had provided Lucien in place of his tattered trousers fit him with breathtaking perfection, in Lilith’s opinion—the silver-belted black kilt flowed from his hips to just above his knees, and silver-edged sandals protected his feet.
The past slipped past her guard and winged into her mind: He catches her in the air and gathers her against him—chest to chest—heated skin and the rush of wings, counter-tempo. He tears her gown from her body.
Lilith pulled her gaze from Lucien and shoved the memory away. Everything between them had died with Yahweh.
“Leave,” Star said, flipping a hand at the chalkydri.
In a buzzing burr of wings, the chalkydri obeyed.
“Please, brother, seat yourself. Eat.” The Morningstar gestured at the low table laden with fruit—oranges, limes, pomegranates—breads and chilled pitchers of wine, and encircled by couches.
Lucien sat with grace despite the manacles and banded wings, but he didn’t relax. He kept his back straight, his muscles taut and ready. Lilith noticed he held a length of the manacles’s chain between his hands.
As if he planned to strangle his way to freedom.
He’s my son.
Maybe that was exactly what he’d do if given half a chance. Her amusement at the thought vanished. Drawing in a breath of jasmine-and-myrrh scented air, she centered herself, and pushed the image of the burning Chaos Seat out of her mind.
“Is this little get-together your idea,” Lucien said, “or are you merely doing Gabriel’s bidding, like a good little lapdog?”
“Gabriel knows, naturally,” Star said, ignoring the dig, his voice smooth as sun-warmed silk. “But he’ll only know what I wish him to know.”
“The Seat-Warmer, as you named him, is busy planning the quickest way to conquer the mortal world,” Lilith said.
“Once Gehenna no longer exists,” Lucien murmured. “And me with it.” He leaned forward on the couch, chains clinking, and grabbed an orange and a hunk of bread.
“That doesn’t need to happen,” Star said. Pale peach dawn light shimmered on his star-bright tresses. “Not if there’s a creawdwr to heal the land, and you.”
“There is no creawdwr,” Lucien said.
“Really?” Star asked. “I sent Loki to the mortal world to search for one.”
Lilith kept her face and mind still. She’d mentioned nothing about discovering Loki trapped in stone, forced to play crypt-guard in New Orleans.
Lucien peeled the orange and said nothing.
Star sighed. “Perhaps you saw him?”
“I saw him,” Lucien said. “He annoyed me, so I chained him to the earth.” He ate an orange slice, his face thoughtful. “I imagine he’ll remain that way until I return to free him.”
Star arched one white eyebrow. “That would explain his silence. As I said, I sent him because I believe there’s a creawdwr hidden in the mortal world.”
“Why would you believe that?” Lucien asked.
“A few times as I dreamed,” Star said, voice low, “I caught the fading edge of an anhrefncathl. A wild and beautiful song.”
“Perhaps it belonged only to your dreams,” Lucien said. “If a creawdwr walked the mortal world, I would’ve known.”
“Yes, you would’ve,” the Morningstar said. “And you would’ve been close—whether to guard or kill—I don’t know, but I have a feeling that’s how Loki found you and that’s why you bound him.”
“If you say so.” Lucien f
“Samael…”
“He prefers Lucien,” Lilith murmured, sipping at her wine.
“Lucien, then, as my beloved cydymaith advises.”
Lucien looked at them, amusement glimmering in his black eyes. “Congratulations,” he said. “Did this blessed union happen to coincide with Gabriel’s claiming of the throne?”
Heat rouged Lilith’s cheeks. “My unions ceased to be your business the moment you fled Gehenna, our creawdwr’s blood still wet upon your hands.”
Lucien’s amusement disappeared and gold light awakened in his eyes. “We all do what we must. Each one of us. Then once we’ve done what was necessary, we begin anew.” He held her gaze, scorching though all her shields and barricades as if they’d never existed.
Cold anger swept through Lilith. How was it possible for him to do this to her after all the centuries that had passed? To make her feel as if he’d never betrayed her, never winged away from her side? As if she had wronged him?
Lilith closed her mind to him, snapped her shields up tight. She lifted her cup and drained it. A rose-gowned servant seized a moisture-beaded pitcher and hurried over to refill her cup. The nephilim poured carefully, then returned to her place in the shadows.
“Yes, we begin anew. I like that,” Star said, voice earnest. He sat up and leaned toward Lucien. “I pledge to protect this Maker, to keep him from Gabriel, and safe. I will restore Gehenna and place the creawdwr on the Chaos Seat where he belongs. We’ll bind him and love him—“
“You’ve made a mistake,” Lucien said. “There is no creawdwr.”
“But there is! I heard his song just before dawn.” The Morningstar’s face blazed incandescent, caught up in emotions too intense for Lilith to even attempt to untangle or name.
“Then you’ve drank too much wine,” Lucien said, his voice cold and distant. He stood, the length of chain in his hands again.
The image of Lucien cradling Yahweh’s body flashed through Lilith’s mind. Would Lucien kill his own son in a deranged effort to protect him from his rightful place on the Chaos Seat?
“If you were to bring this young creawdwr home,” Star said. “I’m confident past crimes would be forgiven. You would be free, brother, to remain here or return to the mortal world.”
“This conversation bores me,” Lucien said. “Take me back to the pit.”
The Morningstar trailed a hand through his short hair, glanced at Lilith, then nodded. “As you wish. Once you’re hanging in the heat and darkness again with the chalkydri flaying your flesh, I hope you’ll remember our conversation.”
“Oh, every word,” Lucien said. “I enjoy a good laugh.”
As though summoned, the rose-gowned nephilim servant stepped from her place in the shadows and approached the Morningstar. The girl was new, Lilith mused, but she looked familiar. Given her wheat-colored tresses, she was most likely yet another of Star’s half-blood offspring.
The girl whispered into Star’s ear, then stepped back. He rose fluidly to his feet, his purple kilt swirling around his legs. “Another matter has come up,” he said. “So I’ll leave it to you, my love, to arrange for our guest’s return to Sheol.”
Lilith nodded. “Of course, beloved.”
Star strode from the room, his servant-daughter following in his wake. Absent of the Morningstar’s radiance, the chamber seemed to dim despite the rising sun, seemed to quiet and relax as if releasing a long-held breath.
Lucien looked at Lilith. A sardonic smile tilted his lips. “So it’s your turn now, is it?”
Lucien nodded. “Yes, I do, but I’m not hiding a Maker. I don’t know how to make it any plainer.”
“The fact that you turned Loki to stone indicates otherwise,” Lilith said. “And if Gabriel hears of what you’ve done to Loki, he’ll be convinced you’re hiding something.”
“All it indicates is that Loki irritates me.”
Lilith chuckled. “He irritates me too.”
Weariness shadowed Lucien’s eyes.
Lilith pulled the weight of her hair over her shoulder and plaited it as she pondered. Why has your son closed the link?
“Perhaps,” Lucien whispered. He stumbled forward a step, sweat gleaming at his hairline. Lilith grabbed his shoulders and steadied him. “Sorry. Seems I’m fading.” A smile ghosted across his lips. His skin burned beneath her fingers. His dark earth-and-green-leaves scent filled her nostrils, coiled around the past.
Releasing him, Lilith turned to the table and poured a cup of wine. She pressed it into his trembling hand. “Drink,” she urged.
A muscle jumped in Lucien’s jaw. He drained the wine in one long swallow. He touched the dewed cup to his forehead and closed his eyes. “You might as well send me back,” he said. “I’ve nothing more to say.”
She thought of Hekate, thought of how it had felt to have her silver-haired daughter wrenched from her grasp, remembered the fear on her child’s face when Gabriel, triumphant after battle, had seized her.
She will be a hostage in my court, to ensure your cooperation.
You don’t have to do this, Gabriel. I swear upon my name, I won’t trouble you.
Ah, Lilith, but I do. The moment I turn my back, you’ll be plotting to steal the throne yet again.
Not this time. Not now. Leave me my daughter. Please.
Shhh, my love. Hekate will be perfectly safe. Gabriel assured me of that.
You knew? You bargained our daughter away? Our daughter, Star?
Lilith recalled Lucien’s words to her millennia ago: You’ll never use him again. Everything that had happened to her since that day had its roots in Yahweh’s murder by her cydymaith.
Lilith plucked the cup from Lucien’s fingers and set it on the table. With a flick of her mind, she summoned a pair of chalkydri. She met her former cydymaith’s gaze. “I’ll do what I can to help you,” she lied.
From you.
Lucien lifted a hand, chains clinking, and brushed his fingers across her cheek. “We all do what we must, Lili,” he murmured. He lifted his head. “Each one of us.”
“Yes,” she said. “We do.”
And when I find your son, I’ll be able to free my daughter.
THE MORNINGSTAR STRODE FROM the mouth of his aerie and onto the landing gallery. Pale apricot and rose dawn light shimmered over the stone. He paused at the balustrade, then turned around to face Eris.
“All right,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “What did you find?”
Eris pulled a piece of paper from her gown’s pocket. “As you instructed, I followed Lilith—”
“She is Lady and mistress to you,” the Morningstar snapped.
Eris stiffened, then bowed her head. “Yes, my Lord Father. I followed your Lady to the royal aerie where she visited the Chaos Seat and spoke with Lord Gabriel.”
“Ah.” The Morningstar held out his hand. “Give it to me, child.?
Eris handed him the paper, then backed away.
Power tingled against his hand. The Morningstar stared at the crumpled bit of paper, his heart fluttering against his ribs. He touched a finger to the dark spot of blood at the paper’s center and felt a creawdwr’s distinctive energy.
He was right—had been all along. Samael or Lucien or whatever he wished to be called was lying.
The Morningstar smoothed the paper—a receipt—and read it.
Vieux Carre Wine & Spirits
422 Chartres St.
New Orleans
He flipped it over and read the words scrawled across the back: Watch over her, ma mère. S’il te plaît, keep her safe. Even from me.
The Morningstar’s white wings unfurled and swept through the warming air. He swirled up into the dawn sky, his heart buoyant.
A Maker was in New Orleans. And judging by these words, possibly in love and unable to trust himself. Keep her safe. Even from me. A child in need of guidance. A child in need of bonding. A child he needed to find before he himself was caught in the web Lilith and Gabriel were spinning.
31 THE MARK HAS BEEN MADE
Seattle, WA
March 24
HEATHER PAUSED ON HER way to the front room window to make sure that the moon-and-stars throw still completely covered Von. He Slept in the recliner, the throw draping him from his head to his stocking-clad toes. His scuffed-up scooter boots stood neatly on the floor beside the chair, his shirt and leather jacket folded over the fireplace screen.
Eli sat cross-legged on the couch, Eerie nestled in his lap, eating oatmeal and cantaloupe, and watching a game show on TV. The ding-ding-ding of a winner’s bell sounded through the living room. Since it was only a little past ten a.m., everyone else was still asleep.
And as badly as Heather wanted to crack open the bedroom door and check on her sister, she refused to give in to the urge. Like Von had pointed out, Annie was a big girl and he’d promised that Silver wouldn’t hurt her.