Oh.
Okay, then.
That’s better than I thought it would be, although it still creeps me the frick out. I feel kind of like a piece of meat, being talked about like this. Hearing them negotiate over pieces of me.
“Um, I can speak for myself, you know,” I put in, raising a hand and stepping forward a little. “I’m right here.”
Morrigan cocks her eyebrow at me, like she’s surprised I actually can speak for myself. Then a slow smile spreads across her face. “Mmm. Yes. So you say. Will you do it? Agree to the terms?”
All four of the men around me shift a little, their faces hard. I glance around me, chewing on my bottom lip. None of them look happy about this, but unless Morrigan can somehow use my blood to mind-control me, I don’t see how the risks outweigh the benefits here. We need this information, and time is running out. If she’s not interested in their money, then that doesn’t leave us a lot to bargain with.
“All right.” I nod firmly, even though my hands shake a little.
Morrigan’s smile widens, and she nods enthusiastically as she beckons me. “Then follow me, my child.”
I shrug at the men and do as I’m told, following her into a back room. Ford grunts as I step out of sight, and the last thing I see is Beckett’s stone-cold face, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Then I’m alone with the death witch.
She takes me down a small hallway into a back room. The place seems to be some kind of laboratory, a room that could be straight out of Frankenstein. Morrigan gestures for me to sit on a chair by a table. She reminds me of a bird, the way she bobs her head a bit and moves with an odd, stilted grace.
Once I’m settled on the chair, she lays my arm out on the table and sets up a syringe with a tube attached to it. It’s basic medical stuff, and my eyebrows pull together a little as I stare at it. I would’ve thought she’d use a golden dagger and slice my palm, then have it drip into a sacred bowl or something. Proper witch stuff.
Not that I necessarily know what “proper witch stuff” is.
Morrigan chuckles at me. “Ha. I can read the look on your face, yes, little angel. Your kind has always been judgmental. Modern medicine and science can make magic stronger. Do not turn your nose up at the things that make our lives more convenient.”
Huh. Good point, I guess. And I’m not going to complain about the fact that she’s not slicing me open with a dagger.
This is my first time voluntarily letting someone take blood from me though. I mean, I lost a lot of blood during my fight with the corrupted when I temporarily closed the portal—but that definitely wasn’t voluntary.
Now, I have to sit here calmly and quietly as blood is drawn out of me. Ugh.
I feel a bit woozy and still rather sick about all of this, so to distract myself, I say, “So, death magic, did you pick that as your major in college, or…?”
Morrigan gives an odd, trilling laugh. “It was the way that my gift turned. There is power in death, little one. More than most people realize. I knew my life would be unusual, but to see an angel come in with the brothers of sin? Ha! That is a new one on me.” She looks at me shrewdly. “You’d best be careful. Oil and water don’t mix. Nor do sin and redemption.”
“What do you mean?” I lick my suddenly dry lips as I glance at her. I feel sick and hollow.
Does she know about my mission? Can she see it in me somehow? Will she tell the men?
Or did she just use the word “redemption” because I’m an angel and that’s what we represent?
Oh, man. I’m so not cut out for this secret mission business.
Morrigan peers at me, her eyes narrowing. “You do not know? Well, then, hmm, yes, their lives are in even greater danger.”
Her face seems to waver in front of me. My tongue is heavy and thick in my mouth. “I… I don’t know what…”
Morrigan clucks her tongue. “Ah. So your innocence is not an act then, is it? You have no idea what you really are to them, do you? Poor little angel. You will find out one day.”
I don’t like how vague and cryptic she’s being. And I don’t like how she says “angel.” It’s not like how Beckett says it. It doesn’t make me feel warm inside, or safe.
Does Beckett make me feel safe? As stoic and hard-edged as he is?
Ugh. Everything is swimming, including my thoughts. My head is so heavy, but my body is light.
What is happening? This doesn’t feel right.
This is… wrong.
Something is wrong.
I try to speak, but my tongue doesn’t work. My jaw drops open and refuses to close. My eyelids can barely stay open.
I’m so… so heavy…
Everything goes dark.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ford
“I fuckin’ hate witches,” I mutter, clenching and unclenching my hands as I pace around the small antechamber. The demon’s corpse mocks me with its slumped, relaxed pose, and I want to revive the fucker just so I can kick his ass again.
“Yeah.” Nix grimaces. “Why can’t they just take credit cards like every other sane person? Seriously. We should’ve been able to do this online from the comfort of Beckett’s apartment. With free shipping.”
He sounds like he’s half-joking, but the thought only pisses me off more. I hate that we had to come here. I don’t trust magic, and I definitely don’t trust those who use it. Give me a fuckin’ fistfight any day.
Technically, it’s magic that makes the wrath inside of me infect the people around me, influencing their emotional state. But it doesn’t feel like magic—not compared to the crazy shit true witches and sorcerers can do.
“This is taking too long,” I growl, scrubbing my hands through my hair before pivoting to stare down the dark hallway Morrigan led the angel down. “What the fuck is she doing back there?”
I expect Remi to tell me to calm down and wait, to tamp down my wild emotions like he always does. But instead, he shifts his gaze toward the back hallway too.
“Yeah…” Concern flashes in his eyes. “It is taking a long time. She should be done by now.”
All right. That’s fucking it.
Not bothering to consult with the others or wait for them to follow, I storm down the hallway and throw my shoulder against the door leading into the back, forcing it open.
“Motherfucker!”
The furious shout rips from my throat, and the witch looks up from where she’s bent over Trinity.
The angel is slumped in her chair in a pose that’s eerily similar to the demon in the entry room, and the sight of it sends pure rage shooting through my veins. A needle is sticking out of Trinity’s arm, and several bags of blood hang from hooks on the wall.
So much fucking blood.
It’s dark and viscous, so dark inside the opaque bags that it looks almost black. But that hardly matters, because a haze of red overtakes my vision, making everything look like it’s bathed in blood.
Storming forward, I pull the needle out of the angel’s arm, stopping the witch from stealing any more of her lifeblood. Then I grab the old woman by the throat and slam her against the wall so hard the plaster shakes.
“I should kill you right now,” I rasp, a rushing sound filling my ears as my fingers dig into her dry skin, feeling the muscles of her throat move as she tries to speak.