“Just because you and Nero are fighting, that doesn’t mean I don’t like you.” He braided his fingers together in front of his face. “After all, who else is going to give me lots of grandchildren?”
My stomach clenched up at the painful reminder. My and Nero’s children. That was exactly what we were fighting about right now.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your fight with Nero in Dr. Harding’s office the other day,” Damiel said.
“You mean, you followed us and eavesdropped on our conversation.”
He shrugged, looking one hundred percent unapologetic.
“You had no right,” I told him.
“When it comes to their children, parents exercise certain rights. You’ll find that out when you and Nero have a child of your own.”
“If Nero ever speaks to me again.” My voice cracked.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Damiel. “You hurt Nero. If he doesn’t speak to you, he can’t express his anger that you hurt him.”
“Damiel, not now. I’m not in the mood for you to mock my pain.”
“I don’t mock pain. I exploit it.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at his admission. The hopeless humor of it all made my chest hurt.
“You must have realized Nero would be upset when he found out about what you did.” Damiel pantomimed rocking a baby.
A strangled noise escaped my lips. “You actually know what we’re fighting about.”
“Of course,” replied Damiel.
I was starting to feel like it would be easier to count all the magic mirrors in the universe than to keep a secret in this crazy world of gods, demons, and angels. I was more convinced than ever before that training my telepathic defenses was completely essential to protecting my many secrets.
“You made the choice you thought was best for everyone,” Damiel said. “You’re an angel, and that’s what angels do. What we must do. But don’t forget that Nero is an angel too.”
“You of all people cannot believe that two angels are destined to fail at love because of their nature.”
“No, not destined to fail. But all the forces of our own imperfect natures are certainly working against us every step of the way.”
“How did you and Cadence figure out how to make your relationship work?” I asked him.
“We are still figuring it out.”
“You two were fighting about something before you arrived at the dinner party,” I commented. “I could tell.”
“As I said, the collision of egos. Angels and deities are always fighting about something. The trick is to not let that get in your way.” He rose from his chair. “All right. Enough delay tactics. Let’s get started. This won’t hurt any less if you put it off, Leda.”
And it did hurt. A lot. Again and again, Damiel broke into my mind. His attacks were relentless and unending. He tore through my mental defenses like they were made of tissue paper, leaving me to pick up the pieces of my broken mind.
Sometimes I managed to push him out and sometimes not. But whatever the case, it always hurt.
Even when I passed out from his telepathic attacks, he just carried my training over into my dreams. He said my mind was weakest while I was asleep, so I had to learn to guard it there too. He was right, of course. And I hated him for it. Training mental fortitude with Damiel felt like walking a mile barefoot over glass—and then soaking my feet in lemon juice.
No, scratch that. This was infinitely worse. I’d rather have to run a hundred miles over broken glass than train with Damiel Dragonsire.
Finally, it was over. I didn’t know how much time had passed, but I did know that had I still been mortal, that session would have taken years off my life. And I also knew that Damiel Dragonsire was the sickest, most sadistic son-of-a-bitch who had ever walked this Earth.
As I lay sagging in my chair, struggling not to fall out of it, my phone buzzed against my desk. It was with great difficulty—and a lot of pain—that I reached over and grabbed it.
“Leda,” Lucy said on the other end. My ears were still ringing from training with Damiel, so her voice sounded muffled. “There’s someone here to see you. It’s the widow of the vampire who led the nest in Purgatory.”
We’d been interviewing anyone connected to the dead vampires. Maybe someone knew something that would shed some light on what had happened to them.
“Send her in,” I told Lucy, then hung up the phone.
“An interrogation?” Damiel leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. He’d broken into my mind about two million times, and he hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“Not an interrogation. Just a conversation,” I told him.
“A conversation.” He rolled the word on his tongue. “I have called them that too.”
“I didn’t bring her in to torture her, Damiel. I brought her in to talk.”
He glanced at the tea cups I was setting out. “If that’s the case, then you’re doing it all wrong. I could help you. I wrote the book on interrogation. And I’m the most accomplished Interrogator in Legion history, you know.”
“Everyone knows that.”
A smile lit up his face. “Naturally.”
“But I really won’t be interrogating her. She’s not a suspect.”
“Everyone is a suspect,” Damiel said, his tone foreboding, then he turned to face the door.
A woman stood in the open doorway, covered from head to toe in black lace. Her long black dress was decorated with lace. A veil of black lace spilled over the front edge of her black hat, masking the top half of her face. Her hands were covered in black lace gloves. And a little black lace handkerchief dangled from her dainty fingers.
In short, Aaliyah Drummoyne, widow of the rogue vampire lord Dante Drummoyne, looked like the quintessential widow. It really made me wonder if she was putting on a show for someone’s benefit. Mine, perhaps?
As she slid forward like a silk scarf rippling in the wind, Damiel rose from his chair. He gave the widow a chilling look that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck, as though I’d just grabbed a bolt of lightning. But she was too distracted to notice.
Damiel bowed to me, a grin on his face, then he walked out of the room.
“Mrs. Drummoyne, do sit down.” I indicated the chair Damiel had vacated.
She bowed her head, then took a seat. “I am honored to be in your presence, angel.”
“Tea?”
She looked at the teacup like I’d just offered her the gods’ Nectar—and she wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to drink it.
“It’s just tea,” I told her.
“Of course.” She gave me a small, nervous smile, then sipped from the teacup.
“Mrs. Drummoyne, I have a few questions about your late husband.”
A pair of honey-colored eyes stared out at me from behind the veil. “I don’t know anything about what Dante was up to. One day, he left New York, and then a few weeks later, I got word that he was dead.” She sniffled.
“So you don’t know anything about why he came to Purgatory?” I asked.
“No.”
“Do you recognize this symbol?”
She glanced at the skull goblet stitched into the leather strip I’d shown her. “No.” She let out a tiny sneeze. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you.”