Series: The Sacrifice Series by Natasha Knight
Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Benedict stops altogether, whining at the border of hallowed ground. As if there’s a barrier only he sees, he never enters this place. He just whimpers until I or my siblings are safely out of it.
“It’s all right,” I tell him as I walk onto the burial grounds and meet the eyes of Shemhazai, who is ever-angry, as if he was frozen in a moment of utter fury. Maybe he was. What do I know? The statue stands ten feet tall in the very center of the cemetery, with the chapel itself set to the side. His wings are spread wide; one knee is bent, the other leg straight as if he was frozen in time the moment he landed upon this earth. His powerful chest, shoulders, and forearms are armored ornately as if ready for war. A hood over his head sets his face in shadow for most of the day. I wish it would cast it into obscurity, but it does not. He’s missing part of one arm—sadly not his sword arm. No, that is intact, with his hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword that has pierced the crescent moon through.
I know every detail of this statue too well. Shemhazai is inked into my skin as if my arm and hand were an extension of his. I wear tattoos of his armor on my forearm, a part of my chest, and my back in brilliant colors.
I meet the statue’s eyes now. I do not bow my head. Grandmother was quick with a smack to the backs of our heads when we were younger and refused to acknowledge the angel. I have no doubt it was she who laid the fresh lilies upon his altar. I hate the smell of them.
Well, it was either her or Rébecca. She has twisted my sister’s mind, terrorized her into near paralysis.
No, I don’t bow. Instead, I walk straight to the altar.
Shemhazai supposedly led the angels sent by God to watch over the humans. They became known as the Watchers, but their story turned into an ugly one—a story where those chosen by God defied him and fell from grace.
With one sweep of my arm, I wipe away every single one of those fucking flowers. Offerings to a demon-angel, a hateful one who has become a god in his own right, at least to Grandmother.
But once the altar is cleared, I spot the dark stain on Shemhazai’s feet. I know what that stain is, and my mind conjures up the image of Elizabeth Wildblood again.
Hanging.
Dying.
Dead.
Then I see the other face, the one that has me out here running from the hell that awaits me.
The face of The Sacrifice to come.
A breaking branch alerts me to the fact that I am not alone. I don’t move. Whoever it is isn’t close yet. Grandmother would say it’s my preternatural hearing, similar to her own, another gift and a sign of our greatness. She believes we are descended from Shemhazai himself.
“Az?” comes the sweet voice that has me smiling even as my heart twists. “What are you doing out here?”
I turn to find Rébecca emerging from the woods, and that smile fades fast. “Bec? What are you… Why are you soaking wet?”
“I’m not,” she says with a shudder, long hair slick down her back and sticking to her face. She hugs the terrycloth robe tighter. Benedict wags his tail, and she bends to pet him.
I rush to her, wrap my arms around her to warm her. “Christ. It’s freezing out here.” I lift her off her feet and carry her toward the chapel door. There are always a few blankets in the pews. There’s no modern heating system in place, so unless someone starts a fire in the grate, it’s usually cold.
“I’m fine. Put me down, Az.” She twists, and a flip flop drops to the floor. At least she’s not barefoot, although with flip flops, she may as well be.
I set her down once we’re inside, and then only so I can wrap one of the wool throws around her shoulders. I get a proper look at her. Her nearly waist-length white-blond hair seems to grow finer and finer by the day. Both skin and hair have lost more of their luster in the last months. Her face is more gaunt than ever, and the shadows beneath her pale green eyes look like bruises.
“What were you doing, Bec?” I ask, trying not to show how worried I am about her.
She looks guiltily away, biting her lip. My sister, who is almost sixteen, looks more like she’s twelve. She is barely five feet tall and so thin, I can see the outline of her bones across her chest. She seems to have less and less of an appetite these days, and no matter what, the doctors can’t figure out what the hell is going on. Why she isn’t growing, developing. Why she seems to be doing the opposite.