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)
“Well, I am insulted you even bring it up, but I’ll set your mind at ease since it seems your loyalties are shifting.”
“My loyalties—”
“Rébecca was restless, as she often is,” she says, cutting me off. “I told you all that junk food would be bad for her.”
“I don’t think popcorn and M&Ms caused this.”
“Like I said, the child was restless. I went to soothe her, as I often do, I might add, while you and your brother are out devil knows where doing devil knows what.” She glances over my shoulder. I guess that with her raised voice, the nurses took notice because she speaks the next part more quietly, “There is another matter we need to discuss. A private one.”
“It can’t wait?” I run my hands through my hair. I’m fucking exhausted.
“No, it can’t.”
Without needing a reply, she turns on her heel and walks toward the stairs, her long, heavy black skirt swishing behind her.
Although reluctant, I follow her down the stairs, glancing at my closed bedroom door. I know Willow cares about Bec, but accusing Salomé of doing real harm to her own granddaughter is unacceptable.
I don’t let my mind wander to those letters as I follow Grandmother down the stairs and out the French doors that will lead to the backyard. I’ll find whoever is threatening Willow and deal with them later. For now, locked in that room is the safest place for her.
The day is dark and damp, and the ground is wet and muddy beneath my feet. I don’t have to wonder where Grandmother is headed. I know. She disappears under the cover of trees and just before I follow, I turn back to glance up at the house, at my bedroom window. There, standing against the glass is Willow. She rests her hand against the window, and even from here I can see the concern on her face.
But now is not the time.
I turn away and head toward the churchyard where Shemhazai’s statue looms seemingly taller than ever. The cracked stone altar lays in two slabs at his feet, the offerings Bec made just days ago a muddy, sodden mess. I stop a few feet from Salomé, who bows her head, puts her hands together and mutters a prayer declaring her undying and unquestioning loyalty to this demon-angel. This dark guardian who supposedly shields us from the Wildblood curse, but not for nothing and not out of any goodwill.
No, Shemhazai is not a benevolent being. He demands a high price for his blessings, a word Salomé uses. For centuries, we’ve paid what he has required, and we’ve prospered. Our fortunes grew, our line continued healthy and strong, and our family remains powerful.
But Shemhazai’s Tithe is paid in blood. Mine and Willow’s. Delacroix and Wildblood.
Has every Penitent before me come to the same crossroads as I? This hesitation, this moral dilemma? Or hell, is it pure selfishness on my part? Maybe I just don’t want to die.
No, it’s not that. I am not afraid of death. But Willow… What I am doing is condemning her to death. I knew that before I ever set foot in the Wildblood house, before The Tithing ceremony, yet I did it.
I walked in there, found the woman bearing the birthmark, and took her despite knowing all along exactly what I was doing even if they did not. Even if they knew the marked woman’s life would end tragically within a year of being taken, the Wildbloods do not know that that tragedy is brought down by us. The blood of their daughters, their sisters, very firmly stains our hands.
“You have angered him,” Grandmother says without looking at me.
I don’t speak. What can I say, that it was a bolt of lightning? It’s the truth, yes, but that will only support her argument.
And what do I believe? Am I a hypocrite?
She turns her head to look at me over her shoulder, but I keep my sight on the altar. “In two days’ time, we will mark the anniversary of your brother’s passing,” she says, as if his death was in any way gentle, but I bite my tongue. “Will we bury your sister on the same day, Azrael?”
I meet her eyes. “Don’t say that.”
“Isn’t it the truth?”
“Do not say it.”
“As you wish,” she answers, having hit her mark and made her point despite having heard the warning in my voice. She walks toward me. “It is up to you. Your sister’s life is in your hands. The Sacrifice must be made, Azrael. And if you refuse it, for now, then as you wrestle yourself to come to terms with what must be, make an offering to him. Appease him, or he will take your sister. Does a Wildblood witch mean more to you than your own flesh and blood?”
“Grandmother, taking one life will not heal another. Bec’s illness is not Shemhazai’s doing.”