Page 9 of Grave Revelations (Prophecies of Angels and Demons #3)
Chapter 8
Azazel
Rebecca’s cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson, a lovely contrast against the pale alabaster skin running along her jawline and down her neck. The emotions warring across her face would have been comical had the expletives rolling through her mind not been directed at him.
Why she was mad at him, he couldn’t fathom. All she did was ask for truths, yet when he gave them, her temper flared. Not that it was ever truly in check; it hadn’t escaped his notice that she’d been far too calm since he rescued her.
Shock. It was the only explanation. When she’d processed everything, he fully expected her fiery rage to make itself known.
“You can’t… I’m not…” she closed her mouth, working to compose herself. “What exactly do you mean?”
Had she forgotten he could read her mind? She wasn’t asking what he meant at all. She was demanding he turn her world right side up and make sense of it for her. But that would require dishonesty, and lies were something he would never give her.
“I’ll give you answers. But first, I need to check our surroundings. I had expected a several-hour head start on the necromancer, but if she has creatures who can travel by day, they may already be close. Let me scout the area. I’ll return shortly. ”
The flush in her cheeks burned brighter, but she said nothing—definitely shock .
Without giving her a chance to argue, Azazel stood, misting through the wall, and shot into the sky. The familiar burn in his chest—his constant companion these many decades—intensified, shards of glass slicing into him as the distance stretched between them, but dulled as he cleared the tree line, stopping just out of range of the worst of the pain.
He scanned the surrounding area, searching for any signs of the necromancer’s creatures. Drifting left, he hovered above the only harbor in the town of Sfakia, seeing small, battered fishermen’s skiffs docked there, but no larger vessels.
He circled the peak. Far down the mountain, a light glimmered dimly between the densest trees on its north-facing side.
He dropped, sinking into the shadows. Drawing on the energy pooled there, he followed the darkness running along the path. He slid over the ground, coming up alongside a makeshift tent steadied between two large cypress trees. The forest was alive with the sounds of insects and animals—a good sign.
He slid under the tent flap, stretching with the shadow cast along a flashlight’s beam. Two men sat together, huddled close. The first man’s hands trembled as he fumbled with the straps of his backpack. Alive then. Not the necromancer’s creatures.
“Fire,” Azazel breathed into the air.
“We should make a fire,” he said to his friend. “It will only get colder.”
The other nodded. “I’ll collect firewood.”
Knowing the cold wouldn’t kill them, Azazel nodded to himself and left the tent, breaking from the shadows to lift above the canopy.
Sweeping over the area, he expanded his circle until he’d reached the beaches on the opposite side of the island.
He scanned the beach for boats or signs of movement but saw none. Lifting higher into the sky, he sped along the coastline, trailing his gaze over the beaches, searching for the fast-moving creatures and the aura they left behind, leaking borrowed life force as they went .
Heraklion was the largest major port on the south side of Crete and the least likely for her to use. There, he saw no creatures, but neither did he see any humans. Sitia was much the same.
Azazel stopped in Lerapetra, eyeing rows of boats of various shapes and sizes. He sent a breeze out, casting it toward the docks, and listened for signs of disruption to the natural order. His own wrongness muffled his ability to sense others who didn’t belong on the mortal plane, but he pressed his awareness to its limit, searching.
His mind wandered as he let his senses work. Had he given Rebecca too much information? A human mind could only process so much, but she was no mere human. If she would only give in to the power thrumming beneath her skin rather than fear it, she would find her magic was virtually limitless.
There were other things she needed to know, important details that couldn’t wait much longer. Should they enlist the help of any other witches, he had to explain how power-sharing truly worked. The witches weren’t at fault, not really. They only knew how it worked among one another. They had never shared their gifts with Nephilim.
Her father had known, thanks to Astaroth. Had used her to extend his own life by far too many years.
Although the broken connection with his father still pained him, he didn’t regret losing that insufferable need to do what was right for the rest of humanity at the cost of his other half.
And he would never choose them over her again.