Page 55 of Wicked Believer (Original Sinner #2)

Chapter Forty-Six

Lucifer

“You’ve been overdoing it.”

I let out a sharp hiss as Azrael probes my side, the cool feeling of his touch like ice over the heat of my skin.

“I am not over doing anything,” I grouse as Azrael works to remove one of my many stitches. “I’m simply reminding myself of how fragile humans can be.”

He grumbles something incomprehensible before Kalimor enters. “It’s been three days, my lord.”

“Good. Let’s get this over with.” I’m sprawled across an armchair within the Library of Lost Souls, the ancient archives inside my hellish palace.

I’ve been popping downstairs, with a bit of Azrael’s assistance, more than usual in hope of healing more quickly, and I do not relish the feeling of powerlessness I now experience whenever I’m topside.

Bookshelves tower over me, their dark wood stretching up and into the endless ceiling.

In the rafters, some of the more restricted shelves seem to float, their iron bars suspended by an unseen force.

The air is thick with the scent of old parchment mixed with a faint trace of blood, and the books themselves are alive, their leather covers calling out for an audience with me.

They seep a faint, bleak glow as they whisper the damned’s secrets.

The betrayal of a friend. A lover’s sin.

The downfall of humanity.

Azrael removes one of the torn stitches from my side, causing me to curse as I stare up at the ceiling.

Some of the more interesting specimens are locked away behind iron gates, their knowledge too dangerous, too vast, even for me.

Those who venture here unaware of how to navigate its halls might find themselves lost in an endless maze, hearing the fevered, whispered echoes of the records of my most tortured souls from every shelf.

Tempting all those who dare to listen.

My library is the embodiment of my divine authority here. My twisted beauty. The eternal torment of those bound by my domain.

I look down, and the young nun stares back at me.

“Where . . . where am I?”

I sigh, my mounting frustration getting the better of me. “One would think that much would be obvious.”

Azrael casts me a flat, agitated look.

He always had far more patience for this sort of thing than me.

“You’re in Hell,” he says. As if she couldn’t have gathered as much from the sight of me.

The nun approaches us both slowly, like she’s uncertain whether to be afraid. “You ... kept your promise?”

I lift a brow.

“That there would be a special place for me.”

“Caught that little play on words in the middle of my verbal sparring session with my siblings, did you?” I tilt my head, watching her curiously. “Does that surprise you?”

She doesn’t answer. She glances down at her hands. “I ... don’t deserve to be here.”

Azrael and I exchange a solemn glance.

“No,” we both say.

Her eyes grow wide, like she’s seemingly shocked we all agree on something, but she’s too terrified to do anything but whisper. “Are you ... are you going to send me home then? Where I belong?” Her gaze flits helplessly toward the ceiling.

I wave Azrael off, coming to sit fully upright in my chair. “Tell me, Ms.—”

“Santiago. Maria Santiago.”

“Ms. Santiago,” I say, using her God-given name as I smirk wickedly. “Tell me, are you familiar with the story of Lazarus?”