was listening, but she doubted it. These weren’t the evil mutterings of bad men.
Of course, good people could kill by accident, too.
Nash.
That name stuck in her skull like a thorn. Why did it sound familiar?
Elise struggled to think. It was difficult to clear her thoughts with spotlights aimed at her. She felt sluggish, prickly, uncomfortable.
They had said that Nash was the one who had taken her down. He was the one with the bright light, the one that had tasted of apples.
Elise’s memory was crystal-clear. But her own memories weren’t the only ones that she carried. She had another woman’s memories locked deep in the back of her mind, and it was from those suppressed memories that she recalled a name: Nashriel. An angel, and one of God’s most loyal soldiers.
But it couldn’t be. Why would a hunter, a werewolf, and an ancient angel be colluding with each other?
This was bigger than six murders. Much bigger.
It was time to escape.
Elise had many names. Her friends that had known her as a human called her by “Elise,” which was the name that her parents had given her. Ariane, Elise’s mother, had picked the name because it was pretty; she had hoped that its beauty might impart some small measure of grace to a life that was fated to end quickly and violently. It didn’t work.
After Elise died and returned as a demon, many hellborn called her “Father,” since she had come back to life in the image of the father of all demons, whose blood ran through her veins. She still wasn’t sure if they called her Father as an homage to her origin, or if they genuinely couldn’t tell the difference between her and Yatam.
But everyone else called her “Godslayer.”
Elise had earned that name.
She had been designed by Metaraon, the Voice of God, to be a weapon. An assassin. Three years earlier, she had walked the cobblestone paths of the garden, stood on the roots of the Tree, and drunk deep the waters of Mnemosyne. In order to survive. Elise had been forced to surrender herself to the garden, merging her soul with that of Eve’s—the first angel.
Elise had walked away with Eve’s heart. And she had spent three years avoiding every goddamn angel on the planet.
But the time for avoidance was over. If Seth and Abel did have an angel with them, Elise wouldn’t need to break herself free. She could walk out of captivity.
She closed her eyes and let her mind drift in the way that her body could not, bound to the earth by spotlights. Even now, as a demon, she retained a kopis’s ability to sense preternatural creatures. She could feel Abel, the werewolf, like a weight in her belly. She could feel Seth, the kopis, on the tip of her tongue, like a forgotten word.
And Elise felt Nashriel, the angel, like the buzz of electricity at her crown.
She reached out to him.
“Nashriel,” she said, and it wasn’t her voice. It wasn’t the voice of a mortal woman, a kopis, or a demon. It was the voice of the mother of angels—the voice of Eve.
Nashriel heard her, and the door opened.
Like all angels, Nashriel was tall—well over six feet. He was handsome. His hair was brown, cut in a modern style, with short bangs that shadowed his eyes. His skin had olive undertones, more Middle Eastern than Mediterranean. And his eyes were blue, pale blue, shockingly so. Only a darker ring of color delineated the irises from the sclera.
He wore a gray suit, the kind that skilled Italian tailors cut with razor precision. He had been doing well for himself. It pleased Eve to see him in such good health, even when she last remembered him with long, unkempt hair, and blood on his hands.
Nashriel dropped to one knee in front of her.
“It is you,” he said. His expression was pained. His mind was probably trying to tell him that they were strangers, while his heart said that he loved her more than anyone he had ever known.
Eve would have wanted to soothe him, taking away his hurts.
But Elise just wanted to
Of course, good people could kill by accident, too.
Nash.
That name stuck in her skull like a thorn. Why did it sound familiar?
Elise struggled to think. It was difficult to clear her thoughts with spotlights aimed at her. She felt sluggish, prickly, uncomfortable.
They had said that Nash was the one who had taken her down. He was the one with the bright light, the one that had tasted of apples.
Elise’s memory was crystal-clear. But her own memories weren’t the only ones that she carried. She had another woman’s memories locked deep in the back of her mind, and it was from those suppressed memories that she recalled a name: Nashriel. An angel, and one of God’s most loyal soldiers.
But it couldn’t be. Why would a hunter, a werewolf, and an ancient angel be colluding with each other?
This was bigger than six murders. Much bigger.
It was time to escape.
Elise had many names. Her friends that had known her as a human called her by “Elise,” which was the name that her parents had given her. Ariane, Elise’s mother, had picked the name because it was pretty; she had hoped that its beauty might impart some small measure of grace to a life that was fated to end quickly and violently. It didn’t work.
After Elise died and returned as a demon, many hellborn called her “Father,” since she had come back to life in the image of the father of all demons, whose blood ran through her veins. She still wasn’t sure if they called her Father as an homage to her origin, or if they genuinely couldn’t tell the difference between her and Yatam.
But everyone else called her “Godslayer.”
Elise had earned that name.
She had been designed by Metaraon, the Voice of God, to be a weapon. An assassin. Three years earlier, she had walked the cobblestone paths of the garden, stood on the roots of the Tree, and drunk deep the waters of Mnemosyne. In order to survive. Elise had been forced to surrender herself to the garden, merging her soul with that of Eve’s—the first angel.
Elise had walked away with Eve’s heart. And she had spent three years avoiding every goddamn angel on the planet.
But the time for avoidance was over. If Seth and Abel did have an angel with them, Elise wouldn’t need to break herself free. She could walk out of captivity.
She closed her eyes and let her mind drift in the way that her body could not, bound to the earth by spotlights. Even now, as a demon, she retained a kopis’s ability to sense preternatural creatures. She could feel Abel, the werewolf, like a weight in her belly. She could feel Seth, the kopis, on the tip of her tongue, like a forgotten word.
And Elise felt Nashriel, the angel, like the buzz of electricity at her crown.
She reached out to him.
“Nashriel,” she said, and it wasn’t her voice. It wasn’t the voice of a mortal woman, a kopis, or a demon. It was the voice of the mother of angels—the voice of Eve.
Nashriel heard her, and the door opened.
Like all angels, Nashriel was tall—well over six feet. He was handsome. His hair was brown, cut in a modern style, with short bangs that shadowed his eyes. His skin had olive undertones, more Middle Eastern than Mediterranean. And his eyes were blue, pale blue, shockingly so. Only a darker ring of color delineated the irises from the sclera.
He wore a gray suit, the kind that skilled Italian tailors cut with razor precision. He had been doing well for himself. It pleased Eve to see him in such good health, even when she last remembered him with long, unkempt hair, and blood on his hands.
Nashriel dropped to one knee in front of her.
“It is you,” he said. His expression was pained. His mind was probably trying to tell him that they were strangers, while his heart said that he loved her more than anyone he had ever known.
Eve would have wanted to soothe him, taking away his hurts.
But Elise just wanted to
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