Soul Weaver by Hailey Edwards

to a point on Bran’s body Nathaniel couldn’t see. Bran’s shoulders tensed, though he didn’t step away or make a comment. On a man whose birth was considered an abomination, their target was an easy guess.
    As he continued forward and his angle shifted, Nathaniel saw the point of Arestes’s sword aligned with the zipper of Bran’s jeans.
    Nathaniel fought the urge to charge the steps and crack the twins’ skulls together. Anger shook his hands until he shoved them into his pockets, protecting the pair from his fury and, in turn, from Bran’s wrath.
    He stepped from baked clay to marble, but Bran and the seraphs still blocked the entrance. Bran’s eyes narrowed a fraction when he glanced Nathaniel’s way. He gave a slight shake of his head to indicate he’d rather be left with the twins than have his uncle step in on his behalf.
    Heaven forbid he be allowed to publically support his nephew. Bran would see it as Nathaniel being overprotective instead of endorsing his one-man campaign for Nephilim rights.
    Furious with the situation, and Bran’s stubborn pride, Nathaniel snarled, “Do you mind?” He gestured toward the door with a jerk of his chin. “The others are waiting on me.”
    The twins spoke as one. “Our apologies, Weaver. Of course, you may enter.”
    Nathaniel glanced to his right where Trates dug his blade into Bran’s chest until a red stain bloomed. “Watch yourself or you’ll put your eye out with that.” To his left, the second seraph snickered. “The same goes for you. Does Delphi know you’re hassling his guests?”
    Arestes hissed, “This one isn’t a guest.”
    Nathaniel had interfered as much as he dared, and still he knew Bran would hold a grudge. “Suit yourselves. Delphi requested my immediate arrival and commanded this one to act as my escort.” He struggled against the desire to slice them from ear to ear and scrawl Bran’s name in bright red across the pristine white walls. He was a person, damn them, and he had a name. “I suppose when he asks where this one is, I’ll tell him to check his own front porch.”
    With that, Nathaniel shoved them aside. A pained grunt and several cruel chuckles followed him down the hall. The urge to look over his shoulder made his neck twitch.
    Bran shouldn’t be left alone. He should be forced to accept help and made to stop being stubborn and prideful. Nathaniel had tried reasoning with him before, several times, but he wouldn’t listen.
    After he had caused so many deaths, a small part of him whispered these could be two more added to his tally. He wondered if the seraphs’ coloration reflected the state of their souls. He hoped it did. He knew well how to handle moral decay.
    He bit the inside of his cheek until it bled, but nothing blunted the agony of knowing he’d left Bran on his own, yet again. He walked through an open doorway into a cavernous room filled with his kin. His gaze zeroed in on Delphi, hoping the master seraph prized his emissary enough to intervene on Bran’s behalf.
    “Weaver, glad you could join us,” Delphi said as Nathaniel entered the weaving room. He sat on a simple chair behind a plain desk where he sometimes observed the proceedings. The quill pen in his hand wavered. “Where is the Nephilim?”
    “Ask your guards,” Nathaniel said with as much calm as he could manage.
    Delphi’s eyes hardened as his gaze swept over Nathaniel and rested down the empty hall at his back. His hand struck out and toppled the bottle of red ink by his journal. “Erseeh tesahiel.”
    His dark wings quivered, then tucked against his spine as if they were afraid of his anger. He stalked from the room with the thin journal tucked under his arm, leaving his quill and ink abandoned. The deafening sound of ancient oak doors meeting their frames rang through the room as the doors slammed shut on Delphi’s heels.
    Nathaniel’s heart raced. Delphi had made him a promise. They will pay blood for blood. It was an oath, the