“That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t want them to be healed.”
I didn’t want to have the pain taken away by an angel’s magic, an angel other than Gabriel. More than that, I wanted those marks to stay, to remind me every time I looked in the mirror I was still human. No matter how many monsters chased me, no matter what politics I was expected to play, I was still a human being. And my child would be part human, too, even if it would be the smallest part of him.
Nathaniel looked like he wanted to speak again, then changed his mind.
Come on, Samiel signed, pointed him to the door. Let’s get your sleeping arrangements sorted.
I translated, and Nathaniel followed Samiel without another word.
Beezle stayed behind a moment when the others left. “You should let Nathaniel heal you. Your strength is being sapped enough by the baby. If you run yourself down on top of being pregnant, you’ll make yourself sick.”
“I don’t want to be indebted to Nathaniel,” I said.
“You may not have a choice.”
“I lived fine for plenty of years without magical emergency care,” I pointed out.
“You also lived plenty of years without knowing who you were and without dozens of enemies waiting outside to kill you.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I said.
“Just don’t let your pride get in the way of doing what’s necessary,” Beezle said.
Then he flew out the back door, slamming it shut behind him.
And I was alone. The tick of the analog clock that hung over the stove sounded like the beat of a drum. It was the middle of the afternoon, but I felt like I could go sleep for twelve hours. I needed to get some pregnancy books or something so I could find out if it was normal to be this tired.
“Yeah, I can probably squeeze that in between hunting Azazel and fending off faerie assassins,” I said to myself.
I doubted the pregnancy books would cover supernatural births, in any case. Somehow I didn’t think there would be a chapter on what to do if the father of your baby was part nephilim.
I dragged my heavy feet into the bedroom, pulled off all my clothes and went to shower off the blood from the wounds the Hob had given me.
The marks on my right thigh were not deep but they were raised and swollen. Jude hadn’t disinfected them while we sat in the kitchen with the others.
I scrubbed the wound until the scabs came off; then when I was out of the shower I poured hydrogen peroxide into it. I hissed as it stung and the peroxide bubbled.
The heavy, wet mass of my hair kept falling in the way as I bandaged my leg. Irritated, I threw it over my shoulder but it kept falling back. It had been months since I’d gotten it cut and it was well past the middle of my back now. Gabriel had loved my hair.
I straightened, the bandaging complete, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The humidity from the shower made my curls coil with wild energy around my head. The slash marks from the Hob’s claws stood out in bright relief against my white skin. The dark circles under my eyes added nothing positive to the overall impression.
I looked like a mad Medusa, the kind of woman people crossed the street to avoid.
The impulse was there, so I didn’t stop to think about it. I opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a pair of scissors. Then I started to cut.
Some time later I was surrounded by a pile of hair. What was left on top of my head was a shapeless mess, but it was short. I rubbed my hand over the nape of my neck, which felt bare and exposed. I looked down at the remains of my crowning glory, remembered Gabriel with his hands in my hair.
Tears welled up again, but I suppressed them ruthlessly. I had made this choice, and it was too late for regrets.
I dusted the hair off me with a towel, then swept up the rest of it and dumped it in the trash. I went into the bedroom without looking in the mirror again. I pulled on a tank top and pajama pants and fell into bed.
My dreams were filled with blood and ash and snow.
Someone was touching my hair, a featherlight hand brushing over my head.
“Gabriel?” I asked, my mind still muffled by sleep.
The hand stilled, drew away. I opened my eyes.
It was dark out, but in the winter it was dark by four thirty in the afternoon. There was a glint of streetlight on the metal frames of glasses.
“J.B.,” I said, sitting up. My head felt strangely light. I reached up unconsciously and felt the shorn ends.
“That’s a different look for you,” he said.
“How did you get in the house?” I asked, swinging my legs out and shivering when my bare feet touched the cold floor.
“Beezle let me in.”
“What time is it?”
“A little past seven.”
My stomach grumbled. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.
“Can we move this discussion to the kitchen?” I asked, getting up and pulling a sweatshirt and heavy socks from my dresser.
I followed J.B. into the hall and down to the kitchen, flipping on lights as I went. The refrigerator revealed its usual sad lack of nourishment, but there were some eggs that appeared fresh and a couple of tomatoes. I couldn’t remember whether I’d bought them or Samiel had brought them upstairs, but it was fortuitous all the same.
“Want an omelet?” I asked, checking the bread box. There were two pieces of mold-free bread left in the bag. I popped them in the toaster.
“I ate,” he said shortly.
Something in his tone made me pause. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, watching me bustle around, his hands fisted at his sides.
His eyes flickered from my hacked-off hair to the claw marks on my right cheek.
“I know,” I said resignedly, putting the carton of eggs on the counter. “I’ve looked better.”
“When are you going to stop taking stupid risks?” he said, his voice low and angry. “When you’re dead?”
“I didn’t think I was taking a stupid risk,” I said, stung. “I need to find Azazel.”
“Why?” J.B. asked. “Why is it your job to find him? Let Lucifer do his own damn dirty work.”
“He killed Gabriel.”
“And when you hunt down Azazel and kill him, that will make everything better? Gabriel won’t be dead anymore?” His face was taut with emotion.
“No,” I said, my temper rising to match his. “But he has to pay for what he did.”
“A blood price? Retribution? That’s the reason the faeries are after you. Why are you right and they’re wrong?” J.B. said, his voice getting louder.
“Azazel killed the innocent. I killed Amarantha because she was helping him, because the two of them were willing to run over anyone who got in their way. Don’t you dare try to compare me to them, or to the faeries who want me dead because of some breach of etiquette,” I shouted.
“You never take politics seriously,” J.B. said, crossing the room to put his hands on my shoulders. He gave me a little shake. I slapped his hands away.
“I don’t have time for politics,” I said. “I don’t have time to play games with posing monsters of any variety.”
“You call it a game, but to everyone else it’s deadly serious. You make more enemies because you refuse to play by the rules. And every time you make another enemy, the sand in your hourglass runs a little faster.”
My blood went cold. “Do you know something? Has the Agency seen my end?”
“No!” J.B. shouted. “But how do you think I goddamn feel every time that list comes across my desk? Every time I read it I can feel my heart pounding, just praying to every god there ever was that I won’t see the name ‘Madeline Black.’