My gaze set on my intended destination: Alfred’s Rare Books. I pushed through the door into a narrow, cluttered space.
Stacks of books crowded every surface—tables, desks, bookshelves. All haphazardly arranged. Candlelight danced back and forth over the warped wood floors, the dusty shelves of books.
At the back of the shop, a dark-haired man sat next to a guttering taper, a pen in his hand. He surveyed me through a thick set of spectacles.
“Alfred?” I said.
His hands shook. “Count Saklas. Welcome.”
I pulled out a pouch of gold. “You have the Mysterium Liber for me?”
His eyes shifted around the room, which set me on edge. My hand twitched at Asmodai’s hilt.
I stared at Alfred. “The book. Where is it?”
Gripping the pen, his hand was trembling so much he unconsciously scribbled jagged lines all over his ledger. It wasn’t unusual for people to react to me with terror. It was the natural way of things. The strange part was that his attention was not on me.
Something was off.
I was drawing my sword just as the first bullet hit. Another, and another slammed me from behind, knocking me forward into Alfred’s desk.
But the bullets passed through me, and already my immortal body was healing. I whirled, sword drawn. The gunfire fell silent as they realized the mistake they’d made.
Five men: all sleek hair and black shirts. They stood behind me, guns drawn.
“For Albia!” one of them shouted, but I heard the terror in his voice.
A dark smile curled my lips. Now these men, without question, deserved to die.
The first arc of my sword went through two necks, and for just a moment, I felt a flicker of that pure, divine destruction that had once blazed from me. These mortals were enemies of the angels, and their deaths imbued me with strength.
The bullets started flying again, gunshots ringing out. I felt the sting when they entered my skin, but they sailed through. I healed fast, and I pivoted.
Asmodai sang as he cut through two more evildoers, and my body vibrated as I moved in a whirlwind of death. The final living man pulled the trigger. It clacked, empty. His hands were shaking so much, he dropped the gun.
“We’re trying to protect our kingdom,” he stammered, his blond hair now out of place, “from tyrants like you.”
With a smile, I took another step closer. When my sword cut through his throat, my blood started to sing. There was the thrill again.
I turned back to my new friend, Alfred. I could smell the stench of his urine from here, and he gripped his pen like it was a lifeline.
I pointed my sword at his neck. “Where is the Mysterium Liber?”
He rasped, “We are the Free Men,” and finding some hidden well of strength, he threw his pen at me with a little yelp.
I smirked. Unfortunately for him, the pen is not actually mightier than the sword.
Asmodai cleaved his traitorous head in two, and the glory of the kill spilled up my arms, a warm light on my body.
I sheathed my sword , my exhilaration replaced with disappointment.
This had been nothing but an ambush, and I was no closer to finding the Mysterium Liber.
I crossed outside into the rain, hoping it would wash some of the blood off me. When I showed up at the Bibliotek Music Hall, I didn’t want to arrive soaked in gore.
My dreams had told me I’d be looking for a woman going by the name of Zahra.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my supportive family, and to Michael Omer for his critiques and emotional support. Thanks to Nick for his insight and help crafting the book.
Jen and Jeannie are my fabulous editors for this book. Thanks to my advanced reader team for their help, and to C.N. Crawford’s Coven on Facebook!