She didn’t answer—a glimpse of her usual Hekesha-ness—just kept walking ahead at a brisk pace until she got to a door. Gingerly, she opened it.
I sucked in a breath. What greeted me was a level of destruction that shook me even in my numbed state. Splintered pieces of what once was furniture littered the room, half charred, some of it still smoldering, the rugs on the floor partially burned, liberally showered in glistening shards of glass. Ash swirled in the air, along with what looked like sooty scraps of paper floating on a phantom wind, and behind it all, on the wall, the seared remains of shelves.
I knew this room. I’d been here before, when I explored the mansion. It was some sort of study, with scrolls tucked into antique bookcases, a massive desk, and comfortable chairs to lounge on next to an armoire filled with liquor and drinking glasses.
All of that old-world, sophisticated coziness was smashed to smithereens, as if a fiery tornado had ravaged the room.
And in the middle of the destruction, on the one untouched chair, sat Azazel. His head bent, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, he was as still as a statue. Behind his back, his wings rose, the unforgiving black of the feathers seeming to swallow the light spilling in from the hallway.
“He’s been like this for hours,” Hekesha whispered from behind me. “We don’t know what to do. It’s weirding us out.” She gave me a small shove forward. “Fix him.”
“What?” I whispered back, rooted to the spot. I had no idea how to handle this. “What do you expect me to do?”
“Just do what you’ve been doing that made him happy before,” she said under her breath. “You were good at that. Go do that some more.”
And before I could protest—or marvel at the unexpected compliment she’d just given me—she shoved me into the room and closed the door behind me.
With the light of the hallway cut off, the room fell into almost complete darkness. Only the last embers of a not quite extinguished fire on a rug in the corner illuminated the gloom. No flames danced over Azazel’s wings. They were pitch-black, hiding him in the near darkness of the room.
It took my eyes a minute to adjust to the low lighting, and I squinted at the shape I knew to be him in the center of the room.
“Azazel?” I asked tentatively, my heart thumping in my chest like a trapped animal.
I wasn’t scared of him. Not really.
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.
Okay, maybe a little.
I inched forward, my shoes crunching glass, until I stood close enough to him that I could reach out and touch his head. With a slight tremble to my hand, I did just that. As soon as my fingers brushed his hair, iridescent flames ignited all over his wings. The darkness receded a little.
“Azazel?” I ventured again. My pulse was a roar in my head. “What happened?”
I cautiously let my hand glide down to his face, and he turned ever so slightly into my touch. His sigh echoed loudly in the deafening silence of the room.
“There is a festival,” he said, his tone inscrutable. “It commemorates the Fall from Heaven. Every year, high-ranking demons come to join the festivities at Lucifer’s court. All members of his own family have a standing invitation…including me. I haven’t gone in over two thousand years.” The flames on his wings flared brighter, and an edge crept into his voice. “It’s not the kind of company I enjoy.”
Of course not. I swallowed hard. If this shindig was held at Lucifer’s court, it would be like walking back into his own personal nightmare, what with demons being so long-lived that many of the ones who were there when he was a boy and witnessed his abuse would still be present today. My thumb stroked over his temple, a helpless caress.
“An RSVP is required to attend,” he continued, “even with a standing invitation. This year, I responded with yes.”
I stilled. My heart skipped a beat.
“The festival takes place in Lucifer’s palace.” A tense pause. “In the bowels of which your father’s soul is being kept.”
I had trouble breathing.
“Attending the festival is the only way to enter the palace without drawing undue attention. The festivities are notoriously chaotic, and it would be easy to slip away from the crowds.” His wings flared. “And to search and find a soul in the pits.”
My hand trembled against his cheek.
“I thought it was a good plan,” he said, darkness weaving