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Ithuriel took my shock as a response to her revelation that he recovered at a speed that should be impossible. “I know. Quite strange, isn’t it? Up here, he should be as vulnerable as on Earth. There should be no way that he can draw energy from Heaven as he can do from Hell. Yet he does. And he just”—she bared her teeth and grabbed his hair, wrenching his head back—“won’t tell us how.”
Azazel’s subdued power vibrated in the air, the note of it purely demon. There was no trace of his angelic heritage in his energy. He’d obviously repressed his angel side completely when they’d caught him, to better hide his identity and how he’d been able to make it into Heaven.
He peeled his gaze off me and looked at Ithuriel instead, his features hardening. “Go fuck yourself,” he purred.
Stop antagonizing her, I wanted to snap. Did he have to make things harder for himself by insulting his torturers? Ugh!
“Not very creative,” I blurted.
Azazel’s gaze flicked to me.
Ithuriel straightened and looked at me over her shoulder, her attention effectively pulled off him for a moment.
“I mean,” I went on, “I’d have thought demons were more eloquent. You’d hear more innovative insults on the streets of New York City.” I shifted my weight. “From what I’ve been told.”
“He’s stingy with words,” Ithuriel said. “We haven’t been able to get anything relevant out of him about who he is, how he got here, or what he’s been doing in Heaven. Not a peep.”
I swallowed down the renewed bout of nausea rising up. That amount of resilience… To withstand this kind of torture without breaking even just a little was incredibly impressive, and my mind and heart struggled with the full and true understanding of how much pain he’d already endured, just going by the looks of it and the knowledge that they’d already had him for more than a day.
The torture would have gotten progressively worse, for one thing, because they’d have realized he healed fast and therefore could take more, and because his continued refusal to provide them with even the smallest bit of information would have ratcheted up their frustration under the pressure to produce results for Raphael.
We had to get him out of here ASAP.
“Well,” Ithuriel said, “I am nothing if not persistent.”
She walked over to a table on the wall, which I only noticed now, and when I saw what lay atop it, I had to catch my breath and still my heart so as not to utter a horrified gasp.
I’d seen pictures of medieval torture devices. I’d watched movies here and there featuring deranged serial killers who delighted in collecting all sorts of sharp tools they’d then use on their victims. I’d prepared myself before coming here as best as I could.
If he suffered through this, without breaking, I’d be able to watch if that was what it took to keep my cover and gather the intel necessary for Naamah to execute her plan for rescue. Now that my memories were back, I remembered all too well my visceral reaction to being handed the severed wings of Inachiel—still dripping with his blood—as well as puking my guts out at having to witness the torture session Lucifer had dragged me to. I knew how hard it was for me to keep the contents of my stomach from hurtling up at the sight, sound, and smell of suffering.
But if I vomited in here, or worse, if I had to run out because I couldn’t take it, I’d risk arousing suspicion. Because the angel I’d pretended to be in order to be allowed on the team wouldn’t be plagued by nausea when watching a demon get tortured. I had to play the part and make them think I had what it took to pursue this line of work.
I. Would. Not. Throw. Up.
No matter what, I’d keep it together, for Azazel’s sake.
For his sake, for his sake, I chanted in my head, fighting down bile as Ithuriel set blade to skin, as the scent of fresh blood permeated the air, as—eventually, after what seemed like hours of silent suffering—the sound of his choked-back screams chipped away at my composure.
That was the first and only time in my life that I threw up in my mouth, only to swallow it all down before anyone noticed.
CHAPTER 19
“Please tell me we’re rescuing him tonight,” I said by way of greeting when I dragged myself before Naamah after my torture session shift.
By sheer, soul-clenching force of will, I’d kept myself from painting the walls in that room with the contents of my stomach. I’d never dissociated so hard from a situation before, actually managing to decouple my emotions completely from what my senses were picking up.
Naamah looked up from reading a rolled parchment, set it aside, and rose to her feet, smoothing the fabric of her sari—the pattern of which seemed familiar.
I raised my brows. “Did you actually turn one of Gabriel’s curtains into a garment?”
She halted and glanced down at her body, then back at me, a brilliant smile on her face. “Isn’t it just lovely? I was right; the turquoise matches my eyes.”
Said eyes sparkled with more mischief than was legal, I was sure.
“Aren’t you worried he’ll snap one of these days?”
“Oh,” she purred, “I’m counting on it.”
