Page 77 of Her Scandalous Pursuit

Despite everything Desmond had done, she still wanted him. But she could not allow that to make any difference. After all, she loved chocolate, too, but that didn’t mean it was good to stuff herself with it. And love was far more treacherous than chocolate.

Kissing him had been wrong. Foolish. She should never have done it, and it was imperative that she not allow it to happen again. She shouldn’t even meet him tomorrow at the library. Looking at him, talking to him, even laughing—everything about him tempted her.

But how could she not use his help in her search for Gordon and Wallace? She must find the men, and Desmond knew far more about them than she did. It was only logical to combine her efforts with his again. And, really...she was a grown woman, intelligent and disciplined. Surely she could control her worst impulses; she would simply have to take more care. But as she drifted off to sleep, a nagging voice in the back of her mind whispered that she was only making excuses...

THE FIRE ROARED UPWARD, and all around her the crowd cheered. As they watched the figure standing still amidst the blaze, a storm blew in. Heavy gray clouds scudded across the sky, and thunder rumbled in the distance. The wind swirled, bending the flames away and sending sparks shooting into the air. It seemed almost as if the wind protected the woman from the pyre, and for a wild moment, Thisbe thought the heavens were about to open and send down a deluge to extinguish the burning logs. But there was no rain. And in the next instant, the wind tossed the flames onto the woman’s skirts.

The fire raced up her clothes. Within seconds, she was engulfed. Flames swirled around her and her fiery strands of hair danced on the wind. But, impossibly, Anne’s face showed no sign of pain, only a deep, abiding rage. There was another clap of thunder, and lightning shot across the sky.

Anne’s eyes were as bright and fierce as the lightning. She raised her bound hands and pointed straight at Thisbe. “Thou shalt obey me. There is no escape—thou owest me.”

Thisbe stared at her, rooted to the spot, her chest flooded with fear. The air around her was charged, her hair standing up on her arms. She tried to speak, to deny the other woman’s words, but no sound came out.

Anne raised her arms, turned her face up to the heavens and cried, “Come, Samael, I await thee. I call on thee, oh, Gabriel, oh, Dumah. Hear thy daughter’s plea. By treachery am I slain, and I look to thee for vengeance. Come thou, Barachiel and Harut, to my bidding. Come, Michael. Come, Kushiel. Come, Azrael and Abaddon. Grant me thy strength.” She lowered her gaze and her bound hands to Thisbe. “I bind thee to me. By all the saints above and the demons below, I bind thee. A life for a life. Thou art mine...”

THISBE CAME AWAKE with a start, as she always did after one of these nightmares, her heart pounding and gasping for air. The faint scent of lightning hung in the air, her scalp still prickled and the hair on her arms was raised.

She lay there for a few minutes, waiting for her heart and lungs to return to normal. She wasn’t sure that her mind and emotions could. Anne Ballew had cursed her? Bound Thisbe to her? What did that mean? And how could she possible owe her anything? The woman had died three centuries before Thisbe was born.

Thisbe groaned. This was ridiculous—as if she could make sense of the outlandish words in a dream! If she kept this up, she really was going to go mad.

Well, that had murdered sleep as effectively as Macbeth. Thisbe got out of bed, wrapped her dressing gown around her and went to the window. Dawn was breaking. She might as well get ready for the day. And she wanted to speak to her uncle before she left to meet Desmond.

She was lucky enough to find Bellard at the breakfast table, eating in companionable silence with her father. Thisbe waited until her father and great-uncle had finished their meal before she asked, “Do either of you know anything about the names of angels and such?”

“Angels?” Her father blinked. “Well, the Christian era is a bit past my time of expertise, but, let me see, there’s Jophiel. Isn’t he the one who drove Adam and Eve from the Garden?”

“I was thinking more of Michael and Gabriel. Abaddon.”

“Well, I believe Gabriel was a messenger,” the duke said. “Rather like the role of Hermes in the Greek pantheon.”

“Ah, but in the Muslim religion, he’s considered the angel of destruction,” Uncle Bellard pointed out.

“Is that so?” the duke said, turning to his uncle, intrigued, as he always was, by any academic discussion.

“Yes. Now, Michael, interestingly, is regarded as the angel of mercy by Muslims, but in Christian faiths, or at least some of them, he is the angel of death.”

“Naturally,” Thisbe muttered.

“Now, who else, dear? I don’t believe I’m familiar with that last one you said,” Uncle Bellard went on.

“Have you taken up a new area of study?” her father asked. “Religions?”

“No, it was just a dream I had. Someone said their names.”

Her great-uncle sent her a shrewd look. “Ah, I see. Were those all the names that were mentioned?”

“No, there were others. Azrael, Dumah...” Thisbe related all the rest of the names Anne Ballew had called upon. She remembered them vividly.

“Odd dream,” the duke commented. “I’ve heard of Azrael. He’s the angel of retribution.”

“And death,” Bellard added.

“Another angel of death?” Thisbe remarked.

“Mmm, I believe death figures prominently in several of them. Samael is connected to death somehow as well, though I cannot remember exactly how.” The small man popped up from his seat. “Wait a moment. I know just where...” His expression turned vague, and he hurried out of the room.

“I didn’t mean for him to go to any trouble,” Thisbe said guiltily.