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“Yes?”

“You’re going to win because you made us all see his innocence, even if my boss won’t admit it.”

“Are you sure I convinced you? After this happy birthday chat, I’m not so sure.”

“You convinced me before the trial ever started. He’s all you talked about for months, despite my frequent ethical objections, I might add. And catching killers is good, but we never catch the real one when we blame the innocent one. You did good.” This time, he hangs up.

I drop the phone on the bed. God, I really love/hate that man. It’s crazy kismet perfection that a bad date led us to best friend status. I throw off the blanket and sit up when, unbidden, my mind flashes back to the woman in front of the courthouse, to the moment she collapsed, lying on the ground, her body jerking around as we tried desperately to help her while we waited on the emergency team. By the time the ambulance had gotten there and I’d confirmed the woman was safe, I had to be in court, and so had Oliver.

I’d tried to check on her after court, but no one at any hospital I called knew who I was talking about. I’d called every hospital possible, and they all ended with the same outcome.

The woman didn’t exist.

The Sacred Book of Nephilim

It is written that there is only one true Mordechai Angel, Aza, the one who has the power to protect or destroy but must choose either path. Choice is free will, and free will is a gift or a curse, determined by who yields its power. Influence and temptation are mighty swords, as is the pleasure of the flesh. This Mordechai must choose allies cautiously, must align with the true light, or darkness will fall. The direction this wind blows will be as mighty as the outcome that will frame all that humanity will know and all that it will be. Slaves, soldiers, friends. Enemies, life—or death. For without the one true Mordechai Angel, Aza, all shall perish who do not bow to the darkest knight of them all, the one true Mordechai Demon known as Sabon.

Chapter two

After my chat with Oliver, I head into my cubbyhole of a bathroom to take a quick shower because, of course, I don’t have the luxury of a birthday bath. Even if I had time for such a thing, my humble little condo is without a tub. But it’s cute, in budget, and close to both work and the courthouse. One day, I’ll go bigger and better, but for now, I’ve sunk almost every dime my grandfather left me last year from his hard-earned consulting business into my own firm and done so with the certainty that I was doing what he’d encouraged: choosing my own path and a future not dictated by anyone, not even my parents. He’d be proud of me for my courage to believe in myself as much as he did. That said, in hindsight, my own self is only one person, which is limiting—a thought that delivers me to both the shower and an inner monologue I can’t seem to flip off. Winning this case is necessary. I’ve staked my credibility and my firm’s future on a not guilty plea. I’ve gone so far as to publicly vow my mission to force the authorities to find the true killer before he takes another life. This isn’t about money or fame to me. It’s about right and wrong. It’s about stopping the practice of creating fall guys for personal election-year gain. If I wanted to drench myself in Chanel, I’d be working for my father’s top firm, not out on my own.

I tried that. Working with him and having him treat me like an underperforming stranger when I did nothing but overperform was worse than living with him and being ignored.

Shaking off a thought that will mess with my head, I refocus on today, on my own trial, through my own firm. I turn off the water. It’s time to go to court.

Only a quick glance at my watch tells me it’s really not time to head that direction, not just yet. It takes me all of thirty seconds for my mind to fill with nerves over the verdict, but I quickly shut that down. I’ve emphasized the prosecution’s circumstantial evidence and explained the legal standard of reasonable doubt, which I’ve certainly established. I brought in experts. I even had some of his students speak on his behalf. I’ve done everything I can do, and now it’s time to put it all in God’s hands.

With a deep breath, I inspect myself in the mirror, comforted by my lucky navy suit dress. Lucky because I’d worn it the day I graduated from the University of Texas at Austin School of Law, when I’d managed to walk the stage with nary a trip or fall. As my grandfather used to say, sometimes you just have to embrace the little wins. I pin my long blonde hair at my nape, conservative to the extreme, as is my customary style, professionalism always on my mind.

Once it’s primly in place, I press my hands on the sink and stare at my reflection, really trying to see myself in the eyes of the jury.

I’d always wanted to be as stunningly beautiful as my mother, but I’ve always been just me, which I find to be far less striking than her and far more average. Well, except for the rare pale blue of my eyes that the doctors call a birthmark, as crazy as that still sounds to me.

Whatever the case, my eyes have worked for me in a courtroom, momentarily stunning witnesses on the stand when I get up close and personal during a cross-examination. Another sign, per Oliver, that I’m otherworldly and thus the Armageddon in business attire. I snort at his over-the-top sense of humor and gloss my lips. I am not the Armageddon, for God’s sake, but I do hope I’ve ended the DA’s witch hunt for my client, Jeremy Gibson. Otherwise, today won’t be the end of the world for the general population, but it will be for him.

And me.

In premise, I could be ruined, but I’ll keep fighting for Jeremy and the victims that deserve true justice, the kind jailing an innocent man will never deliver.

Climbing out of my own skin with nerves and unable to wait around another moment, I grab my purse and briefcase to depart and bundle up in my Burberry trench coat that I’d splurged on at the after-Christmas sale last year. Dress for success and all that stuff. Once I’m out the door, I decide to skip the office and gamble that the jurors are eager to leave for the holiday and that my verdict will be delivered this morning. In a birthday-inspired move, I also gamble on finding a seat at the Starbucks near the courthouse. In a glorious sign of good fortune, I score an amazing parking place and a nice corner table. I settle into said seat, grab my coffee when my name is called, and power up my MacBook. Since the jury likely only just started for the day, I’m expecting to sit here a good, long while—two cups of coffee at least. I start with the headlines related to my case and steel myself for what I suspect will be prosecution-friendly commentary from a national media outlet.

Defense attorney Ember Thorne is sharp, hard, and yet sympathetic in the courtroom. Her client, however, is none of those things. He’s emotionless, his hands laced in front of him, putting on this air of timidity that comes off as strange. The kind of guy you might find in a closet somewhere playing with puppets and making strange voices to animate the characters that are all demons and monsters. The problem for the defense is her client’s creep factor. The problem for the prosecution is their pathetic execution of the case. Guilty until proven innocent does not apply here. To this DA, it’s clear the case was charged too quickly without adequate proof to support a guilty charge, most likely because it’s an election year. Ember Thorne has presented reasonable doubt, and then some. I predict a verdict for the defense that’s equally as pathetic as their execution, since I believe this man to be a killer.

I grimace to the point where my jaw tightens. “He’s not a killer,” I murmur, ignoring the stink eye the guy at the next table shoots me. “I don’t defend killers.”

My phone buzzes with a text that reads, Jury is back. My spine straightens, and my fist balls between my breasts over my racing heart. Already? This is fast, really fast, but there wasn’t anything solid against my client. Then again, there have been studies that claim there’s a human tendency for jurors to favor harshness with accused killers.

I can’t change the outcome at this point, I remind myself.

It’s done.

I shut my computer with a rather fierce thud, and in defiance of my logical thought process, nerves assail me. I’ve tried two dozen cases in one shape or form, but this is always the moment I both apprehensively anticipate and dread. This is when my performance is graded, and far bigger than my own self, this is when the future of the person who entrusted me with their defense is decided.

With a second extra-hot white mocha for the road in hand, and me all bundled up, I exit the coffee shop. We Texans don’t like the cold December days, and the heater in my piece-of-junk, ten-year-old Camry isn’t working. Alas, though my father loves to hate my car—he thinks of it as beneath his daughter—he hates the fact that I won’t work for his fancy, high-powered firm where money and power, not people, matter just as much. I open the door to my “chill mobile,” as Oliver calls it, when a large truck pulling a SpongeBob float turns the corner and stops right behind my car. As in, stops and doesn’t move.

“End of Times parade,” says one of the Starbucks employees who was standing by the curb smoking. “They’ve been having it every year since the Mayan calendar said today was the end of times. I guess they think they were right on the day and wrong on the year.”

“Wasn’t that, like, more than ten years ago?”