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“You’re learning.”

“I’m trying,” I assure him. “Can all Nephilim heal others?”

“No.”

“Can all Crystal Seers heal?”

“No.”

My brows furrow. “Why can you?”

“Ask me tomorrow. We need to rest. Goodnight, Ember.”

About ten questions dance on my tongue, but I swallow them and whisper, “Goodnight, Micah.”

I shut my eyes, and this time, instead of a snake and yellow-eyed demons, my mind conjures a beautiful man with the most incredible red wings.

The Sacred Book of Nephilim

It is the nature of the Nephilim to be surrounded by the darkness of lies hidden in beauty as striking as the light of the crystal dawn.

Chapter twenty-one

Iwake staring into the most gorgeous blue eyes—eyes the color of a mesmerizing crystal blue ocean. “Now I know what everyone sees when they look at me,” I whisper, my hand lifting and brushing over the stubble on his jaw.

“And what is that, Ember?” His voice is a gentle wind, the kind one might expect to deliver a hint of salt and sea.

I blink and blink again, jolting to a sitting position, my heart thundering in my chest. “How did the doctors actually think my eyes were a birth defect? There’s nothing normal about those eyes.”

“A birth defect?” He chuckles low and deep from his fairly impressive chest, but I assume beauty and perfection are most assuredly requirements for an angelic Overseer. I’m not certain honesty is, though. I mean, Nephilim are fallen angels. I think. I’m not fully confident in anything at present, most certainly what he is and what I am. His eyes, those damnable eyes that look just like mine, dance with amusement. “Is that what they told you? And you believed it?”

Yes, I think. Yes, that is what they told me and what I told everyone else, but at this point, admitting that out loud will likely sound stupider than it does in my head right now. I push to my feet, shaking off the haze of sleep and noting his dark hair lies in wet tendrils at his temple, and he’s now dressed in a fresh black tee and jeans that he’s paired with combat boots. It’s his color combo of choice frequently, a uniform of sorts it seems, and I wonder if it’s about hiding the blood of battle or blending in with the darkness of Hell if he’s ever dragged there by the likes of Jeremy.

But that aside, he showered while I slept, and there’s an anxious energy about him. “What’s happening?”

“We’re leaving,” he says, the tiniest innuendo of amusement lingering in his tone. “He motions to his bedroom. “You have twenty minutes to get ready. There are clothes on the bed. Pack light, if you pack at all.”

As if I have more than a few small things. As if I haven’t left my life behind. We haven’t talked about the longevity of my plight, either, and the current press for time hardly seems the best moment for questions. At this point, I’d just like to know where we’re headed and why Micah, as Overseer, believes a middle-of-the-night escape is necessary. But having learned he’s more coded messages than answers, I don’t bother to ask.

I head toward the bedroom—his bedroom—and once inside, I find a stack of clothes lying on the bed. Apparently, he’s not only dictating my comings and goings, he’s dressing me, too.

Twenty minutes later to the minute, I step into the living room, twinning with him in black jeans, a black tee, and combat boots. I haven’t bothered with a bag. My toothbrush is in my pocket. I left the extra clothing. Nothing else is mine. Micah is waiting on me in the living room, the black zip-up jacket he’s sporting indicating his impatience to depart. He motions to the couch, where another jacket awaits me. “You’re going to need that,” he states. “It’s snowing, and we’re on a motorcycle.”

Wonderful, I think. A motorcycle. Snow. This Texan is about to freeze her ass off, but if leaving this place keeps me alive, I can deal with the cold. I don’t think Micah is worried about me, though. I think he’s worried about his people, and if he’s right, if I’m a danger to his garrison, I will happily endure bad weather to get the heck out of here.

I bundle up, and without a word, he’s striding toward the door, expecting that I will follow in his actions. By the time he’s in the hallway, I’m on his heels, biting back questions. Even in a courtroom, silence is golden, and I can’t imagine that’s not true in a garrison with armed Nephilim who think I’m a Jeremy protégé.

With zipped lips, I follow Micah’s lead, in step with him as we weave through the hallways and eventually end at an elevator, no doubt leading to the surface. We step inside, facing forward, and neither of us speaks, but the tiny box is an inferno in the thick jacket I’m certain I’ll be thankful for soon. The car sways with the path upward, and it’s quite clear in my mind that logically, he could be delivering me to some kind of prison or my demise.

But how can I want to free myself when I’ve seen and felt the serpent inside me?

The elevator doors open, and he glances over at me. “Stay close.”

As if I’m going to run off in the middle of a bunch of Nephilim who might or might not want me dead, I think.

His lips quirk as if he’s read my mind, but if he’s doing so, it’s in a sneaky, undetectable way. As if he knows exactly what I’m thinking, be it because he really does or he thinks he does, he counters with, “You should work on your facial expressions and hiding your emotions and opinions. You don’t. At all.”

I draw my spine straight. “That’s not true. My courtroom persona is well-practiced.”