Demon mentor. Crypt of the Seven Angels. Natalie Yacobson

tensed, although he moved around her very quickly, calculated the speed of his movements, clenched her hand into a fist and hit. She managed to hit him hard.

      «Well done!» he seemed not to feel pain at all. There was something insane in his grin. If one angel from the crypt, revived, completely lost his mind, he would look like Damian. Mad Angel! In his appearance there was a lot of heavenly and at the same time he seemed absolutely earthly and completely abnormal. If not for his crushing inexplicable strength, she would have considered him just a nutcase. Probably, for the most part, she considered him so. But now she was beginning to get used to it.

      He would have been very sweet if it weren’t for that crazy fire in his eyes and an obsessive grin that almost never left his seductive lips. Damian could seduce anyone with almost no effort. But inside her, for some reason, the cold prevailed. She wanted neither intimacy nor seduction. Although their fights in themselves did not resemble battles, because in these moments such a strange closeness was established between them that no one would understand. They became like one being. He wanted to transfer his power to her when he taught her.

      Blaise was struck in the head by this feeling of surprising closeness, not confrontation, every time they went against each other, preparing to fight. Fight me, he repeated aloud and with a glance, he called her, but he also wanted something else. His gaze called for more than just hand-to-hand fighting. He wished for another encounter. Another closeness. But he didn’t talk about it. Although it was easy to understand him without words.

      He was so complex and yet so open. He seemed to want to receive not only the soul, but also her. The body is a pledge, and the soul for later. Why would he? Blaise didn’t quite understand.

      Live with grandiose plans for revenge and with a demon behind your back. Blaise chuckled. She never dreamed of that.

      «That’s enough for today,» Damian noticed that she was tired, although Blaise didn’t want to show it, but he somehow immediately noticed it and stopped classes.

      «Wait!» She objected weakly.

      «We can continue tomorrow, as well as on any other day.»

      «Are you saying we have plenty of time?» she ironically raised her eyebrows. «What if tomorrow I already decide to strike someone? At least to test their own strength.»

      «Well, then I want to show you something,» he found himself nearby so quickly, as if there was no space separating them in the semi-darkness. More often than not, he preferred to stand behind her, as he is now. A comfortable position to hit, but that wasn’t what he was going to do. There was something in his hand. He squeezed it neatly, like a bouquet of flowers about to present to her.

      «What is it?» She unclenched his hand and looked. «Some kind of grass?»

      «Clover,» he corrected. «Or rather, a green sprout of clover. Take a closer look at him.»

      «So what?» instead of the usual three, she counted four leaves, but this did not almost surprise her.

      «Four-leaf clover,» Damian told her. «Many people say that four leaves is a mistake of nature, which is simply too rare, but those who are far from botany believe that the plant is magical. That it will fulfill any of your wishes, if you found it or accepted it as a gift.»

      Yielding to persuasive speeches, Blaise almost closed her fingers on the tiny sprout, even though it did not seem so wonderful to her.

      «Is our garden full of that?» she found the audacity to argue, and it was true. «In the garden of the estate de Rosier. And it all belongs to me.»

      «Maybe because no one can find a way into it,» Damian obligingly prompted.

      «Just do not hint that you tried it. This has been the case for centuries. No one can find their way into the estate unless someone from Rosier points it out.»

      «Then why oh why, you can invite me to visit?» He chuckled, seemingly really asking for it.

      «I do not know. The estate is pretty neglected.»

      «If you remember, I lived in landfills.|

      Now she was grinning.

      «Not really.» Blaise remembered something flying off the high rooftops of the nearby buildings, and only then he appeared. Just grew up behind her. But he was not an angel from the crypt, however, she did not dare to call him just a man. Although at first he seemed to her like a hooligan or a criminal who was about to kill her. Then she was ready to defend herself, now, it seems, she was not averse to making friends with him, but life taught her that you can not trust anyone.

      «You, too, were ready to settle there, just not to return to your estate,» he insinuated. «I wonder why. Are you afraid of something?»

      He struck some painful string in her.

      «I’m not afraid of anything,» Blaise said immediately.

      «Prove it.» He dropped the tiny clover into her palm. «Make a wish! The sprout is a symbol, it will embody for you what you ask for, as well as for everyone. It will become your personal sign. I know you have one black desire. So make a guess. Suddenly it will come true.»

      This time he didn’t grin.

      Her desire was indeed black. Blaise thought that even the magic plant that fell into her hands should also turn black, because she would ask him to kill someone. Her desire is someone else’s death.

      She did not believe that clover was magic. Most likely, Damian ripped it off in the de Rosier estate, which had long been locked and abandoned, because it was almost unbearable to live there. They said it was built in a place where climatic conditions and an unusual type of land themselves give rise to various errors of nature. For example, in the garden there were enough thickets of clover with four leaves, but it still did not fulfill anyone’s wishes. Or she just didn’t notice it.

      If she could now choose her coat of arms, then it would be a four-leaf clover. Not because of the magic, according to legends, associated with it, but only because the first desire that came to her mind at the sight of it was revenge.

      The flower of evil. Whoever wanted evil will receive it. She imagined a four-leaf clover sprouting on the corpses of her enemies, gradually devouring them, and for some reason she felt surprisingly calm. As if the wish had already come true.

      Ghosts of war

      Alistair himself did not remember falling asleep on the floor of the chapel. This had never happened to him before. He always maintained control of himself, even when taking a hefty dose of opium. No one should have noticed anything bad behind him. Reputation is the main thing. If it is flawless, then no one has noticed the vile deeds hiding behind it. Alistair long ago learned to fully exploit his fame, covering up everything that he did unseemly with it. It was thanks to these difficult drinking practices that he chose the church service. When you are considered a protege of God, then all the evil you have committed remains in the shadows. Nobody dares to blame you because you are who you are. You are beyond suspicion.

      He always had the mind not to deny the existence of a God in which he does not believe, but to ardently condemn others for the lack of very strong faith and self-sacrifice. And now he is a cardinal. Who dares to accuse him of something, even if he did it? Even so, his word will be above all others.

      However, tonight he dreamed of a judging angel. Living angel made of marble. It sat directly above him on a flat slab at the altar and looked with such a stern, condemning look that, it seemed, was capable of incinerating. But at the same time, the pose of the angel was something erotic. The half-naked marble body bore traces of wounds. Unusual wounds, no blood. If it were a male body, then Alistair would feel a fit of desire, usually leading to violence, but the body was female, young, not yet formed. And the face… He remembered that face. The face of his victim. Blaise! Her eyes were bleeding profusely, and this made her look even more terrible. The gaze directed at him, as if from hell, where he directed her. Her and her