Page 4 of Infernal Bindings

“What if your mate is here? What will he think if he sees an incubus following you around?”

“Half-incubus,” I correct. “Daemon’s mother is a witch.”

“And a member of the Septem.”

I cringe at the reminder. “It doesn’t matter. My mate isn’t going to be here. He probably doesn’t exist.”

It’s silly of her to think otherwise. Angels only grant fated mates to light witches who deserve it. They certainly don’t offer them up to someone whose soul belongs in Hell. But I don’t remind Mom of that fact because I know she likes to pretend my bond with Daemon is only temporary.

Ignoring my comment, she readjusts my purse strap, takes a step back, and smiles, clearly pleased with her handiwork. “Now, don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Everyone gets nervous at their baptism,” she assures me. “But you have nothing to worry about. It’ll be over before you know it.”

And then I’ll finally belong.

I’ve never belonged anywhere, and to be honest, I’m more excited by the prospect than scared. Pledging my allegiance and gifts to the angels seems a small price to pay to finally have a home. Still, I don’t know how the other coven elders will react to seeing me here tonight. They’ve spent years protesting whether my bond to Daemon makes me ineligible. But I’m twenty-one now, and this is the annual ceremony. It’s tradition that every witch my age comes.

For a moment, I can’t help but wonder if my mom warned the other elders that I’d be in attendance, or if she plans on strong-arming them into the ceremony once it begins. Knowing her, it’s probably the latter.

I fidget then, my palms breaking out into a sticky sweat at the realization this might start an actual fight. What if I’m to be publicly rejected? Forced away?

Daemon.

I think his name like a prayer. And God I wish he were here. I cut the thought off as quickly as it comes, lest I accidentally summon him and make things worse.

This is going to be fine.

It’s just a short ceremony.

Nothing bad will happen.

My mom places her hand on my lower back and guides me forward, the touch warm and burning. I wrap my hand around my tattooed wrist, as if that can hide Daemon from the others. Gloves would have helped. Maybe. Or perhaps long sleeves. But it’s too late now to change.

Our footsteps echo down the hallway and witches clear a path for us—technically for Mom—as she pushes open a door leading to the upper balcony of the rotunda. My eyes widen at how beautiful it is. Like the Sistine Chapel, biblical Renaissance-style paintings cover the dome above us, as well as every wall in sight. Golden glyphs accent the artwork—written in a language only angels and baptized light witches can speak. But I know enough about this place to know those glyphs are actually a warding spell. No demon can see or hear what happens inside. The only way they can access this part of the building is through a direct summon. Through permission.

I clench my wrist tighter.

No demon has ever entered this place before. I can’t summon him. They’d never forgive me.

Mom points to the bottom of the rotunda some fifty-feet below. “You see that pool? That’s where you’ll be called down to be baptized.”

The pool is made of solid marble and perches on a glittering and golden dais in the center of the room. It’s round and deep, but only marginally larger than most hot tubs. Crystalline holy water fills it to the brim, threatening to splash over.

I glance first at the pool, then to the coven elders surrounding it. Four other witches, all dressed in white like Mom, form a circle around the pool. Their leader, Regent Martha Emmers, wedges a holy tome beneath her armpit where the pages glow like they’re made of sunlight.

“Do you know which angel you’ll pledge your allegiance to?” Mom asks. “Michael is the kindest to work with, but Gabriel allows his witches to channel directly from him.”

“You and Dad chose Raphael,” I say with a shrug. “I figured I’d do the same.”

Mom crosses her arms, and her eyes narrow into something snake-like. “You don’t choose an angel because of somebody else. You’re supposed to decide whose personality and needs best suit your talents. Please tell me you’ve done some research?”

My silence is deafening. For me, there wasn’t a choice. I wanted to do whatever made her happiest … which apparently I’d been wrong about.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “It’ll be fine though. I’m sure Raphael is great.”

“He is great, but that’s beside the point. You can’t just—” The lights dim and my mom curses under her breath. “This conversation isn’t over, but right now I need to get to my place. Just try to fit in.”