From one breath to the next Wrath had the messenger up against the wall, his forearm pressed hard against the man’s windpipe. Blood dripped from the messenger’s nose onto his tunic and the demon closed his eyes as if in utter rapture.

“Hello, Francesco. Pardon my rudeness, but I hear you’ve been selling my secrets. If we were in the Walled City, you’d already be dead. Consider this a favor.”

I stood there, frozen. Half in shock, half in horror. Wrath had exploded in violence faster than it took me to suck in a startled breath.

“Did I ever tell you the scent of blood drives me into a near frenzy, witch? Your kind believes we crave the taste of it, but princes of Hell don’t usually drink blood. It’s power we’re intoxicated by. The more I allow someone to bleed, the more power I hold over their life.”

I blinked. I could barely form a coherent thought. I forgot, through our bantering, who Wrath really was. I imagined I was seeing only a small fraction of what he could do.

He leaned harder into the human whose face was now a deep purple. If Wrath pushed any harder, the man was going to die. I made to step forward, then stopped.

“I crave power more than money, or blood, or lust. And there’s no greater power than choice. I’d lie for it. Steal, cheat, maim, and murder. If I could, I’d sell my soul again for it, witch.”

“Sell your . . .” I shook my head. Demons were soulless creatures.

Wrath opened his eyes and turned to me, his irises glowed bright gold in the dark. There wasn’t anything human in them, and I realized he’d been keeping this part of himself under lock and key. Some claimed the Wicked were angels before they committed unforgivable sins, and were cast out of heaven. Now I understood how those stories started—Wrath’s gaze blazed with heavenly fire. He was wrathful justice: pure, swift, and completely unforgiving.

Ignoring my growing fear, I turned over his admission, and understood what he was really saying; he was offering me a choice. I had the power to walk away from what he was about to do. Or I could choose to stay and take part in it.

I thought of my sister’s ravaged body, and the other witches who’d died just as brutally because this man shared information about the messages he carried. Wrath said he was going to scare the messenger to find out who he’d been selling secrets to. His sudden burst of violence shouldn’t have surprised me. I nodded, almost imperceptibly, but the demon understood.

Wrath faced the messenger again. “Who paid you to open my letter, Francesco?”

The man’s attention shot to me, searching for assistance. Wrath looked me over slowly again, waiting. Francesco made his choice. Now it was time to make mine.