Ishmael’s words twisted an old wound. She had done wrong by him all those years ago. How careless, how wreckless she had been. Not to mention foolish. Even her youth could not excuse the events of that night, the rashness and blindness of her decision. The decision should have been his, not taken from him in the dead of night by a creature he knew of only in stories. By all accounts he should have been dead and buried after a long successful life, not abandoned by his maker only moments after his creation, stuck in this eternal hell.

It was only a small move, a gesture of Azazel, but combined with Galina’s memories, her emotions of being home, and guilt at Ishmael’s words, Galina moved in response without thinking. With only half a thought of moving herself, Galina found herself in front of Ishmael, protecting him from a threat that, it occurred to her too late, likely was not actually there. But months of capture, of trying to outsmart the ministry had allowed Galina’s mental guard to slide down, to protect her own, to give a hint at the very secret she had hidden since she met the other vampires of the British Isles.