“It’s okay,” I whispered. “It was one of my father’s allies making sure we made it safely.”

“That is an ally of Belial?!” He pointed at the wall.

“You saw it?”

“I did. Did you not recognize it?” Kope asked with uncharacteristic awe in his voice.

“Not at first . . .” I touched a finger to the back of my head and winced.

We stared at each other, standing close, neither of us daring to say the demon’s name or title out loud: Lucifer’s personal messenger.

By all accounts, Azael was deeper in hell’s pocket than any other demon, and yet my father trusted him. Kope and I stood there a moment longer, joined in fear but also trusting that Dad knew what he was doing. He’d better, or we were all in trouble.

In a movement of slow affection, Kope lifted his hand to cup my shoulder. His palm was so hot that I almost flinched. He removed the hand and his brow tightened as he shuffled a step back.

“I am sorry,” he said, dropping his eyes.

Huh? “For what?”

“I should not touch you when we are alone like this.”

His breaths seemed to shallow out.

“We’re friends, Kope. Friends comfort each other.” I really wished he wouldn’t make a big deal out of little things. It made me feel bad.

Fatigue tightened the skin around his eyes. “Sleep well, Anna.”

I nodded, not sure what to say. He took a moment to listen at the door before slipping into the corridor. I could still feel the heavy heat of his hand on my shoulder as I climbed into bed.

At nine thirty I stood waiting for Kope in the hotel’s quaint courtyard strung with vines. The warm air held a lively buzz. The closest comparison I could manage was the feeling I had had at the Native American reservation in New Mexico. Our surroundings housed a sense of mystery and history too ancient to comprehend. We were standing in the oldest known city in the world that was still functional and occupied. As old as Babylon, which had long since fallen.

I spied Kope coming toward me, looking suave in black slacks and a crisp, gray button-down shirt with the top button open. He slipped something in my hand as he passed me: money, with a small knife wrapped inside. I shook my head and pushed the knife back into his hand.

“I don’t want to be armed when I meet her,” I whispered.

He pressed his lips together like he didn’t agree, but eventually tucked the knife in his pocket and handed me a small wrapped object.

“Hummus on flatbread,” he explained before setting off.

Yum. I ate as I followed, keeping space between us. The main streets were roughly paved, but worn and crumbling in places, which added to the old-world appeal. I made my way into the souk, a bustling open-air market with the sun shining down on it. Children ran rampant, playing and hollering. Shopkeepers called out in exuberant voices and used grand hand gestures as they haggled over prices. Unlike in many crowded cities, the auras in the souk were pleasant.

Outside the busy market, I stood on a major corner, marveling at the sight of ancient buildings and a Roman-era wall that marked the old city portion of town. My skin prickled with awe. Paul the Apostle had been on the same ground where I now stood. The light weight of the hilt against my ankle was a reminder of his guardian angel, Leilaf. Being here brought it all to life.

Zania lived down a narrow, cobbled road with dry paths between the two-story luxury houses. I looked up at the balconies with beautiful ironwork jutting out over the walkway. Doors and windows were made of dark oiled wood. As I neared the very last house on the left, my stomach tightened. I stopped next door to it and shot my hearing into Zania’s house, scouring each room, but finding nothing. I knocked on the door, peeking over my shoulder at Kope who was several houses back, seeming inconspicuous as he bent to tie his shoelaces.

After several minutes of no answer, I walked around the corner to the side of Zania’s house, which was next to some sort of store. It must have been closed because there was nobody in sight down the narrow alley. Maybe Zania was out shopping at one of the souks. I absently looked into one of her windows, wondering how long we should wait for her to come home. A shadow passed my reflection in the glass, and I was wrenched backward from behind, feeling a distinct, cold sting at my throat. Other than an involuntary gasp of shock and my galloping heart rate, I didn’t move or make a sound.

A fierce female voice said something to me in Arabic, and she tightened her grip around my shoulders. Nice to meet you, too, Zania. I knew how to fight my way out of this hold, but I wanted to be peaceful with her. I wished I could look at her, but she had me facing the cement wall.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, trying not to move my jaw. “No Arabic.”

“Who sent you?” she demanded in thick English. The sharp point jabbed harder and I winced as I felt it cut into my flesh.

“I’m not—”

A scuffle of sound cut me off, and her arms were gone. A metallic ping rang out as her knife hit the stone pavement. I spun around to see Kope holding a tall, thin young woman—one arm around her midsection, pinning her arms at her side, and the other over her mouth. A black head scarf with red flowers had slid back during the fray and her dark hair fell around her face. She struggled against him, but he held tight. I put my palms up and looked into her round, deep-brown eyes. She appeared to be in pain, and I cast a worried glance at Kope.

“I am not hurting her,” he assured me. “She is afraid.”

Petrified was more like it.