Preya had tempered his fury so that now it was a slow controlled burn, where once it had been a raging forest fire incinerating everything in its path. Without his father here to whisper in his ear and push him, always pushing, closer and closer to his destiny, Michael’s mind was closed to outside influence, barred from Satan and his apocalyptic visions.
That’s wasn’t to say that he was worthy of trust, especially not when it concerned Mallory or her witch friends. Jim Moriarty was the only person Michael considered an ally, and as such, he was the only person Michael wouldn’t turn on in the blink of an eye, if given even an ounce of reason to do so.
He didn’t flinch either. On the inside, though, something churned, a sense of dread, maybe, a pang of apprehension. “You killed me before the Satanists found me. Clever.” If she had come for him anytime after that, she might not have completed her mission. “I was a child then. My powers weren’t what they are now. They were… an echo. I didn’t know what I was.” He was saying it without saying it out loud. I know what I am now. He was no longer such an easy target.