He bent sideways and retched. “Swear it,” the boy repeated. Heat flushed Chauncey’s neck; it took all his energy to curl his hands into two weak fists. He laughed at himself, but there was no humor. He had no idea how, but the boy was inflicting the nausea and weakness inside him. It would not lift until he took the oath. He would say what he had to, but he swore in his heart he would destroy the boy for this humiliation. “Lord, I become your man,” Chauncey said venomously. The boy raised Chauncey to his feet. “Meet me here at the start of the Hebrew month of Cheshvan. During the two weeks between new and full moons, I’ll need your service.” “A … fortnight?” Chauncey’s whole frame trembled under the weight of his rage. “I am the Duc de Langeais!” “You are a Nephil,” the boy said on a sliver of a smile. Chauncey had a profane retort on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it. His next words were spoken with icy venom. “What did you say?” “You belong to the biblical race of Nephilim. Your real father was an angel who fell from heaven. You’re half mortal.” The boy’s dark eyes lifted, meeting Chauncey’s. “Half fallen angel.” Chauncey’s tutor’s voice drifted up from the recesses of his mind, reading passages from the Bible, telling of a deviant race created when angels cast from heaven mated with mortal women. A fearsome and powerful race. A chill that wasn’t entirely revulsion crept through Chauncey. “Who are you?” The boy turned, walking away, and although Chauncey wanted to go after him, he couldn’t command his legs to hold his weight. Kneeling there, blinking up through the rain, he saw two thick scars on the back of the boy’s naked torso. They narrowed to form an upside-down V. “Are you—fallen?” he called out. “Your wings have been stripped, haven’t they?” The boy—angel—whoever he was did not turn back. Chauncey did not need the confirmation. “This service I’m to provide,” he shouted. “I demand to know what it is!” The air resonated with the boy’s low laughter.