Chapter 25 #2
He took a seat next to me, folding himself down with impossible grace. For a long moment, he just looked at me—into me, really—and I realized he was seeing things I couldn’t even name.
“Your mate is strong,” he said at last. “She is resting, as best she can. The demon king is clever, but so is she.”
Something unknotted in my chest, just for a heartbeat.
“She’s… okay?” I managed.
Archon nodded. “I sense she is whole. But she will need you when the time comes.”
He stood over me, and for a second; the world turned gold and soft. I felt warmth run through my veins, sweet and heavy, and all the noise and pain drained out of me.
“Rest now,” he said, his lips curving in a small, secret smile. “You will be needed soon.”
He brushed his palm across my head, and I felt the drag of his power—a gentle, insistent pull, like the tide pulling a swimmer out to sea. My eyelids went leaden, my head dropped over to the arm of the couch, and the last thing I heard was Archon’s voice, low and musical.
“He will wake when it is time, Juliet. Until then, Brie will hold on. But she will need him alert, and whole, when the breach comes.”
Juliet’s reply was a soft hush, almost a lullaby: “Thank you.”
I let the magic take me, grateful to finally let go, if only for a few minutes.
The last thing I thought before I slipped away was that someone, somewhere, had finally made me rest.
And for Brie, for us, I would give them anything they asked.
When I awoke, it was like waking from the best sleep of my life, but with the creeping guilt of a man who knows he’s about to be late for his own execution.
My face was mashed into a pillow that still smelled faintly of Juliet’s shampoo and cinnamon rolls.
There was a quilt over me, thick and absurdly soft, and as I sat up, it slipped to the floor with a hiss.
The light outside the window was now deep blue, clearly heading for dusk, and for a second I wondered if I’d slept through the whole war.
My first thought was for Brie. The bond was there—still a faint, fluttering line, more a shadow of her heartbeat than the real thing. But it was steady, not fading. I let myself feel it for a second, then shook it off and checked my watch.
Four hours, almost to the minute.
I ran a hand over my face. My regular scratchy stubble met me, but I felt no sore muscles. Whatever Archon had done, it worked better than any drug or medical protocol I’d ever seen.
The house was alive with noise. Somewhere to my left, Bronc barked orders in a voice like a rifle crack.
Down the hall, I heard the rolling, singsong voices of witches as they chanted in unison, their words foreign but oddly familiar.
In the kitchen, someone laughed—a short, sharp sound, immediately hushed.
I rolled off the couch, feet hitting the rug, and staggered into the hall.
Kazimir Kozlov was standing in the entryway, looking like weapons-grade royalty backlit by the glow of porch lights.
His black hair spilled over his shoulders, immaculate, and his suit jacket looked like the softest plum leather with a high velvet collar.
His pants were black soft wool silk tucked into tall, soft leather boots belted with a gold buckle.
He had obsidian daggers strapped to his sides.
His hands were covered in fingerless gloves, and I wondered just how many other weapons were hidden on his body.
Next to him, Lucia whispered rapidly in Russian, her lips barely moving.
He responded with a nod, then turned those icy blue eyes on me.
“You awake, Finn Walsh?” he said, his accent just thick enough to make my name sound like a threat. “Good. We will need you.”
Lucia winked at me, then drifted down the hall, her black lycra bodysuit undoubtedly reinforced with spells and sigils, her own obsidian knives strapped to her thighs.
Her red-soled sneakers made no noise at all on the hardwood.
I didn’t know how vampires did that, but it never failed to unsettle me.
I moved to the kitchen, where Maddie was pouring coffee into a tray of mismatched mugs.
She handed one off to Big Papa, who had the faraway look of a man praying for peace and expecting a fight instead.
At the far end of the room, Juliet sat in a rocking chair, one hand on her belly, the other holding a phone to her ear.
I nodded to them, then headed for the dining room, following the unmistakable scent of magic and power.
The table was the center of gravity in the room.
Around it stood a collection of beings I never thought I’d see together outside of a Council photo op: the shifter kings—Menace, Rafe, Griffin, Slade—each with their own retinue of stone-faced betas.
The witches were there, three coven leaders flanked by their seconds, all in variations of black or midnight blue.
There was even a warlock or two, I think, their faces hidden under shadowy hoods.
Then the vampires: Kazimir and Lucia, plus two others who stood so still I wondered if they were actual statues.
The room was alive with tension, but nobody spoke. Instead, all eyes were on the map spread out across the table—a massive, glossy printout of the Texas Panhandle, with Palo Duro Canyon circled in red multiple times, as if someone wanted to burn a hole through the paper.
I drifted to the edge of the table, taking it in.
Menace noticed me first. He raised a brow and grinned. “Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour. Ready for showtime, Gunner?”
“Always,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
Doc materialized at my shoulder, some kind of smoothie in hand. “Nice of you to join us. The witches want a blood sample before we go.” He produced a tiny kit, already loaded with a fresh needle.
“Now?” I asked, but held out my arm.
“Now,” he confirmed. “They need to tune the ritual to your signature. Makes it easier to breach the veil without frying your brain.”
I looked away as he drew blood, focusing instead on the witches. One of them—a sharp-featured woman with silver braids—was painting sigils on the map with a brush dipped in what I hoped was just ink. She didn’t look up as she worked, but her hand was rock steady.
“Is that going to work?” I asked nobody in particular.
“Best shot we’ve got,” said Wrecker, who was manning a laptop patched into the kitchen Wi-Fi, monitoring satellite images and comms from the compound perimeter. “This particular witch can breach a shielded safe house from five miles out. It’s good to have us all accounted for.”
There was a sudden silence, and then the room seemed to chill as if Jack Frost had blown by.
Archon entered, flanked by four enforcers.
They didn’t look like the angels in stained glass: no wings bared, no halos. Instead, they wore immaculate white suits, their hair cut close, eyes a shade of gold that seemed to pierce everything they landed on. Their movements were synchronized, fluid, and more than a little terrifying.
Doc nearly spat out his smoothie. “Jesus Christ.”
Menace whistled, low and impressed. “Didn’t know we rated the full Seraph response.”
Archon smiled, and it was both kind and deadly. “The Council requests observance, but the Dominion requires enforcement. When a demon king crosses the line, we attend personally.”
I stared at the four enforcers. “Holy shit.”
Archon turned to me. “Nah, it’s just ordinary.” He winked.
That was enough to break the tension for a moment, and laughs carried through the room.
Rafe looked up from the map, his dark eyes gleaming. “So, what’s the plan?”
Bronc leaned forward, spreading his hands over the table.
“According to the angel, Maltraz is most reachable at the canyon. The witches will protect the entrance to the gate after Archon commands its opening. The wolves will form the vanguard. Vampires on flanks. Angels will then provide oversight and keep the humans away. Dominion Law prohibits their entrance to any hellscape. We fight our way through, locate Brie and extract fast.”
Menace added, “No heroics. If it gets hairy, fall back. Our primary objective is Brie. Secondary is to fuck up Maltraz’s operation as much as possible.”
Wrecker clicked through a set of maps, highlighting choke points and cover. “We’ll have drone eyes over the Canyon, and Parker’s running point from here. Any movement, any weirdness, we’ll know.”
Aspen slipped into the room, wearing a battered leather jacket, a black tunic, and black leggings.
She looked more witch than baker today, her hair up in a high pony, a silver chain around her neck.
Oscar the prairie dog was nowhere to be seen, but I had a feeling he was lurking in a pocket somewhere.
She caught my eye and smiled tentatively, but brave. “Hey, Gunner. You good?”
I nodded. “Thanks to you. And Archon.”
She stood beside me, arms crossed. “We’re going to get our girl. I believe that.” She set her hand over mine. “I’ll be right behind you. I promise.”
I swallowed hard, felt the fire settle into my bones. “Okay,” I said, then louder, “Okay.”
I tried to say thank you, but my voice didn’t want to cooperate.
Instead, I looked back at the table.
The map was a mess of colored lines and sigils, but the focus was clear: Palo Duro Canyon, the “thinnest” spot in the veil between worlds. It was where the local tribes had said the spirits walked. Where the early settlers went mad with visions. Where tonight, we’d make our stand.
Archon lifted a hand, and all eyes turned to him.
“Maltraz is clever, but he cannot defeat unity,” he said, his voice echoing in the silent house. “There is power in purpose. In loyalty. In love. Let that be your shield.”
For a second, nobody spoke.
Then Bronc said, “Let’s do this.”
I took one last look at the map, tracing the red circle with my finger.
Brie, I thought. I’m coming.