Chapter Eleven
Years ago, I fought my way through a version of the Greek underworld.
There, I rescued a young bullfighter who had been trapped for what felt like eternity (to him).
Somehow, against all odds, I freed him, reunited him with his long-dead Spanish sweetheart, and went on to my next case. Such is my life.
The details of that battle have blurred with time, but one thing remains crystal clear: I couldn’t have done any of it without the sword.
The sword that cuts through devils and demons. The sword forged by angels. The sword designed to return darkness to the Creator, where it can be reclaimed, purified, and made whole again.
The Devil Killer.
Ironically, it once belonged to me.
I say ironically because I eventually gave it back. Not because I wanted to, but because the very creatures it was created to destroy developed an unhealthy obsession with whoever carried it.
Namely, me.
And my family.
Turns out demons are far more strategic than most people realize. They think collectively. They sacrifice the few to protect the many. They understand that countless demons should die if it means eliminating the one person carrying the only weapon capable of truly destroying all of them.
And if they can’t reach me, they target the people I love.
Since I never exactly signed up to become a full-time demon hunter, returning the sword seemed like the smart move. Once it was gone, demons mostly disappeared from my life, which, trust me, is a tremendous improvement.
Still, the Devil Killer earns its name honestly. In the right hands, it can destroy beings that are otherwise impossible to kill.
Including the Devil himself.
As far as I know, the sword has been returned to the archangels, although I have heard rumors that another worthy soul now carries it. Whether those rumors are true, I have no idea.
What I do know is that my guardian angel, Ishmael, still has connections to the archangels. And just as he did during my journey through the Greek underworld, he might be able to argue my case.
Maybe he could even secure temporary use of the sword once again.
The question is: how do I reach my ex-guardian angel from inside another world?
I have been told our connection is forever. A beautiful thing in theory, but slightly less beautiful when the person connected to you is an immortal angel who is hopelessly in love with you and occasionally crosses the line from devoted into... well, a little stalkerish.
Then again, being pursued by a handsome angel with impossible magic isn’t exactly the worst problem a girl could have.
With Pickles, Salt Creek, and Azul bound and safely hidden in an abandoned hayloft, I set out on my own, ever alert for more beasties or surprise appearances by dark wizards. I see neither as I take to the skies, flying gently, my wings barely moving as I glide above the valley below.
Eventually, I spot a narrow brook cutting through the landscape. The stream isn’t large, perhaps four feet across at its widest point. Clear water rushes over smooth stones and tangled roots, bubbling softly before disappearing beneath the low-hanging branches farther downstream.
Honestly, it is beautiful here.
No bloodthirsty warlords. No psychotic royalty. No evil wizards or curses or spells. I sense no dark magic here, only the quiet beauty of the natural world. For a moment, I could have been back on Earth. Or perhaps inside a Thomas Kinkade painting.
Which feels strange considering I am still trapped in a hyper-violent gladiator dimension where people regularly try to tear me in two for sport.
Somehow, I have managed to avoid the worst of the fighting, though I have no doubt other creatures are still battling for their lives while I sit comfortably on the soft moss.
Unless, of course, the Games have been halted and an all-out search is underway for me and the prince.
Anyway, I sit on a flat stone near the edge of the water and rest my forearms on my knees. Above me, unfamiliar stars fill the sky. They seem somehow bigger. Sharper. As if this world exists closer to creation itself... or perhaps farther away from it.
I exhale slowly. For the first time in days, I am truly alone. Nobody attacking me. Nobody pushing or prodding me. No roaring crowds demanding blood.
Just water moving endlessly over stone and roots.
I close my eyes. Normally, when I teleport, I focus on a single flame. That flame becomes a doorway of sorts. A bridge between places. Any place. But that path has been severed. Violently.
And I really don’t want my head catching fire. I rather like my cute head.
With that ridiculous thought, I remember something Ishmael once told me. At the time, I hadn’t fully understood it: angels do not travel the way mortals do. Neither do prayers.
So I open my eyes and stare into the rushing water.
“I really hope he wasn’t being metaphorical,” I mutter.
I close my eyes again and try to quiet my mind. Not an easy task for a vampire mama with ADHD survival instincts.
Naturally, my mind immediately goes to Tammy. Anthony. Paxton. Kingsley. Moon Investigations. Fullerton. The Coffee Bean. The Momvan. And, strangely enough, a blond guy standing in line at a small community grocery store.
He looks familiar. I have seen him once before, in a Starbucks, years ago.
Pretty sure that is J.R. Rain, a writer and creator.
Maybe even my creator. And the creator of all this craziness.
Except he doesn’t look particularly powerful.
He just looks like another person standing in line, mildly bored, with a basket full of far too many frozen burritos.
My mind wanders again. My minivan, the Momvan, as we have come to call it.
Focus, Sam.
I inhale deeply, even though technically I don’t need air. Old habits die hard. I let the sounds of the brook wash over me. Water over stone. Wind moving through the trees. The distant buzz of insects. Somewhere nearby, an owl hoots softly.
And beneath all of it... something else: a faint, loving warmth. Tiny at first. Like standing near a candle.
Ishmael? I whisper inside my mind.
The warmth around me flickers, like a candle flame caught in a gentle breeze. My pulse quickens, despite my technically dead heart.
“Ishmael...” I say aloud, my lips barely moving.
Nothing happens at first, but then...
A single white feather drifts down from above; it lands silently on the surface of the brook and floats there, caught in a slow-moving eddy without ever sinking. My chest tightens because I recognize it immediately. One of Ishmael’s feathers. A piece of my former guardian angel.
Then comes the strangest sensation of all: the feeling of someone turning toward me from impossibly far away. And then I hear a thought wrapped in light.
Samantha...
Relief nearly makes me gasp. “Ishmael?”
You were very difficult to find.
“Apparently I’m in Gladiator Hell.”
A pause. Then, surprisingly, he says: I know.
“I need your help.”
The warmth dims slightly.
I cannot cross fully into this realm, Samantha. It is replete with its own angels, demons, and a powerful devil.
“Yeah, I know.”
But perhaps something else can help.
I stare at the floating white feather... and suddenly, I know exactly what he means.