Chapter 1
Pride is the master sin of the devil, and the devil is the father of lies
— Edwin Hubbell Chapin
“Mr. Stryke. You’re telling me that the greatest minds at every major scientific institution, from the National Institute for Nuclear Physics and CERN to Stanford University and the Chinese Academy of Sciences, are wrong, and you are right. Is that what you’re saying?”
Stryke stared at the life-sized, holographic image of the vice president for the World Council on Supernatural Governance from where he stood in the middle of his three-thousand-square-foot office, his feet centered on a glowing symbol etched into the marble floor.
“Yes, that is what I’m saying.” He took a sip of his coffee. “And most of those minds aren’t all that great.”
The dozen other holographic bigwigs sitting at the WCSG conference table put their heads together and murmured among themselves, but Ethan Winston Whitmore the fucking Third just kept looking at Stryke like something scraped off a shoe.
“So, you believe you may have solved the world’s energy and climate crisis,” Whitmore said, his voice dripping with mockery.
“Yes,” Stryke repeated for the third time. These guys were as dense as osmium. And much like the platinum metal, they were brittle and hard to work with. “And if I keep having to answer the same question dozens of times, we’re going to be here until the damned apocalypse.”
Whitmore snorted and turned to his colleagues. “This is preposterous. There’s no way an element found in the demon realm of Sheoul can be tamed and made into a liquid that will fuel everything gas and oil have powered for centuries—”
“ And remove some of the carbon dioxide from the atmosphere that was put there by the burning of fossil fuels,” Stryke interjected. “Don’t forget that.”
Whitmore huffed, his agitation and voice ramping up a few levels. “We should convene with every global coalition to ban the research and development of what could clearly be a dangerous element.”
This guy was such a douche. “I’m guessing you own a lot of oil and solar stocks.” Actually, Stryke didn’t have to guess. He knew. He’d researched these guys down to the color of their underwear. He knew what they ate for breakfast, where every cent of their fortunes came from, and who they were fucking instead of their wives.
“That’s irrelevant—”
“I’d say it’s very relevant.”
Whitmore glared daggers. “You should not have been allowed to buy an entire oil drilling operation in the North Sea and then keep regulatory agencies and world governments in the dark about what is happening there.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Stryke took a leisurely drink of his coffee. When he was done, he strolled over to his desk and took his time placing the mug on a coaster. He loved making powerful people wait. And not just wait. Wait for a demon .
“You should be thanking me for purchasing the Sea Storm ,” he said as he returned to stand on the glowing glyph that prevented anyone from recording him. “Humans aren’t equipped to handle what that oil company drilled into. If StryTech hadn’t sealed the breach when we did, the world would be dealing with a lot worse than the handful of orca-sized demons my people hunted down. You can’t even begin to comprehend the kind of evil that would have escaped into our oceans. Sentient, soul-eating acid clouds and gigantic, demonic leviathans never before seen. So, you know, you’re welcome.”
There was still some concern about the instability of the anomaly, but he’d keep that to himself.
“That’s enough, Mr. Stryke. But we will discuss this later.” Whitmore adjusted his glasses and brushed a lock of gray hair off his forehead. “Right now, let’s move on to the incident that brings us to the main focus of this meeting.”
The incident. When one of StryTech’s weapons was used in a violent incident between the two biggest rival demon-fighting agencies in the world. During a cooperative interagency effort, a rogue Aegis idiot killed two Demonic Activity Response Team agents. Which then caused an international crisis that worsened when the vengeance demon fiancé of one of the dead agents went full John Wick on every Aegi he could find. The images and live footage had gone super viral, triggering an avalanche of outcry and protests.
Worldwide furor continued to intensify, fueled by the hungry-for-conflict media, as well as warring religious and political factions vying for power. The flames of dissent were spreading like wildfire through an already on-edge, largely anti-demon public. Cries for DART to be defunded for employing demons were met with demands for The Aegis to be held accountable for killing “ innocent demons .”
It was a shitshow the World Council on Supernatural Governance was trying to sort out before the world caught on fire.
The problem was that the WCSG often allowed politics to override smart decisions.
Stryke spent the next hour answering dumb questions and dealing with hostile jerks who hated demons and pretty much everything Stryke did. Yet the WCSG installed StryTech’s demon-detection devices in every building. They’d spent millions on the DeTecht devices, as well as his other communications and security products.
The comms unit on his wrist—a StryTech next-gen prototype—pulsed, alerting him to an upcoming meeting. “Are we done here?” He walked behind his desk. “I have things to do.”
“We all have things to do, Mr.—”
Stryke severed the link to the virtual meeting, putting an end to Whitmore’s nasally, narcissistic drone. The guy was an insufferable asshole.
And Stryke was an expert on those. Took one to know one and all that.
The moment the hologram disappeared, a light flashed on his comms pad, and his assistant’s voice, touched with a hint of an Australian accent, rang in his ear. “Mr. Stryke, Kynan Morgan is here to see you. Also, your—”
“Send him in.”
Stryke glanced at the clock. He’d hoped to have more time to prepare for this. The WCSG inquiry had gone on longer than it should have. Now, he had just a little over two minutes to catch up on his messages.
There were seven notes from the heads of various departments, two media requests, and one message from his uncle Eidolon, all of which got mentally sorted into a response queue in order of importance.
Last on the list was the visual missive from his uncle Eidolon.
It wasn’t that Stryke didn’t like the guy. On the contrary, he had mad respect for the doctor. Eidolon was intelligent, rational, and had built a medical empire from nothing. He was pretty much the only family member with whom Stryke felt comfortable.
Eidolon’s eyes were never full of blame or disappointment.
But Stryke still didn’t feel like dealing with him right now. Didn’t feel like being lectured.
“ You need to dial back on your use of sexual suppressants. They’re not good for you. They interfere with your sleep. Suppressants are meant to be used only occasionally. No more than twice per day unless it’s an emergency situation . ”
Yeah, yeah, whatever. Stryke was intimately aware of the side effects of the suppressant. How could he not be? He’d developed it himself when he decided the formula Eidolon created for their kind wasn’t long-term enough. And if using it cost Stryke a few years of his life in missed sleep, so what? His species had a five-hundred-year lifespan. What was a decade or two?
The elevator door slid open, and Kynan stepped out, dressed as usual in dark jeans, combat boots, and a half-tucked blue button-down. Around his battle-scarred neck, dangling from a chain, was a crystal amulet named Heofon that made him immortal and practically immune to violence. He hadn’t aged a day since being gifted with the literal piece of Heaven, and no one looking at him would know he was in his sixties and not his late twenties or early thirties.
“Stryke.” Kynan strode toward him, every step lighting the embedded symbols in the pearlescent floor. White flashes spread from his footprints, identifying him as someone with angelic lineage. “Thanks for seeing me.”
Stryke pushed to his feet and extended his hand as was customary for humans. “When the Director of DART, a human charmed by angels, wants a meeting, I give him a meeting.”
Kynan stopped in front of Stryke’s desk and clasped his hand. “See, I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.” His voice, already gravelly from the injury that had turned his neck into a busy network of scar tissue, went even rougher with mild reproach. “Mainly because you rarely agree to meet.”
Stryke gestured to his bank of computers and whiteboards. “I’m very busy.”
“So you tell everyone.”
Stryke snorted. Very few people would call him out like that. It was both irritating and admirable. It was also accurate. He was busy. And his cousins, brothers, parents…they were doing fine without him.
“I sent the list of the features we want in the new weapon design,” Kynan said, skipping awkward personal small talk. Much appreciated. “Have you had time to look at it?”
“I did. You’re asking for a lot.” Stryke brought the list up on his pad and flung it into the air between them, making it the size of a large TV screen and suspended as a 3D hologram. “You’re asking for a weapon that not only kills demons but also captures their souls. Everything you’ve described would take some kind of bullet from a firearm. Our agreement with The Aegis for a demon-killing firearm is exclusive.”
Kynan’s gravelly voice warped even more. “I’m more than familiar with the weapon you created for The Aegis.”
Of course, he was. The Smiter had killed two of Kynan’s people. Regrettable, certainly, but StryTech had merely created the weapon. How it was used was out of his company’s hands. Still, Stryke felt obligated to help Ky out.
“But,” Stryke said, “we might be able to develop a different kind of projectile.”
“Like what? An arrow? Or a crossbow bolt?” Kynan crossed his thick arms over his chest. “Neither of those are practical, tactical, or easy to conceal. Even the smallest ones are way too obvious, especially in public.”
Stryke threw out a 3D sketch of a sleek hybrid weapon he’d drawn last night when his mind had been too busy to let him sleep. “What if I can develop one that’s no bulkier than, say, a Colt 1911?”
“You think you can do that?” Kynan analyzed the sketch like a commander studying a battle map. “And still make it powerful enough to kill Ufelskala Five demons?”
“I’m confident my team can size it to your liking. Powerful enough to kill?” Stryke shrugged. “Eh. Depends on the demon. We’ll see. But it’ll cause injury and collect the demon’s soul after it dies. I can have some designs and rudimentary figures drawn up for you.”
Kynan zeroed in on a word at the bottom of the screen. “Reaper?”
“That’s what I’m calling it. Seemed appropriate, given what it will do. Feel free to rename it.”
Sharp gaze focused on the sketch, Kynan appeared to consider that. He’d probably had his little human heart set on a high-octane pistol or a rapid-fire rifle, but StryTech’s exclusivity agreement with The Aegis was rock solid for another five years.
Besides, if Stryke could make it work, this weapon would be a game changer, allowing anyone to capture a soul. Right now, trapping demonic spirits required an ability to see them and StryTech’s proprietary containers.
“No, I like it. The name and design both,” Kynan said. “What about my suggestion to work with my people on this?”
That wasn’t going to happen. Stryke had built StryTech from the ground up. He’d overseen the construction at every level. He’d personally hired every single employee. It was a well-oiled machine that worked because everyone here had been hand-chosen for their ability to synchronize with the company and its other employees.
Stryke wasn’t about to toss a bunch of unknown loose cogs into his machine.
“We don’t work with anyone on the outside,” he said. “I’m sure you understand.”
“That’s the thing.” Kynan wandered over to a whiteboard covered in equations. “I don’t understand.” He frowned at the writing. “I don’t understand this, either. What is it?”
“Calculations for a floating hydro-reflective disk. Basically, a nearly invisible umbrella.”
“No shit?” Kynan glanced back at him. “Why?”
“I hate carrying a bulky umbrella, but I also hate getting wet.” Hell, he didn’t even like getting into his pool and hot tub. He’d only built them for Masumi. “Wouldn’t you love to have a device the size of a penny that you can activate during a rainstorm and suddenly have a shield over your head?”
“Huh. That does sound cool.” Kynan swung back around to Stryke. “You know what else would be cool? Letting my people work with yours.”
“Why? You don’t trust me?”
“Stryke, I’ve known you since the day you were born. Your parents are some of my best friends, and your brothers work for me. It’s not about trust. It’s about making sure we know exactly how our weapons work. We want to be able to maintain them and not be beholden to StryTech every time we need a repair.” He glanced out the window at Sydney Harbor, its blue waters glittering in the noon sunlight. “We appreciate all the tech you’ve developed for us, but it’s invasive as hell.”
“Invasive?” Stryke gave the other male a flat, questioning look. “Invasive, how?”
“Oh, come on.” Kynan pulled a shiny disc from his pocket and held it up. “This is what I’m talking about. The tracking on these Harrowgate coins. You know every time we use one. It’s bullshit.”
“That was part of our agreement.”
“It’s still bullshit. We only agreed because you had us over a barrel. We need to be able to get humans through Harrowgates alive. We also bowed to your requirement that all our demon DNA scanners be connected to your servers. We’ve agreed to many contracts that favor StryTech, just like everyone else has. We’ve followed your rules and have never asked for special treatment for friends and family.” He met Stryke’s gaze, the cool denim-blue in his intelligent eyes making it clear he was ready to dig his heels in on this. “But I’m playing the friends and family card today. Giving our people input into Reaper’s development isn’t an unreasonable request.”
Stryke had been ready to put his foot down. He could, and he knew it. DART wanted this weapon so badly that if he asked Kynan for his only child as payment, Dawn would show up wrapped in a ribbon.
Well, not really. Kynan would draw the line at pimping out his daughter, but still, Stryke figured there wasn’t much the guy wouldn’t do to make this deal.
But Kynan had a point. He’d never asked StryTech for more than anyone else had. Allowing this one small thing could help rebuild a measure of the goodwill StryTech had lost when Smiter smote Kynan’s people.
Plus, Stryke really did respect the guy, and that wasn’t something he said about many people.
“How many are we talking about?” he asked.
Guarded optimism flickered in Ky’s eyes. “I can get a three-person team together by the end of the week. A technomancer, an engineer, and an arms expert.”
Three was too many. Even two sounded like a lot.
“You can send one. The technomancer. My senior Mancer is out on paternity leave.”
There was a heartbeat of hesitation, and Stryke wondered if Kynan would push for one more. Stryke would push back. One was more than enough.
Finally, Ky nodded. “That’ll work.”
“Great. Let’s have our people hash out the details.” Stryke sank down in his chair. “Now, were these minor negotiations so important that you demanded an in-person meeting instead of our usual virtual chat?”
Kynan came back toward him. “You know they’re not.”
Yeah, he did. “You want to know what went down at the WCSG’s inquiry.”
“My agency’s future is at stake,” Ky said. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t stressed out.”
No doubt he was. DART and The Aegis had been in a cold war for decades, and just as they were trying to make an effort to work together…well, a lot of people died. And one of StryTech’s weapons had been at the center of the incident.
“They mainly wanted to know about Smiter’s capabilities. They were more curious about that than anything. But I got the feeling they believe DART’s version of events over The Aegis’s. How they feel about a DART agent turning into a vengeance demon and killing a dozen people is a mystery.”
“Sarcasm?”
“No. Seriously. They gave no indication at all.”
Kynan gave Stryke a resigned nod and looked down at the time on his comms device. “I need to go, but thanks for seeing me.” They both got to their feet. “One more thing.”
Fuck.
Don’t say it .
“We’re having an office party for your mom’s birthday Friday after work. You’re invited.”
He said it .
“I’ll try to make it.”
“No, you won’t.” Kynan spoke as he downloaded the 3D weapon designs into his comms. “But you should. How long has it been since you’ve seen her? A couple of years? How long since you’ve seen all your family together? Ten years?”
Twelve.
“Make an effort,” Ky said. “Your mom misses you.”
Stryke forced a smile to keep from clenching his jaw. “If we’re done with the guilt trip portion of our meeting, you can see yourself out.”
Kynan nodded and headed for the exit, but as the elevator door opened, he turned back to Stryke, his expression apologetic. “I didn’t want to do this, Stryke. He guilted me into it.”
“Who guilted you into what?”
A big, dark-haired male dressed from head to toe in black leather exited the elevator, and Stryke’s gut plummeted to his feet. “ Dad .”
Shock collided with anger that Kynan would sneak his father in like this. And what the hell? Why hadn’t his assistant warned him?
But Kalis had tried, hadn’t she? Dammit. He’d cut her off.
Kynan stepped inside the elevator and gave Stryke a fatherly look. The one that said, “ Do the right thing .”
Yeah, well, in this case, the right thing was avoiding being anywhere near his family. His presence put a damper on everything. Eventually, tension would spark an angry fire that would smolder for years.
No, thank you. Nothing Kynan or his father could say would change his mind.
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for three months,” Shade said, stopping halfway between the elevator and Stryke’s desk. He glanced around, his dark eyes taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows, the wall of computers, and the expensive, random artwork Stryke had put up for the sole purpose of making people speculate about why he’d chosen it. In truth, he hated all of it. Art was messy and chaotic, and it rarely made sense. “Is there a reason you can’t answer a damned techmail?”
Kynan would pay for this.
“Your techmails consisted of details about the party for Mom, but they said nothing about an RSVP. I saw no reason to reply since you didn’t ask if I was coming.”
“That’s because pressuring you has never worked and usually ends in the exact opposite of what your mom or I want. But this is important. DART is presenting her with an award for her contributions and support, and it would mean a lot if you were there.”
Stryke swept some pens off his desk into a drawer and slammed it shut. “No one wants me there, Pops.”
“This isn’t about you or your brothers,” his father said. “It’s about your mom. She wants you there.”
“And what do you want?” Stryke regretted the question the second it fell from his lips. It hung in the tense, thick air between them for an agonizingly long time.
Finally, Shade shook his head. “I want our family to heal.”
“And you think my attendance at a party can do that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “But it would be a start. And it can’t hurt.”
“Oh,” Stryke muttered as he braced his hip against the desk, “it can definitely hurt.”
Shade studied him, his eyes shadowed and so much like what Stryke saw in the mirror every morning. His mouth opened, but he seemed to think better of whatever he wanted to say.
“Go ahead and say it,” Stryke said. “I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
There was a heartbeat of hesitation. Another. Then, softly, “We never blamed you for what happened to Chaos, Stryke.”
Stryke’s throat closed up. Turned out he couldn’t handle it.
This was why he avoided his family. They always wanted to talk about shit. They wanted to dig up the worst day of Stryke’s life, and he had to relive his little brother’s death over and over.
The words heal and closure got bandied about a lot, but how could there ever be healing and closure for something like that?
“You blamed me, Dad,” Stryke said softly. “But no more than I blame myself.”
“I did not—”
“Bullshit,” Stryke snapped, losing the cool composure he’d honed over years of practice and instruction from the Judicia. His uncle Eidolon’s mother and adoptive father were Judicia, demons who actively suppressed emotions in pursuit of perfect decision-making, and E had asked them to teach Stryke their ways at a time when Stryke was at his lowest.
Eidolon didn’t know it, but he’d probably saved Stryke’s life. Or maybe he did know. The guy was always a step ahead of everyone else.
Shade’s hands fisted at his sides. “I never once said his death was your fault.”
“You didn’t need to.”
The questions that day, and for several days—months—after, had been of the, “ How far away from the twins were you ?” and “ Why didn’t you ask someone else to stay with them while you took care of yourself ?” variety. Every single question had been a spear to the heart until he bled out over and over, and nothing was left but a dry husk.
Closing his eyes, Shade took a deep breath. When he opened them again, the sadness in their dark depths sent a fresh stab of guilt through Stryke’s core.
“I understand you’re in pain,” Shade said quietly. “But so are we. Your mother and I didn’t just lose Chaos that day. We also lost you.”
Stryke’s eyes stung with the tears he fought to hold back.
“Please, son—”
“I can’t,” Stryke said roughly, needing to end this right fucking now. As if on cue, his wrist comms buzzed in an urgent tap. Eidolon again. “I have to get this.”
Had his father not been there, he’d have blown off his uncle. But in this shitty scenario, the lesser of two evils was Eidolon.
Shade nodded and turned toward the elevator. “Just think about coming. For your mother.”
He disappeared into the lift, and Stryke held his breath until the door slid shut.
Exhaling, Stryke sought the Judicia calmness that quieted his mind and emotions. But it had been a long time since he’d faced his father, let alone talked about Chaos, and finding self-control took longer than he’d have liked. So long, in fact, that his comms buzzed again, this time more forcefully.
Giving in to his uncle’s persistence, he threw the holo call onto the floor in front of him. A millisecond later, the tall, dark-haired doctor stood before Stryke in a beam of light.
“Stryke. Finally. You need to come to the hospital.”
Stryke froze as he went to take a seat. “Why? Is someone hurt?” He couldn’t lose anyone else in his family. He couldn’t even contemplate it.
“It’s your test results. I need to talk to you.”
Relieved that no one was injured or dead, Stryke sank into his chair. “Then talk.”
Eidolon hesitated, and a twinge of trepidation went through Stryke. “I really think this should be in person.”
“This is in person,” Stryke said, not budging. “So, what is it?”
“First of all, stop being a jackass. I’m trying to help you.” Eidolon glanced at a clipboard in his hand and then looked back up. “Second, you’ve got to stop taking your suppressant.”
Not this again .
“I told you I’m not switching back to yours. It doesn’t last long enough.”
“That’s the thing.” Eidolon tossed the clipboard onto his desk. “You can’t take mine, either. You can’t take any.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your dependence on it is what’s causing your symptoms. You came to me because your heart is racing, and you’re suffering from dizzy spells. You said you trust me. So, trust me when I tell you that you have to stop. Now. Or tachycardia and vertigo will be the least of your problems.”
Eidolon was a great doctor, but he was too conservative and overprotective when it came to his family. He’d also been critical of Stryke’s formula from the very beginning. Maybe because Stryke’s product outsold Eidolon’s in the underworld market ten to one. Twenty-four hours of relief, or up to forty? There was a clear winner, and it had to chafe.
“I’ll think about it.”
Stryke wouldn’t think about it at all.
“Dammit, Stryke. I don’t have time for your denial of reality. I’m dealing with an Oni pox outbreak and a virus in the hospital’s security software.” Eidolon stepped closer, his eyes flashing gold with anger. “Your body is shutting down. I don’t know how much more you can take.”
“Bottom line it for me, Uncle. I have a busy schedule today.”
“Bottom line?” The doctor’s deep voice turned grave. “I don’t know if it’ll be the next injection or the fiftieth, but at some point, the suppressant will kill you.”