CHAPTER THIRTEEN
REAVER
It’s been nearly a year since I’ve stepped foot back through the gate. A year since I walked away from Kennedy, convinced I was doing the right thing by cutting her loose.
A year since I told my brother I’d try not to fuck up his life any more than I already had.
Apparently, I have a talent for making myself a fucking liar.
I’m back in Las Vegas, no surprise there.
Like I told Hades, the gate always puts me back here.
Doesn’t matter where you start—Timber Cove, Hell, the other reality—the Dimmu spits me out on the rooftop of the JDL Las Vegas like I’m some kind of cosmic lost package that keeps getting returned to sender.
The sun here is brutal, baking the rooftop in waves of heat.
Vegas has a way of making even Hell seem like a vacation from the oppressive weather.
Dry heat, my ass. It’s just fucking hot.
The air shimmers over the pool and the ridiculous cabanas Ash insists on keeping up here for VIPs and vampire-safe midnight swims.
I stand at the edge of the roof, looking down over the Strip.
Neon, glass and desperate humans chasing highs and forgetting consequences. It smells like booze, perfume, and hot asphalt with a splash of regret and some kid’s college fund. The exact opposite of Treachery, and somehow still exactly the same.
It’d almost be comforting if I didn’t feel like I left my sanity smoldering back in The Inferno.
Kennedy’s name is like a searing hot brand on the inside of my ribs.
Every breath scrapes past it, marking another second closer to her dying at the hand of a madwoman, or worse.
If I know anything, it’s that there are fates far worse than death.
I can still feel her. A faint tug, like a thread wrapped around my sternum and pulled taut in some unseen direction. It doesn’t tell me where she is—just that she is. Alive for now.
That’s the only reason I’m not ripping the sky open by sheer force of will. I hate to admit it, but Hades is right. I can’t go in half-cocked without so much as a plan. That’s just being a bad warrior, and I am not that.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering hum of hellfire from the gate, and head for the rooftop door. Someone—probably Sloane—hung a stupid little “Employees Only” sign on it since the last time I was here.
Cute. As if a sign ever stopped an Archangel, and technically, I’m probably still an employee, so win-win.
The stairwell is utilitarian and smells like concrete and stale cigarette smoke.
My boots ring against the metal steps as I take them two at a time.
By the time I’m at the service landing outside The Black Door’s top-floor entrance, the bass from downstairs is already threading up through the walls, a familiar, rhythmic thud.
For half a second, I just stand there with my hand on the push bar, listening as I debate going any further. It feels… wrong, being away this long. I spent centuries chained to a wall, and somehow, a year away from this place feels like abandonment.
“Get your shit together, Reaver,” I mumble to myself as I shove the door open. The gray, utilitarian world of the stairwell explodes into an array of sound and light.
Music pounds from the main room below, that deep, chest-vibrating kind of bass that humans love, vampires endure, and I could take or leave. The air is a cocktail of alcohol, sweat, demon pheromones, and the faint metallic tang of blood someone’s probably cleaning off a back hallway floor.
Home sweet home.
From this second-floor catwalk, I’ve got a perfect view of the main bar and the dance floor. Humans press together in a writhing mass of limbs, completely oblivious that half the beings serving their drinks used to be Heaven’s elite or Hell’s upper management.
My gaze goes straight to the central bar. Asher is behind it, and for a split second, everything in me stutters.
Ash—Barachiel, once upon a very long time ago—is pouring drinks with the easy efficiency of someone who’s both competent and bored. His hair’s a little longer than I remember, jaw rough with stubble, black button-down rolled up to the elbows, tattoos peeking from beneath the cuffs. He looks good.
Healthy.
Happy.
The sight punches something sharp into my chest. I shove it down. I don’t get to be jealous of his peace when I’m about to shove a grenade into the middle of his life. I grip the rail to steady myself, wings twitching invisibly beneath my skin.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter under my breath. “Round two, here we go.” I head down the stairs.
A few people notice me as I come off the last step, humans giving me the quick once-over, then looking away, something in them recognizing a predator even if they don’t know what kind.
A couple of demons I’ve bled with incline their heads, that subtle underworld nod that’s half greeting, half acknowledgment that we’ve both done terrible things and survived.
It’s weirdly reassuring.
I weave through the crowd, ignoring the curious glances, the brushing of bodies against mine. The closer I get to the bar, the more my hands start to shake. Not from fear, but from too much pent-up energy with nowhere to go.
Asher’s in the middle of lining up shot glasses, his focus laser-tight on the bottle in his hand. He doesn’t see me until I’m right in front of him. He looks up with his mouth already half-open to ask what I want.
His eyes meet mine, and everything stops.
For a moment, there’s no music. No crowd. No Black Door. Just my brother and me, staring at each other over a row of empty shot glasses. It’s been a year since I last saw him. A year since he forgave me for trying to kill him. A year since he told me I belonged here, and I walked away anyway.
His expression flickers—shock, relief, and then the familiar pissed-off big-brother face I know so well.
“Well, fuck me,” he says. “Look who decided to crawl out of whatever pit he fell into.”
I huff out something that might be a laugh. “Missed you too, asshole.”
He hands the bottle he’s holding to the nearest barback without breaking eye contact. “Break,” he says. “Tina, cover.” The tall blonde bartender at the far end nods and slides down to take his place. She gives me a curious once-over but doesn’t comment. Smart girl.
Ash comes around the bar, flicks his gaze over me quickly—wings tucked, eyes still angel-bright, no visible blood.
“You look like shit,” he observes.
“Good to see you’re as charming as ever,” I reply.
He grips my shoulder, squeezes once, and pulls me in for a hug. There’s warmth in it, as well as worry.
“Office,” he says. “Now.”
He doesn’t wait to see if I’ll follow. Just stalks up the back stairs to the mezzanine offices, expecting I’ll come like I always have.
And I do.
Ash’s office door is half open when we reach it. He pushes it the rest of the way and steps inside. I follow and shut it behind us.
Cain is there. So is Alastor, to my surprise.
“Fuck,” I mutter as my eyes adjust. “And here I thought you didn’t know I was coming. This looks like a fucking intervention.”
Cain’s leaning against the edge of Ash’s desk, arms crossed over his chest, white hair pulled back, horns on full display. He’s in his usual demon-casual—black tee, dark jeans, bare feet like the floor belongs to him.
Alastor’s sprawled in the worn leather chair by the window, ginger hair a mess, boots propped up on a stack of paperwork that probably needs signing. He’s dressed like he always is when he’s slumming it Topside—expensive suit, shirt unbuttoned, aura of bored menace.
Three of the most dangerous bastards I know, all in one room. If I weren’t me, I’d fucking run for the hills and not look back.
“Reaver,” Cain says, pushing off the desk. “Long time.”
“Clearly, I missed the memo,” I reply, glancing between them. “Is this an exiled-sons-of-Themis support group meeting or what?”
Alastor snorts. “You wish. This is a ‘the universe is about to shit itself again and we’re the poor bastards stuck cleaning it up’ meeting.”
Ash rounds the desk and leans against it, mirroring Cain’s position. He crosses his arms, eyes never leaving my face.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he demands, any of the casual niceties from the floor left the moment we crossed into his office.
“Nice to see you too,” I respond, though his ire isn’t unwarranted.
“Don’t do that.” His jaw tightens. “Don’t deflect. You said you wouldn’t—” He stops and takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly and deliberately while mumbling some new-age yoga bullshit about clarity and calm.
I don’t have the luxury of time to beat around the bush, so I spit out what I know he’s thinking. “Drag your perfect little family into my bullshit. Yeah, I remember.” I rake a hand through my hair, feeling every one of the last twelve months. “Guess that didn’t work out.”
Something in my tone must hit him, because the anger that is still marring his expression dims, replaced by concern.
“What happened?” he asks, voice lower now. “You look… worse than usual. If that’s possible.”
I laugh once, humorless. “That bad, huh?”
Cain moves to close the blinds with a flick of his fingers, shielding us from prying eyes downstairs. The room darkens slightly, the only light now the desk lamp and the faint glow from Alastor’s pasty white skin.
“Start talking,” he demands. “And don’t leave shit out. If you dragged your ass back here, it’s not for a social call.”
I swallow down any trepidation I may have, my throat feeling dry as desert dust. “It’s Kennedy,” I say.
Ash goes very still. Cain’s eyes narrow, and Alastor’s fingers tighten on the arm of his chair, leather creaking under the strain.
“She’s in Boston,” Ash says slowly. “Working. Living. Human. Safe.” The way he says that last word is part question, part plea. “Michael is keeping tabs on her, as well as Salem.”