CHAPTER FOURTEEN
REAVER
The Black Door has seen some shit.
Vamps losing control, demons throwing down. Once, a lesser god tried to collect a soul tab and ended up getting his ass handed to him by a five-foot-two witch in Doc Martens. But even in this circus, a giant crow holding court in the middle of the dance floor is… new, to say the least.
By the time Ash, Cain, Alastor, and I hit the stairs and step out onto the mezzanine, the music was cut. The subwoofers are still humming, but whatever track the DJ was playing died an ugly, static-filled death the second we opened the office door.
Below us, the crowd has parted into a loose circle around the main floor.
Humans cling to the edges, phones halfway raised, unsure if this is some fucked-up performance art or an actual threat.
The regulars—the ones who know better—have already faded back into the shadows along the walls or slipped behind security lines.
The crow stands dead center, under the main light rig.
It’s bigger than any natural bird, easily three feet of glossy, oil-slick feathers and a mean beak.
Its eyes glow faintly green, wrong and too intelligent.
Every time it shifts, I catch a shimmer around its outline, like something is barely bothering to hold the glamour together.
It’s not a crow. It’s a messenger wrapped in a crow suit.
“Subtle,” Alastor mutters beside me. “On brand for Pesta, though. Always loves an audience.”
The bird’s head snaps up the instant I step to the railing. Its gaze locks onto me like it’s been waiting. It opens its beak and lets out a harsh, grating caw that somehow shapes itself into a word.
“Reaver.”
The sound ripples through the club, felt more than heard. Every human in the room shivers like someone ran an ice cube down their spine. A couple of them bolt for the exits. Smart.
“Well, I guess the invitation is for you,” Cain says dryly.
“Stay here,” Ash growls, like that’s ever worked on me.
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” I reply, already moving. “Try to keep the civilians from getting possessed, would ya?” I glance over at Alastor as I pass him and head to the main floor with Ash.
I take the stairs down two at a time. The temperature drops the closer I get, cold seeping under my skin in thin, searching fingers. This cold doesn’t belong in a Vegas nightclub, it belongs in graveyards and plague wards and rooms where the breath has been sucked out of a thousand lungs at once.
Pestilence’s calling card.
The crowd parts for me without realizing they’re doing it.
A tall guy in a designer shirt stumbles back, muttering an apology he doesn’t understand.
A girl with glitter smudged across her collarbone clutches her drink tighter, eyes flicking from me to the bird and back again like she’s trying to decide which is scarier.
If she had any idea, she’d run screaming.
I stop a few feet from the crow.
Up close, the glamour is obvious. The feathers are too perfect, each one razor-edged and gleaming like obsidian. Power hums reverberate from the creature, and it tilts its head, studies me, then lets out another croak.
“Reaver,” it squawks out. Even to my ears, the sound coming from its beak is unnerving. It sounds as if my name is being dragged over broken glass.
“Yeah, yeah, you’ve got me,” I say. “Now what? Polly, want a fucking cracker?”
The crow’s beak clicks.
Then its form jerks, feathers puffing as if from an invisible impact. Something darker leaks out from between its wings. Smoke, thick and oily, coiling up to the ceiling. The scent hits me a beat later—rot and sweet perfume laced with copper.
The smoke condenses, twists, and then she’s there.
Pestilence doesn’t bother to appear full-bodied. It’s more of a projection than a manifestation, her form hazy from the chest down. But her face is sharp as ever. Blonde hair in that perfect signature high ponytail, lips blood-red, eyes glacier-blue, and full of nothing good.
She stands with that effortless poise she always has, as if the entire room is a stage built just for her. The humans that dared to remain flinch back when her image solidifies, even if they can’t see her for what she is. Instinct recognizes a predator on a level logic never will.
“Really, Reaver,” she says, her voice smooth as poisoned honey, echoing strangely in the sound system. “You didn’t answer my last invitation. I was beginning to worry you forgot me.”
“I’d say you’re a woman who’s hard to forget, but I’m afraid you’d take it as a compliment. So let’s just leave it at that,” I reply. “You’ve been busy, kidnapping, breaking down barriers between worlds. I’d say I’m impressed, but I’d be lying.”
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Please, don’t flatter me. It never was your strength.”
Cain, Ash, and Alastor have taken up positions around the outer ring of the crowd, each radiating enough barely contained power to make the warding sigils in the club’s foundations flicker. They’re ready if this goes sideways, which it most likely will.
“It’s been a long time,” Pestilence continues. “You look… worn.” Her manifestation eyes me from head to toe, and I’ve never felt more like a slab of meat before in my life.
“Yeah, it’s amazing what a thousand years of torture and poor life choices will do to a guy. You look the same. Must be all the vengeance in your skincare routine.”
Her expression tightens for half a heartbeat before smoothing back to bland amusement. “Humor as armor,” she muses. “Very on brand. But we both know why I’m here.”
I fold my arms, keep my voice level. “Is it because you have something that belongs to me? And you want to give it back without causing biblical destruction for once in your pathetic life.”
Her brows arch delicately. “Belongs? Careful, angel.” She spits the word angel out as if it were poison on her tongue. “That lovely, innocent human of yours might not appreciate being referred to as property.”
The word human makes my wings itch. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” she says softly. “I do.”
For the first time, I see it—the satisfaction under her surface. The cat with the canary. She’s been waiting for this moment. “Kennedy says hello, by the way,” Pestilence murmurs.
My hands curl into fists. “If you’re smart, which I know you are, you’d be wise not to harm a hair on her head,” I inform her.
Pestilence tilts her head. “Don’t worry your scarred body into a fit. She’s perfectly safe… at least for now.”
The last two words land like a blade between my ribs. Every instinct in me screams to leap, to rip through whatever spell she’s riding in on, to follow that cold trail straight to its source.
I don’t move. Yet. There’s no sense in playing to her trickery.
“What do you want?” I press. “You didn’t go to all this trouble just to taunt me in a bar. You could’ve sent a text.”
Her lips curl. “I freed you from Treachery, or have you forgotten?” she says, her voice shifting into something sharper. Louder. The room seems to lean in. “I bargained with Themis for your release, arranged the fights, watched you win your freedom in blood. You owe me.”
“I remember,” I say. “You made sure I wouldn’t forget.”
“I let you run,” she continues, ignoring me.
“I let you play and pretend you could slip between realities like it meant nothing. I even tolerated your little… attachment. Because I knew.” Her eyes flash.
“I knew eventually you’d have something worth surrendering for.
I just had to bide my time and wait for your weakness.
And then you’d willingly help me set things right, between what is and what should never have been. ”
The way she says it makes my scar flare hot across my chest.
“You used her,” I say flatly. “From the start.”
“It could have been anybody. She was just the lucky one.” No guilt.
Not even a pretense. “Do you really think Themis would allow a human that close to you and didn’t intend to use it for her own bidding?
You and your brother, all your little Fallen and half-breeds—she’s been cataloging your soft spots for centuries.
I was simply… efficient enough to exploit them. ”
“For what?” Cain calls from the perimeter, his voice ringing clear. “What’s the endgame, Pesta? You burn Heaven down, what’s left for you?”
She glances his way, eyes alight with interest. “Cain. Always so practical. You think too small. This isn’t about ruling Hell or Heaven. It’s about ending the false divide. About returning to what was meant to be.”
“Hate to break it to you,” Alastor drawls, “but the last time you threw a temper tantrum, it kicked off something we like to call the fucking Apocalypse. Didn’t go great for anyone involved, now did it?”
Pestilence’s smile turns brittle. “Your memory is selective, Alastor. It was Gabriel’s little tantrum that merely accelerated the inevitable.
The world has been rotting from the inside out for a long time.
Human free will is a virus. Themis’ precious balance is the lie she sold all of you so you wouldn’t notice she’d already lost control. ”
“And you’re the cure?” I ask.
“I am the reset,” she says simply. “But I require a key.”
Her gaze slides back to me, caressing like something oily.
“A blade can’t cut if it’s still sheathed,” she says. “And a lock can’t open without the right hand.”
My stomach turns. I already know where this is going. “You need an Archangel,” I say. “Tied to both sides. To Heaven and the Underworld and someone who can walk on both sides of reality.”
“Close,” she croons. “I need an Archangel bound to a mortal who has touched both. A soul that has seen Heaven’s light, Hell’s shadow, and chosen neither. A person whose mind can hold the paradox without shattering.”
My pulse spikes. “Kennedy.”