EPILOGUE
REAVER
Two years later…
The Oregon rain comes down in sheets, turning the dirt roads of our property into muddy rivers. I don’t mind. After centuries of fire and brimstone, a little rain feels like a goddamn blessing.
I’m standing in the doorway of the main barn, watching Kennedy navigate the puddles with her arms full of blankets for the new arrivals.
She’s wearing my old jacket—the one that’s about three sizes too big on her—and rain-soaked jeans tucked into muddy boots.
Her hair is plastered to her face, and she’s got that determined set to her jaw that tells me she’s not coming inside until every single animal is comfortable.
She’s never looked more beautiful.
“You know, most people use umbrellas,” I call out, unable to keep the smile from my voice.
Kennedy shoots me a look that’s equal parts exasperation and affection. “Most people don’t have a barn full of scared animals who need them!”
“Fair point!” I shout back. She splashes through another puddle, and I move to meet her halfway, taking the blankets before she can protest. “Go inside and dry off. I’ve got this.”
“Like hell you do.” But she’s smiling now, that bright sunny smile that still makes my ancient heart skip a beat. “We’re a team, remember?”
A team. Yeah, we are.
It’s been two years since Kennedy showed up in the Heavens and literally talked me down from destroying myself. Two years since we trapped Pestilence in a prison from which even she can’t escape. Two years since I stopped running and finally let myself have something good.
And it’s been the best fucking years of my entire existence.
“Besides,” Kennedy continues, already heading toward the barn, “Gabriel and Jenna are with the horses, and you know how he gets when she tries to do too much. We need to intervene before he wraps her in bubble wrap.”
I let out a laugh because she’s not wrong.
Gabriel—the first Blood Angel, the one who destroyed the world for love—has become the most overprotective mother hen I’ve ever seen.
And Jenna, his mate and the only female Harbinger of Death ever to exist, tolerates it with far more patience than I would.
They showed up on our doorstep a year ago, looking for peace. Looking for a place where they could just… be. No wars, no divine missions, no apocalyptic bullshit. Just two broken souls trying to heal.
Angel’s House gave them that.
We gave them that.
The main barn is warm and dry, filled with the sounds of animals settling in for the night.
Dogs bark in greeting as we enter, and I spot Ember, my girl, the first one I ever saved, limping over with her tail wagging like crazy.
She’s old now, gray around the muzzle, but she’s still the toughest son of a bitch I know.
“Hey, old girl,” I murmur, crouching down to scratch behind her ears. She leans into me, and I feel that familiar tightness in my chest. Love. Pure, uncomplicated love.
Turns out animals are a hell of a lot better at it than humans ever were.
“The new dogs are in kennels three through seven,” Kennedy says, already moving down the line to check on them. “The shepherd mix is still terrified, won’t let anyone near her. The pit bull has a broken leg that needs surgery, and the little terrier won’t stop shaking.”
I follow her, Ember trailing behind me like she always does.
Each custom kennel holds a new rescue, a new soul we pulled from the brink.
They come from all over the country, and a few from the underworld, where I found Ember.
Others were discovered by our network of volunteers, both human and supernatural, who scour the world in search of animals in need.
In kennel three, the German Shepherd mix presses herself into the corner, ears flat against her skull. Her ribs show through her matted coat, and I can see the fear in her eyes. The kind of fear that comes from repeated trauma.
I know that fear. I’ve lived it.
“Hey there, beautiful,” I say softly, not moving any closer. “Nobody’s going to hurt you here. You’re safe now.”
The dog doesn’t believe me, not yet. But she will.
They always do.
Kennedy appears at my elbow with a bowl of food, setting it just inside the kennel door before backing away. “Gabriel’s theory is she was used for fighting. The scars match.”
My jaw clenches. “We need to expand our investigations team. There are too many operations we’re not reaching.”
“Already on it. Salem called earlier—she’s got three new volunteers, all witches with tracking abilities. And Michael’s been coordinating with the community to create safe houses across the country.”
Michael, the brains behind most of our operation, though he’ll never admit it.
He and Salem visit at least once a month, usually bringing supplies and whatever animals they’ve rescued in their travels.
The man has a gift for organization that borders on obsessive, but when it comes to running a sanctuary this size, obsessive is exactly what we need.
We move to the next kennel, where the pit bull watches us with cautious eyes. His leg is splinted, courtesy of our on-site veterinarian—a brilliant woman named Dr. Chen, who doesn’t ask questions about why so many of our animals come from “classified locations.”
“Surgery’s scheduled for tomorrow morning,” Kennedy informs me, checking his chart. “Dr. Chen says the prognosis is good. He should make a full recovery.”
“And then?”
“Then we see if he’s adoption-ready or if he needs to stay here permanently.”
Angel’s House operates on a simple principle: we rescue, we rehabilitate, and when possible, we rehome. But some animals, like Ember, need a forever sanctuary. They’ve been through too much to ever fully trust again, and that’s okay. They have homes here for life.
All two hundred and forty-five acres of it.
Michael gifted us this land, prime Oregon wilderness, complete with forests, streams, and enough space for every animal we can possibly save. Kennedy and I built our home here, though “home” is a generous term for what amounts to a small apartment attached to a massive animal facility.
We don’t need much, just each other and enough room for the occasional private moment.
Everything else goes to the animals.
Thunder rumbles overhead, and I hear a chorus of anxious barks from the dog kennels. Kennedy’s already moving, her therapist instincts kicking in as she begins speaking in that calm, soothing voice she uses for both animals and traumatized people.
Sometimes I forget she still maintains a small practice in Portland, working with human clients twice a week. But she always comes home to me. To this.
To us.
“I’m going to check on Gabriel and Jenna,” I tell her, pressing a quick kiss to her rain-soaked hair. “Try not to adopt every dog personally before I get back.”
She swats at me, but she’s grinning. “That was one time!”
“It was six times. Six.”
“They needed me!”
I shake my head, still smiling as I head toward the horse barn. The truth is, I’d let her adopt every single animal if she wanted. Seeing Kennedy happy, seeing her light up with purpose, is worth more than any treasure in any realm.
The horse barn is quieter, more peaceful. We only have two horses, both rescues from a racing operation. Gabriel is in the far stall with a massive bay gelding, murmuring something in a language I haven’t heard in centuries.
Angelic. The original tongue.
“You trying to convert him?” I ask, leaning against the stall door.
Gabriel looks up, and I’m still not used to seeing him at peace. The first Blood Angel, the one who carried the weight of destroying humanity, actually looks… content. His hair is tied back, and he’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that Jenna definitely picked out for him.
“Just telling him about the old days,” Gabriel says with a slight smile. “Before the fall. Before everything went to shit.”
“Inspiring.”
“He seems to like it.”
The horse nuzzles Gabriel’s shoulder, and I have to admit, the giant animal does seem calmer than when he first arrived. Gabriel has always had a way with living things—a remnant of his original purpose as Heaven’s first protector.
Now he protects horses, chickens and the occasional barn cat.
Funny how things work out.
“Where’s Jenna?” I ask, scanning the barn.
“Hen house. One of the chickens went broody, and she’s convinced it needs emotional support.”
I bite back a laugh. “The Harbinger of Death providing emotional support to a chicken.”
“The world’s a strange place, brother.”
“Isn’t that the fucking truth,” I agree before moving on to look for his wife.
I find Jenna exactly where Gabriel said she’d be, sitting cross-legged in the straw with a fluffy black hen in her lap. Her dark wings are visible, and she’s humming softly.
The chicken is asleep.
“You know they’re not actually babies, right?” I say, announcing my presence.
Jenna looks up, her green eyes bright with amusement. “You know that doesn’t matter, right?”
I give her a shrug because she’s right. It doesn’t matter.
“Kennedy’s in the intake kennel if you want to help with the new arrivals,” I offer.
“In a minute. Beatrice needs me right now,” she whispers as she runs her hand down the bird’s feathers.
“You named the chicken Beatrice.”
“No, she told me that’s her name.”
I don’t even bother arguing. Jenna, as a Harbinger of Death, can sense the life force in all living things. If the chicken’s life force says “Beatrice,” then Beatrice it is.
Besides, who am I to judge? I’ve had full conversations with Ember, and I’m pretty sure she understands every word.
The rain is letting up as I make my way back to the main house, our small apartment tucked into the corner of the property. It’s modest: one bedroom, a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a living area that’s perpetually covered in animal hair.
It’s perfect and connected to what anyone else would consider a five-star resort. Except the only residents are the four-legged kind. Well… sometimes three-legged.