“You know, I’m spending an awful lot of time with Iron Valor lately.”
Everyone turned. At the edge of us stood a man in faded jeans, white t-shirt, and a brown Carhartt jacket, hands jammed in his pockets like he’d just wandered over from the next ranch. His hair was wild and snow white; his face both too young and too old to read. If you weren’t looking right at him, you’d swear he wasn’t there at all.
Archon Seraphael. The fucking angel.
Nobody moved. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
He sauntered over; we stepped back automatically. He knelt at Papa’s side and pressed a palm to his bloody chest, head cocked as if listening for a tune only he could hear.
“Demon work,” he said, glancing up at Bronc. “Nasty stuff. Eats at the heart, the faith, the soul, all at once.”
Lucia, all business, said, “Can you fix it?”
The angel smiled at her, then at the rest of us. “I can. But it’s best if you step back. I’ve learned the hard way it’s best not to be too close when I get rid of filth.”
We scattered, circling up like kids on the edge of a fistfight.
Seraphael bent close, mouth right above Papa’s ear. “Hey, friend,” he said, voice gentle. “You’re not done yet. Let’s put you back together.”
He placed both hands flat on Papa's chest, eyes closed. There was a sensation of pressure, like the air had thickened, then a faint blue glow—barely there, more sensation than light. Papa’s whole body arched off the ground, every muscle straining. Then he jerked once, and something horrible poured from his mouth.
It was smoke, but not. Black and greasy, it spilled out, puddled on the snow, and began to sink into the earth. As it did, it made a sound—a voice, maybe, or the echo of a howl—low and furious. “No,” it said, deep enough to rattle your teeth. “NO.”
The last of it vanished into the earth. The glow faded. Papa flopped back, limp and still, but a blush of color returned to his cheeks. He took a deep, shuddering breath, eyes fluttered, then fell shut again.
Seraphael sat back on his heels, blowing out a sigh. “He’ll need rest,” he said. “A lot of it. But the demon’s gone. He’ll come out the other side quite a warrior, I think. Which is a good thing. He’ll be needed.”
Bronc gaped at him, the way a man might stare at the first sunrise after a long night. “Thank you,” he managed, voice barely above a whisper.
The angel grinned. “You’re welcome. I’ve sort of become the unofficial supernatural consultant for the Southern Territories it seems. I’ll bill you later.” Then he looked over everyone. “Menace.” He nodded in his direction. “Parker, nice to see you free of those chains.” He winked at her. Fucking winked at her!
She gaped at him as if she wanted to say something but thought better of it.
Nobody laughed, but it eased the spell just enough that people started breathing again.
Menace helped Papa up, cradling his huge head in his lap. “He’s alive,” Menace said, disbelief soaking every word. “Just like that. He’s alive.”
Arsenal knelt next, wiped Papa’s face with a sleeve. The big man’s eyes cracked open, glazed but conscious. “Always told you I was hard to kill,” Papa mumbled; his smile filled with implants was beautiful to everyone.
Seraphael looked at Bronc. “Maltraz has it out for you. He’ll try again. You need to be ready.”
Bronc nodded, all the Alpha gravity restored. “We’ll do our best. You have my word.”
“Good.” The angel patted Papa’s shoulder, then rose, stretching like he’d just finished mowing a lawn. “I’d stay, but you don’t need me for what comes next.” He dusted off his jeans and flashed a grin at the group. “Take care of each other. That’s always the answer, even if nobody likes to admit it.” Then he winked at me, turned, and vanished. Just…gone.
Nobody spoke for a while. The air seemed thinner, the light a little less sharp.
I pulled Parker aside. “Can’t believe we got him back,” I said. “That he’s alive.”
She looked at the limp figure, at the blood that still pooled under his shoulder, and covered her mouth with her hand before speaking. “Seems to be a lot of that going around.” She said through tears.
I pulled her in for a hug. She let me, just for a second, before pulling away.
We got to work then. The day passed in a haze of labor: moving the dead, patching wounds, burning the last of the enemy in three separate fires. The air stank of it for hours, the greasy black smoke stretching all the way to the highway. The kids stayed in the bunkers until the worst was over. Pearl and Juliet made rounds with soup and soft words, binding up the wounded. We’d gotten away with just injuries—mostly minor. The more serious ones were good with Doc’s help and natural wolf healing.
Bronc set up a command post at the dining room table, calling in debts, letting the other packs know we’d won. He asked Rafe to reach out to Slade Stewart, the Western king, and let him know there was a compound in Clovis that possibly had women and children wolves with no Alpha. They were his problem now.
By sundown, the compound was as clean as it could get. The scars would take longer. But for the first time in a year, I felt like we’d see another Christmas, maybe two. Maybe a dozen more.
