Papa rolled us both off the couch, and we ended up tangled on the rug, laughing like fools. It felt good. It felt like a beginning.
I looked at the grimoire, then at my mate, then at the prairie dog who’d stood by me through hell and high water.
“I think we’re going to be okay,” I said. And for the first time in my life, I meant it.
Because if I’d learned anything from angels, witches, and wolves, it’s that you don’t have to be just one thing to belong. You just have to love with all your weird, wild heart.
And I did.
Epilogue
Arsenal
Council headquarters, Chicago, looked exactly like I’d always imagined the Vatican might, if it was run by people who considered the Inquisition a blueprint for office design. The building soared thirty stories of black stone and gold trim, hunched at the end of Michigan Avenue like a mausoleum for dead empires. Getting through security took an hour—retina scan, handprint, magic sniff test, then a wolf shifter in an Armani suit “escorting” us up in a private elevator, flanked by two more just in case we decided to assassinate another world leader before lunch.
Inside, every surface gleamed. Marble floors so polished you could check your hair in them, columns as thick as a redwood forest, ceilings stenciled with spells and what looked a lot like machine gun ports hidden behind angels and gargoyles. I’d been in war rooms before. This was the first one that felt like it might double as a sacrificial altar if the wind changed.
Big Papa walked with his usual slow authority, not a damn bit thrown off by the silent threat in every corner. The bandage at his throat showed above his collar—an unmissable souvenir from last week’s bloodletting—and the look on his face told the world that he would not be giving up a single inch of territory ever again. Aspen stayed at his left, hand resting sometimes on his arm, sometimes at her own wrist, her eyes scanning every face, every shadow. There was something new in her step, a kind of assurance that came from knowing you could burn down the planet with a single mistake. I was the designated security for this little reunion, but I doubted anything mortal could touch us now.
The Chamber was bigger than a basketball court, U-shaped with three tiers of seating. Each seat was filled: wolves, witches, vampires, and one king-sized demon holding a stylus and a notebook the size of a car battery. At the head of the U was the Council itself, every member in a black suit and red tie, the sort of people who treated the Geneva conventions as starting points. They all turned to watch us as we took our seats at the defense table. Three microphones, three glasses of water, three coasters with the old Council sigil.
I slouched back and sized up the opposition. Not bad, as far as kangaroo courts went. The new Wyrdmother of Verdant Hollow was a heavyset woman with purple hair and a dress that looked like it had eaten six other dresses for breakfast. The vampire delegation was headed by Lucia Kozlov, her smile more genuine than most in the room, but her eyes all knives.King Rafe Mayfield represented the Southwest, which meant he wore a bolo tie and a sneer. Menace was there, the King of the Midwest, and Iron Valor, truth be told. There were other faces, other eyes, none of them friendly.
Papa cleared his throat. “Let’s just be honest, gentlemen and ladies—none of you really wants to be here, do you?” His voice was like a church bell: loud, old, impossible to ignore.
A few smirked from the back rows. The demon’s eyes didn’t move. The new Council chair, an elder called Pietro, rapped a silver pen against the table. “We are here because three Council leaders have perished in the past year, and each time, the Iron Valor Pack was present.” He let it hang. “Perhaps you would like to explain that?”
“We don’t kill for sport,” Papa replied, “and we don’t kill unless we have to. You’ve read the reports. We didn’t instigate a single incident.”
Pietro nodded. “We have. The problem, Mr. Rice, is that each time the culprit is dead. Or, as with the most recent event, is incinerated beyond identification.”
I watched Aspen’s shoulders tense. She hadn’t meant to turn the Wyrdmother into cosmic fertilizer, but I wasn’t about to let her take the fall alone. I raised my hand, not for permission, but as a warning. “You want testimony, I’ll give you testimony.”
“Jess Regan. Please,” Pietro said, and a dozen Council pens moved to take notes.
I spoke in the clipped monotone of a man who’d spent half his life in a debriefing room. “At 2321 hours local, the Wyrdmother and a coven of five forcibly abducted Jonas Rice from his pack territory in Dairyville, Texas. They then chained him to a rune-inscribed altar and, after beating him bloody, the Wyrdmother was in the process of murdering him by slitting his throat during a bloodletting ritual. He survived barely. I witnessed this with my own eyes.” I nodded at Papa’s bandage.“The wound is documented. The tools used were recovered and are in custody. The scene was secured by Iron Valor and the Midwest King’s detail. Aspen Waters confronted the Wyrdmother in a clearing. Moments before, the Wyrdmother threatened to kill Rice unless Waters surrendered a magical artifact.”
Pietro’s gaze flicked to Aspen. “Did you comply?”
She shook her head, voice clear as a glass bell. “The artifact belonged to me. Jonas and I knew it was too dangerous for that madwoman to get her hands on. So no. I did not give it to her. That in no way justifies her attempting to murder my mate. So I stopped her.”
Shasta Tierney, the High Flame Caller from the Emberthorn Witches, leaned in. “And how, Ms. Waters, did you accomplish that?”
I felt the tension spike next to me, but Aspen just said, “With magic.” Her accent was as thick as the syrup at Pearl’s Bar & Grill. “It was instinct. I’d never done anything like it before.”
The demon lawyer at the far end finally raised his head. His eyes glowed like brake lights. “You are not a fully trained practitioner, Miss Waters. How is it that you were able to destroy one of the most powerful witches in the world?”
Aspen didn’t blink. “Turns out, my father’s the angel king. Guess I inherited something.”
A chill ran through the room. Even Pietro looked shaken. The demon showed his teeth in what could have been a smile. “Archon Seraphael?”
“That’s the one,” I said, not hiding the pride in my voice.
The doors at the far end boomed open, and the world tilted. I’ve been in gunfights, bombed-out cities, places where you could taste death in the air. None of that prepared me for what it was like when Archon walked into the room. He was seven feet of blinding light, hair like a comet’s tail, a suit so white it madethe marble look dirty. He didn’t walk—he drifted, every eye in the place locked on him. He ignored them all and strode right up to the defense table, standing behind Aspen.
He nodded to the Council, but it was all formality. “I apologize for my tardiness,” he said, voice calm and beautiful, but edged with the kind of threat you only heard in thunderstorms. “I see the matter is already underway.”
Pietro actually stammered, which would have been funny if not for the fact that I could see his hands shaking. “We—uh—were just reviewing the circumstances of the Wyrdmother’s demise.”
