“Thanks, Jules,” I said. My voice cracked on her name.
Bronc reached over and squeezed the back of my neck. It was a big, brotherly gesture, and I felt the pressure go straight to my spine, holding me together.
We sat like that for a few minutes, drinking tea and not talking. The world outside was still on fire, but in here, there was just the hum of the fridge and the clatter of a spoon as Juliet stirred her tea.
Then, as if the air itself shifted, Archon appeared in the doorway. He filled the room—seven feet of white-suited angel, hair like a spill of moonlight down his back. He moved without a sound, but when he put a hand on my shoulder, it felt like the touch of sunlight on bare skin.
“May I sit?” he asked, his voice gentler than I’d ever heard it.
I nodded.
He took a seat next to me, folding himself down with impossible grace. For a long moment, he just looked at me—into me, really—and I realized he was seeing things I couldn’t even name.
“Your mate is strong,” he said at last. “She is resting, as best she can. The demon king is clever, but so is she.”
Something unknotted in my chest, just for a heartbeat.
“She’s… okay?” I managed.
Archon nodded. “I sense she is whole. But she will need you when the time comes.”
He stood over me, and for a second; the world turned gold and soft. I felt warmth run through my veins, sweet and heavy, and all the noise and pain drained out of me.
“Rest now,” he said, his lips curving in a small, secret smile. “You will be needed soon.”
He brushed his palm across my head, and I felt the drag of his power—a gentle, insistent pull, like the tide pulling a swimmer out to sea. My eyelids went leaden, my head dropped over to the arm of the couch, and the last thing I heard was Archon’s voice, low and musical.
“He will wake when it is time, Juliet. Until then, Brie will hold on. But she will need him alert, and whole, when the breach comes.”
Juliet’s reply was a soft hush, almost a lullaby: “Thank you.”
I let the magic take me, grateful to finally let go, if only for a few minutes.
The last thing I thought before I slipped away was that someone, somewhere, had finally made me rest.
And for Brie, for us, I would give them anything they asked.
When I awoke, it was like waking from the best sleep of my life, but with the creeping guilt of a man who knows he’s about to be late for his own execution. My face was mashed into a pillow that still smelled faintly of Juliet’s shampoo and cinnamon rolls. There was a quilt over me, thick and absurdly soft, and as I sat up, it slipped to the floor with a hiss. The light outside the window was now deep blue, clearly heading for dusk, and for a second I wondered if I’d slept through the whole war.
My first thought was for Brie. The bond was there—still a faint, fluttering line, more a shadow of her heartbeat than the real thing. But it was steady, not fading. I let myself feel it for a second, then shook it off and checked my watch.
Four hours, almost to the minute.
I ran a hand over my face. My regular scratchy stubble met me, but I felt no sore muscles. Whatever Archon had done, it worked better than any drug or medical protocol I’d ever seen.
The house was alive with noise. Somewhere to my left, Bronc barked orders in a voice like a rifle crack. Down the hall, I heard the rolling, singsong voices of witches as they chanted in unison, their words foreign but oddly familiar. In the kitchen, someone laughed—a short, sharpsound, immediately hushed. I rolled off the couch, feet hitting the rug, and staggered into the hall.
Kazimir Kozlov was standing in the entryway, looking like weapons-grade royalty backlit by the glow of porch lights. His black hair spilled over his shoulders, immaculate, and his suit jacket looked like the softest plum leather with a high velvet collar. His pants were black soft wool silk tucked into tall, soft leather boots belted with a gold buckle. He had obsidian daggers strapped to his sides. His hands were covered in fingerless gloves, and I wondered just how many other weapons were hidden on his body. Next to him, Lucia whispered rapidly in Russian, her lips barely moving. He responded with a nod, then turned those icy blue eyes on me.
“You awake, Finn Walsh?” he said, his accent just thick enough to make my name sound like a threat. “Good. We will need you.”
Lucia winked at me, then drifted down the hall, her black lycra bodysuit undoubtedly reinforced with spells and sigils, her own obsidian knives strapped to her thighs. Her red-soled sneakers made no noise at all on the hardwood. I didn’t know how vampires did that, but it never failed to unsettle me.
I moved to the kitchen, where Maddie was pouring coffee into a tray of mismatched mugs. She handed one off to Big Papa, who had the faraway look of a man praying for peace and expecting a fight instead. At the far end of the room, Juliet sat in a rocking chair, one hand on her belly, the other holding a phone to her ear.
I nodded to them, then headed for the dining room, following the unmistakable scent of magic and power.
The table was the center of gravity in the room. Around it stood a collection of beings I never thought I’d see together outside of a Council photo op: the shifter kings—Menace, Rafe, Griffin, Slade—each with their own retinue of stone-faced betas. The witches were there, three coven leaders flanked by their seconds, all in variations of black or midnight blue.There was even a warlock or two, I think, their faces hidden under shadowy hoods.
