The war room (aka my living room) looks like a supernatural think tank exploded. Empty bourbon bottles, grimoires, and magical supplies litter every surface while we hammer out our half-baked rescue mission.
"Alright, Brax," I toss him my phone, pulling up Rhyland's most recent voicemail. "Study up. You're about to play the role of everyone's favorite brooding Viking." I swipe through a collection of candid shots I'd snapped of our resident thunder god.
What? Sometimes, blackmail material comes in handy.
Brax's features are already shifting, his borrowed face melting like wax as he absorbs Rhyland's voice patterns.
"You two," I point at Emily and Sable with my half-empty bottle, "need to whip up a knockoff Soul Stone that'll fool Lilith long enough for us to get Phina out. I don't care if you have to bedazzle a paperweight—just make it convincing."
The bourbon burns going down, but it's not doing shit to calm my nerves. "Knowing that theatrical bitch, she's gonna want to make this a public spectacle. We need to get her somewhere private, somewhere we can—"
"Spring a confinement spell," Sable finishes, her eyes lighting up with that particular witchy inspiration.
"Bingo." I drain the bottle, ignoring how the glass trembles in my grip. "Trap the psycho, grab my angel, make our exit stage left."
Emily looks up from her grimoire; her face scrunched in that way that means she's about to rain on my parade. "And what about Morgan? That witch is Lilith's attack dog—she won't let us anywhere near her precious queen."
A dark smile spreads across my face as I reach for another bottle. "Morgan? Oh, don't worry about her. I've got a special plan for that necromancing nightmare—it involves me, her, and a very permanent separation of head from shoulders."
My fangs itch just thinking about Morgan—that vindictive witch who couldn't leave well enough alone.Had to go and play prison break with Lilith, didn't she?After all the trouble my brothers went through to lock that psychotic bloodsucker away, one bitter witch with a grudge decides to throw open the gates of hell.
But that's okay. All I need is one look, one moment of eye contact, and my compulsion will turn her mind into putty.Then we'll see how she likes being trapped in her own personal nightmare.
Payback's a bitch, and tonight, so am I.
The room falls into that heavy silence where you can practically hear everyone's brains churning through worst-case scenarios. My fingers drum against the empty bourbon bottle, each tap marking another second we're wasting.
"Better break out your fancy dress clothes, kids." I wave my phone with Lilith's text. "Satan's Side Piece is insisting on black tie. Wouldn't want to disappoint her royal psychosis."
My gaze locks onto Brax like a laser sight. "Hey, Shapeshifting Steve Rogers," I jerk my head toward the stairs. "Time to play dress up, demon boy. You're about to get a crash course in Rhyland's wardrobe."
And if we're lucky, his suit game will be enough to fool Lilith long enough for us to get Phina out of this mess.
The grandfather clock in the hall strikes with an ominousdong, making everyone jump. Five hours until showtime. Five hours until I either get my angel back or paint Seattle red.
"Three hours," I bark, taking the stairs two at a time. "Get your shit ready and in order. If you're not ready by then, I'm taking matters into my own hands. This train waits for no one."
I pause at the top, throwing a wicked grin back at Emily. "Oh, and Em? You might want to leave the star-spangled lingerie in your room. Something tells me Lilith's not a fan of patriotic panties."
"Oh, go gargle holy water," Emily snaps back, her magic popping and fizzing around her like Pop Rocks.
Worth it.
The bond in my chest pulses with each step toward my room, a constant reminder of what's at stake.
Just a little longer, angel cake. Your favorite disaster is about to crash Lilith's party—and this time, I'm bringing hell with me.
Rhyland
49
The hot bath and fresh trim have me looking like the fucking warrior prince I am. My usual wild scruff now follows the sharp line of my jaw, highlighting the predator beneath the fancy clothes. The midnight blue tunic clings to every hard muscle of my chest, and the red silk sleeves do nothing to hide the strength in my arms. Pure Viking warrior meets Norse royalty in leather pants and boots.
Magni's son cleaning up nicely for once, though the beast inside still prowls beneath all this polished bullshit.
Erik emerges, like a fucking silver prince, all clean lines and regal bearing. His tunic is a shade lighter than mine. He looks put together, composed—a far cry from the broken man I pulled out of that trough.
Trust my brother to make even formal wear look like battle armor.
