“Time to see if the backup we just called in work as advertised.” Sabra turns her cell phone toward us, and the screen is lit up with emergency notifications.
I can’t read the text—What country are we even in right now? I’ve completely lost track—but the flashing red radioactive symbol with arrows pointing to a skull and a figure running away? Yeah, that’s pretty hard to misinterpret.
It’s a nuclear fallout warning.
Nuclear missiles have been launched. Somewhere nearby.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. “Oh my god.”
Did Remus know this was coming? Obviously Layden and Sabra did—this is what they talked about in that meeting this morning. But Remus? Did he know I was pouring my heart out to him while nuclear war was about to start?
I don’t have time to spiral into that thought because Remus just lifts me—literally picks me up like I weigh nothing—and runs toward the shelter of the buildings where the other women are pressed against the walls.
My stomach lurches as the world blurs. One second I’m standing in the courtyard, the next I’m being carried at impossible speeds. The cobblestones are a gray blur beneath us. Wind tears at my hair.
I catch glimpses in my peripheral vision. Abaddon launches himself into the air, wings spreading wide enough to block out the light. To do what, I have no idea—catch missiles with his bare hands? Kharon is moving too, herding his wife and baby toward safety.
Layden sprints beside his brother, and when Sabra doesn’t move quickly enough—still frozen, staring at her phone—he just scoops her up in a fireman’s carry and keeps running.
We pass by Vlad near the entryway. The ancient vampire has paused, one pale hand shielding his eyes as he stares at the sky. Is he watching for missiles? Trying to spot the Devourers?
And then I remember?—
Phoenix!
Did she ever come back down from that impossible height? Or is she still up there, suspended in the air, vulnerable to whatever’s about to rain down on us?
I crane my neck, looking back toward the courtyard just in time to see a figure descending. Phoenix lands in the center of the circle—the tornado completely dissipated now, the blue light faded—and she looks sosmall. So impossibly small for someone who just ripped a hole between worlds and pulled creatures from another plane of existence through into ours.
Then we’re through the doorway and Remus sets me down in a hallway packed with anxious people. The other women are here, babies clutched to their chests. Men in black suits with guns and grim expressions. Everyone’s phone is still going off, an electronic symphony of disaster.
“How will we know if it worked?” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “If the Devourers actually... ate the missiles or whatever they’re supposed to do?”
“Online feeds.” Layden already has his phone out, thumbs flying across the screen as he pulls up site after site.
The doors burst open behind us and Vlad strides in with Phoenix tucked under one arm and a cadre of dark-suited men flanking them. “Out of my way,” the vampire demands, his voice brooking no argument.
Phoenix looks exhausted. Like she’s just run a marathon and then climbed a mountain. Her dark red hair is a tangled mess, her clothes torn from the wind. But as Vlad drags her past us, she looks up. Her eyes connect with Layden’s for just a moment.
The expression on Layden’s face—god. It’s naked longing. He looks like he wants to reach out, stop her grandfather, pull her into his arms and never let go.
But then she’s gone, shuffled off down another corridor. Probably to whatever underground bunker Vlad has no interest in sharing with the rest of us mere mortals and angels.
“Phoenix!” Sabra calls after her, but it’s useless. The vampire’s already around the corner. “We’re going to need you to contain them again!”
Phoenix doesn’t say anything, just lifts one hand in acknowledgment before she disappears.
My chest is still constricted, lungs tight with anxiety. Does that hand wave mean she thinks it’ll work? That these big interdimensional energy-eating creatures will actually save us from nuclear disaster?
Or was it just a goodbye?
“Layden.” Kharon’s demand cuts through the murmur of worried voices. “Update.”
“There’s nothing.” Layden’s thumbs move faster across his screen, swiping and tapping with increasing desperation. “Just people freaking out about the warnings going off everywhere. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
The two babies start crying—high, piercing wails that make everyone wince. The sound of infant terror is primal, cutting through every other noise.
Kharon starts pacing down the hall, a caged predator with nowhere to direct his violence. “We can’t stay here.”
