“Technically, Lucifer is a fallen angel—”
Rhett laughs manically. “Well, that explainsa lotabout him and you… are you guys related?”
Bennett scowls like that was the most insulting thing Rhett has ever said. “Blasphemy! You evil piece of shi—”
“All right, kids, save the trip down memory lane. We’ve already tempted fate. Let’s not anger HeavenorHell right now,” Scar cuts in dryly from the bar.
Chuckles ripple through the room, but I don’t join them.
My attention keeps drifting toward the corridor that leads deeper into the mountain. Toward the room Roxy hasn’t left all morning. No footsteps, no presence at the edge of the noise, she’s staying away on purpose, and we both know why.
Because ofme.
Because walking out before sunrise isn’t a strategy, it’s a retreat dressed up to look smarter.
I’m halfway through deciding I’ll check on her this afternoon, once, nothing more, when the air changes.
Not with drama.
Not with a warning.
There is no slow build, no courtesy tremor to give us time to prepare or posture or pretend we are anything other than exactly what we are when a force older than civilization decides to make itself known. One moment, the main club room holds nothing but cold stone, leather, low laughter, and the echo of last night’s violence still clinging to blood and memory, and then, the mountain cracks.
Not physically.
Magically.
A sharp concussion rolls through the space like thunder trapped underground, a sound felt more than heard. The lights flicker once, and stone groans deep in its bones. Every enchantment in the room shivers in recognition, and every supernatural present reacts on instinct alone.
Chairs scrape back hard. Hands shift to weapons. Scar moves before conscious thought catches up, fangs flashing as he puts himself half a step in front of me. Wreck’s shadows surge outward, thick and defensive. Rhett swears under his breath, hellfire flaring bright enough to scorch the air, while Bennett stiffens, his wings flickering into existence for a heartbeat before he reins them in with visible effort.
Then suddenly, she materializes, standing in the center of the clubhouse as if she had always occupied it, like the mountain itself parted to let her through without disturbing a single grain of stone.
The air twists first.
A low crackle rolls outward from her boots, faint threads of violet and muted gold flickering through the space like lightning trapped under glass. Static prickles across my skin, sharp and metallic, lifting loose strands of hair as her power settles into the room. Obsidian-dark currents coil around her shoulders, chased by slow pulses of amethyst light that breathe in and out with quiet authority, staining the air in colors that don’t belong to anything mortal.
The charge hums louder, electric and heavy, making the back of my neck tighten beneath the ice. Frost creeps along the floor in unconscious response, my power bristling even as something older than instinct tells me it won’t matter.
Conversation dies mid-word.
No one breathes.
Ancient does not begin to cover what she is.
The witch.
Power rolls off her in waves that make the air burn sharp and metallic, pressing against every supernatural being in the room with enough weight to drive lesser creatures to their knees.
She is tall, too tall, but it isn’t her height that unsettles so much as the way she carries it, spine straight, posture effortless, like gravity itself bends to accommodate her presence. Her robes hang in heavy, deliberate folds, layers of shadow and starlight woven together in patterns that refuse to settle when I try to focus on them. Obsidian silk swallows the light around her, dull gold runes threading through the fabric and pulsing slow and patient beneath the surface, as if they breathe with a will of their own. Every subtle movement sends a faint violet shimmer ghosting through the folds, something alive just under her skin watching the room as closely as she does.
They aren’t ceremonial so much as inevitable, the kind of garments worn by a being that has never needed armor. Her face is smooth, unlined, and beautiful enough that a human mightmistake her for young at first glance, might think her harmless, even kind. High cheekbones, full mouth, skin untouched by time or hardship. But the illusion fractures the longer you look, because nothing about her expression carries youth. There is no softness there, no warmth, only patience refined over centuries and the quiet confidence of something that has outlasted gods.
Her eyes are the worst of it.
Dark and depthless, ancient beyond language, holding the kind of knowledge that predates fear because it created it. When they sweep the club room, they do not look at us, they inventory us. Every brother, every shadow, every flicker of power and breath of air is assessed with the detached precision of something deciding what still matters and what has already been written off.
Beautiful.
