Curse of Ashes

By Amy Sevan

Syd Hoven inherited an angelic army. Too bad she has no idea how to lead her soldiers. When the Archangel was in charge, the soldiers had access to all the power they needed to fight Hell’s creatures. Now? Not so much. The power is still there, locked away, but it didn’t come with an angelic decoder ring.

Two of her soldiers have encountered an unknown enemy their weapons can’t kill, and Syd is delivered an ultimatum: give up control of the Guardian Army or watch all her soldiers die.

To defeat the enemy, Syd must figure out how unlock the power of the Pledge and become the captain her soldiers need. But to do it, her own life might the one to be destroyed.

Curse of Ashes is the second book in the Rise romantic urban fantasy series that features angels and demons, men who have no business looking that good, and a heroine learning to wield incredible power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: NYLA
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781641971195

Amy Sevan

Amy Sevan is a life-long resident of Metro Detroit. The spirit of Detroit holds a certain forbidden magic she’s drawn to, so, she usually writes about those two things. Magic and Detroit. She’s an entrepreneur and dog trainer, has tried skydiving (once), and has a love of muscle cars in obnoxious colors. She believes therapy dogs might just save the world. She practices various martial arts and loves to practice on her husband, who does not love to be practiced upon. Find more information on her books at amysevan.com.

Book preview

Motto

Chapter One

One, two, hook, uppercut. Just like it had been drilled into her. Snap. Jack’s chin lifted with the force of the punch, and Syd cringed at the blow she’d delivered. She pulled back, about to call ‘uncle,’ when Jack came in, gripping her around the waist. Down hard on the beige great room carpet, Syd’s breath evacuated double time. And not just from the force of the takedown.

Jack’s bare chest was suspended up above her, hands fisted on either side of her head, his thick arms corded with muscle. Dazed, Syd stared up at him. Holding all that bulk had to be a full-time job. Engulfed beneath him, all thoughts of counterattack fled. She blinked.

Jack frowned, his Caribbean blue eyes crinkling at the corners, only inches from hers. You almost had it that time, Syd. Why’d you let up?

Syd swallowed. I don’t want to hurt you. A partial truth. Actually, his features had morphed into Devon’s, for just a second. They were fraternal twins, after all.

She shook her head to clear it. Devon had left, she reminded herself. Hadn’t come back. Hadn’t even returned her calls, and certainly hadn’t answered her request for the mental communication they’d once shared.

Jack’s face transformed, his frown turning into the most catching smile. You couldn’t possibly hurt me—nothing permanent, anyway.

If only.

Physically, no doubt, she’d have a better chance of grabbing a star from the sky. But Syd had some KO-style knowledge locked up tight in her head. The truth of Devon and Jack’s lineage given to her by the now-absent Archangel Rafael. A truth neither of the twins knew about themselves.

With his healing powers, Jack could handle any blow she dealt no problem—but a psychological wound?

Those weren’t so easy to heal.

Hoping she had him distracted, she lifted her hips, an attempt to buck him and offset his balance. He gave only minor resistance, and she rolled him onto his back, where she straddled his chest. He didn’t resist her. If he had, he could’ve stopped her at any moment, but that wasn’t the point. There were very few things on Earth that held a candle to Jack’s strength or combat skills.

The problem was, basically anything could kill her. They were trying to remedy that, hence all the ball-busting training sessions over the last couple weeks.

Beneath her, Jack smiled, pride bare in his expression. Nice. Going to ground is the worst place to be, get up as fast as you can.

A flash of a demon on her, scratching, tearing at her flesh. Her own screams echoed through her ears. Syd’s limbs turned to lead, and she shivered. Malik. Yes, going to ground was the worst place to be.

Hey, Jack’s voice came from a distance away. His large hand touched her bare upper arm and she startled.

Blinking, she looked down at him.

You okay, Syd?

Syd wanted to melt down, just collapse on top of Jack. Not in a sexual way, just to take comfort in the skin to skin contact, the solidity of him. The strength.

A loud clearing of the throat.

From their position on the floor, she and Jack looked toward the foyer of Syd’s Detroit Tudor mansion. Twilight leaked in through the windows. Dutch stood there, two steps up, slowly shaking his head.

After a slight pause, Dutch rubbed the back of his head with his palm. This isn’t awkward at all.

Practicing. Jack’s tone was light, but out of the corner of her eye, Syd saw his cheeks redden.

Then again, over the three weeks since she’d taken over leadership of the Guardian Army, Syd and Jack had been spending a lot of time together. And they were on the floor. Partially clothed. Sweaty. Probably staring meaningfully into each other’s eyes.

Syd felt a rush of air and looked up to see Jack towering above her. She hadn’t had the time to process him lifting and setting her upright. Belatedly, her stomach caught up to the action and did a little flip.

Jack continued to study her. Syd, you all right? I didn’t mean to take you to the floor so hard.

A snigger erupted from Dutch’s direction.

Really, Dutch? Syd muttered, straightening her yoga pants.

You want to teach her to fight? Jack’s face still had the remnants of his blush, and Syd had to admit, it softened his He-Man persona to the point of adorable. If six seven, 275 could ever quite be adorable.

Dutch lifted his hands in surrender. Tried and failed, remember? She doesn’t listen.

I listen, Syd snapped and picked at her nail polish. "I just hate hitting you guys. Not to mention all the bruises I get."

Dutch laughed and started toward them. On the second stair, Dutch stumbled, caught himself, and almost passed off the mishap as a little dance.

Are you— Syd bit her lip to stop the rest of the words.

Dutch plopped on the sofa with a sigh. I’m fine, Syd, even Guardian soldiers misstep sometimes. He didn’t meet her eyes.

Three weeks ago, the Archangel Rafael had forced the transfer of his leadership of the Guardian Army to her. Then he’d left on some long overdue business, or so he said. The why didn’t matter to Syd. Bottom line? The Archangel had abandoned them with a bare-bones, barely-functioning ‘Army.’

Her Army. Supposedly. The front line of defense for humans against Hell’s creatures.

An Army given its power from the Pledge.

Over eight hundred years ago, after the last angelic wars on Earth, three Archangels made a magical pact they called the Pledge. Lucifer, Gabriel and Sammael bound their word in blood and agreed that no Archangels would set a foot on Earth. It would be neutral ground. For an unknown grievance, they banished Rafael, their brother, to Earth to make sure the Pledge was kept. To break the Pledge was tantamount to starting a war, but Rafael had been searching for a way out ever since. A way to pass on his duties as Guardian of the Pledge. And he’d found his winning ticket. Syd.

I’m fine, Syd, it’s all good. Dutch plopped on the couch.

She turned to Jack for confirmation, but he’d turned away and was throwing on an old hoodie.

She’d taken Rafael’s position, and with it, the power of the Pledge. It kept her soldiers alive, and to say she hadn’t quite gotten the flow would be an understatement of the vast variety. Her mental wall had been constructed over the two and a half decades of her life, built for the express purpose of keeping her considerable psychic abilities in check. Now that she had the power of the Pledge accessible to her? Her abilities scared her even more. Lowering the wall was a terrifying prospect before the Archangel Rafael had transferred his Guardian duties to her. Now Syd had a much better understanding of what could happen when the wall dropped too far.

With a twist that dove directly to her stomach, Syd’s mind went back to the moment when her psychic abilities had torn her spirit from her body. When she traveled to that place with Ashira, the Inbetween. When she thought she might never get back to her body. Trapped in a field of lavender flowers surrounded by a space-less, timeless black void. That’s what using too much of her power did—ripped her apart at the spiritual level.

Her soldiers needed the power inside her to live, but she needed to remain on Earth in a functioning body. When she locked the power away, her soldiers grew weaker. So, she’d been giving them controlled amounts, little bit by little bit. But, glancing at Dutch, Syd thought that might not be enough.

Standing, Dutch cracked his knuckles. Know what? On second thought, let’s do this. Jack got you all warmed up for me. He stood, pulled off his bomber jacket and stopped abruptly. Shit, that sounded bad, didn’t it?

Hard to take the guy seriously, at any rate, with his t-shirt which read ‘Maximum Effort’ and sported a cartoon Deadpool. The two matte-charcoal sacred blades strapped around his shoulders and chest, though—those said business. A second later and the blades were laid reverently on her coffee table.

Dutch grabbed the focus mitts on the couch and pulled them on his hands. He clapped them together and held them out for her. Game on, sweetheart.

Sweetheart? Syd scowled.

Dutch wagged his eyebrows. "You prefer something else? Lioness, maybe?"

Syd couldn’t hear that word and not think of Devon, how he said the word, how it rasped and touched a place inside she thought she’d lost. The fact that Devon had cared for her at all had been a mystery to everyone. Including Syd. Devon’s disinterest for others and his self-interest were a thing of Guardian Army legend. Maybe he hadn’t cared for her. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t here now, when she could damn sure use his specific skillset.

Dutch knew exactly how to get her in the fighting mood.

Jackass, Syd muttered and mimicked Dutch, bobbing as he ducked in with an easy jab.

Over the three weeks since she’d become the leader of the Guardians on paper—er, scroll?—Syd had become a student in all manner of things. Valentina was teaching her meditation, in the hopes of developing her ability to drop her wall in a controlled way. Jack and Dutch had become her teachers in the fighting arts. Prior to becoming the leader of the Guardian Army, she had depended on her Glock. I mean, come on, it was Detroit. What else was she gonna do, Mr. Miyagi an attacker’s ass? But her soldiers had made a convincing argument. She needed to be the opposite of an easy target. Detroit girl or not, nothing in her previous life had prepped her for demon attacks.

Valentina walked in from the kitchen and Dutch used the distraction to send a hook with the focus mitt. Distracted, Syd took the light blow on her cheek.

Learning to watch what’s all around you and not lose focus on the imminent threat is difficult, Valentina said, her long dark braid swishing as she moved.

It’s also what will keep you alive. Jack sank into the loveseat and folded his big arms over his chest.

Syd kept her eyes on Dutch and covered her head for the next blow. Out of her peripheral, she tracked Valentina, too. Thankfully, Valentina settled in the recliner.

Technically, though, Syd shouldn’t have to worry about being attacked, not if the Pledge remained intact. But that was a big, big, if. Along with a no-Archangels-on-Earth clause, the other big no-no was harming the Guardian of the Pledge. Which was how Syd had killed the demon Malik and kept the Pledge intact. Malik hadn’t known she’d taken over as Guardian. Then he’d drawn her blood. And she’d killed him before he had a chance to go tell Lucifer about Devon and Jack’s mixed lineage.

That secret lineage had the potential to not only break the tentative truce between Heaven and Hell but start a celestial manhunt for the twins. Hunting down human-angel hybrids was about the only thing angels and demons did agree on.

So the Pledge stood. And no Archangels had come to challenge it. Thank God.

No way were they ready for a broken Pledge, or, in other words, open season on Earth.

Bringing her back to the present, Dutch feinted in, rocked back, let her reverse-punch whiff air. Bastard smiled, too. She mimicked him as he came in (half speed, she was well aware), but her parry was there, and then she landed a solid hook to the focus mitt.

She advanced, throwing another hook. Dutch had the focus mitt ready, and she pushed him forward with her elbows, making that perfect pocket of space…and bam, directly in the left kidney.

Dutch doubled over, wheezing.

For half a second, Syd was doing the happy dance in her head.

Dutch stayed doubled over.

Shit, Dutch, I’m sorry. Syd bent at the knees, coming down to his level and trying to get a bead on his condition.

With care, Dutch straightened himself and removed the focus mitts. No big, Syd, you just hit the perfect spot.

Bullshit. No way that punch had caused Dutch serious pain. Unless Dutch was much weaker than he’d let on.

Jack’s shadow darkened over Dutch. You all right, soldier?

Yeah, yeah. I’m fine—

He’s not fine. None of us are. Alain Freelander’s voice was cold. Dutch’s bestie and partner. The Guardian soldier had made no secret of his disdain for her or his blatant hatred for Devon.

Still bent at the knees, Syd rose up. She needed to have all the command and presence she could muster around Free. Her stomach clenched in anticipation of the argument.

She met Free’s dark eyes, took in his stance of barely leashed aggression. His close-cropped hair was an ashy blond, his stubbled face all sharp edges. She looked back and forth between them, Dutch and Free, the Guardian Army’s version of yin and yang.

She took a step toward Free, and he took an even step back.

Dutch moved around her and clapped a hand on Free’s shoulder. Come on, man, let’s patrol.

Saying nothing, Syd put a hand to her stomach to calm it.

Valentina rose from the recliner, putting on the focus mitts in Dutch’s place. Let’s continue.

The front door clicked closed behind them, and Syd hoped to hell Free was wrong, that the guys were okay. They were her responsibility now. And if she couldn’t figure out how to give them the power they needed?

Their blood was on her hands.

Chapter Two

Driving along Jefferson Avenue, Dutch rode shotgun in Free’s white Tahoe. He whistled softly to himself, Imagine Dragon’s ‘Believer.’ Free cut a hard glance at his partner but didn’t make a retort at the off-key sound. Free knew him well enough to understand why the whistling was necessary.

The night was chilly, but not enough to get the Detroiters to stay inside, hardy stock that they were. Thursday night had the city bustling. There was sure to be some beastie floating around, causing problems. So, they would patrol and mitigate where they could. If they could.

Dutch’s tune halted and he rubbed behind his ribs, the place where Syd had nailed him. That should not have hurt, not like it did.

Free slowed for a red light, and Dutch watched as a group of loud young men jostled each other as they crossed Jefferson Avenue, heading north toward Midtown, most likely.

Whatever happened in Hell, there were plenty of beasties that made it topside, and truth be told, nothing had been so vexing or too much for the two of them to handle. Until Malik had shown up three weeks ago and nearly lights-outed Devon.

Dutch fidgeted with the handles of his sacred blades, his personal, sharp-edged blankie.

Three weeks and one day ago, he would’ve laughed at the concept. Devon was the best of them, most powerful and most ruthless. Dutch could admit, he had a serious hero-worship thing for Jack and Devon. They seemed damn near invincible. So, seeing Devon gutted? Suddenly, Hell seemed like something to take a bit more seriously. Especially if the Pledge was broken and war was declared. Man, they so weren’t ready for that. Not with the give and take of Syd’s power to them. Or the threat of Lucifer amassing an army. Or with the dwindling number of Guardian soldiers.

The light turned green. Free took his time accelerating, enough so an older Crown Vic on twenty-four’s whipped around him only to jam on the brakes.

Free scowled. It’s not just Syd that drives like a maniac ‘round here, is it?

Dutch sniggered. Must be something in that beautiful river water.

Dutch had been turned Guardian soldier when he bit the dust with a bullet to the left kidney fighting the Second World War with the Allies. Probably why Syd’s punch directly to that spot had nearly done him in. Didn’t help he wasn’t up to full strength. It’d been too long since Syd’s last charge up.

Why Rafael had chosen him, among so many others, was still a mystery. A mystery that would never be solved, given the see-ya-I-split routine the Archangel had pulled a few weeks back. Whatever the reason, Dutch had been trained by Jack, and paired with Free as soon as his training wheels had come off. Free had already been a soldier for a few decades when Dutch joined the ranks.

The two of them had made the most of the situation, and now, even Free would admit, they were a hell of a team. Nothing like Jack and Devon, but then, nobody was. It was a damn shame the twins couldn’t figure out their differences and work together. That was a show Dutch would buy front row tickets to see.

Dutch stared out the window at the night coming alive in the city. You think Devon will come back?

Free spared a glance. Is Devon good at not getting what he wants?

To anyone else, the response might not make sense, but Dutch knew his partner well. Syd. He cleared his throat. You think he wants her?

Free kept his eyes on the road this time. Jack would be the better choice for her by yards.

Devon. Man, they could use the guy’s skills. Jack walked around like his big-ass feet crunched eggshells with every step, meanwhile holding Syd like she was the star sculpture in his supernatural menagerie. It had to be wearing on Jack. Not that the big guy would ever admit it.

Dutch sighed as his mind took him back to the moment he’d walked into the house earlier. Syd straddling the LT, faces inches from each other. It was hot. Yeah, hot. As in, nuclear blast if the LT decided pursuing Syd was copasetic. Dutch did not want to contemplate the shit storm that would follow if Devon came back to find his twin had moved in on Syd. Dutch shook his head, trying to the clear the Etch-A-Sketch of his brain.

Free glanced over at him. You having a seizure over there?

Dutch rubbed his palm over the back of his head. Thinking.

Free’s lips turned up, a phantom of a smile. That explains it.

Dutch blew out a breath and didn’t have time to respond to the bait when Free jammed on the brakes. Throwing one hand toward the dash to brace and the other to his chest holster, Dutch scanned the street, looking for the reason behind the action. Seeing nothing, Dutch turned to Free.

Shit.

Free’s eyes had gone completely white, no pupil or iris showing at all. He moved the gear shift into park and went for the door handle. Knowing that grand theft auto was the last thing on Free’s mind in this state, Dutch reached over and turned off the ignition and palmed the keys in his hand, the other already held a blade.

The next moment, Free was out the door. Dutch scrambled out the passenger door to follow. Free’s gift was leading him somewhere. His ability to tell when someone was about to die wasn’t exactly what he’d wished for as a little kid, but it was a package deal with becoming a Guardian, at least for Free. Most of the Guardians inherited some type of gift. Jack’s healing. Devon’s mind control. Free’s important death detector. Dutch was one of the odd ones, one that didn’t have anything in particular.

Free’s gift, though, it put him out of control. And he hated it. In these situations, it was up to Dutch to take care of his partner.

Dutch strode two steps behind, following his partner down an alley barely wide enough for a car. Scanning, Dutch searched for anything vaguely threat-like. No movement, just discarded newspaper, rustling in the wind, and the distant sound of traffic. Wait, no—

Mewling, like an injured animal. Coming from the little brick alcove, leading into one of the old buildings, thirty feet down into the alley.

Free headed right toward it, his steps quick but clearly still in his trance-state. He wasn’t even holding a weapon. Which told Dutch exactly how far down the rabbit hole his partner was. Free didn’t even shower without a gun in reach.

Dutch crept closer to his partner, ready to cut anything before it could tag his buddy.

The alcove was small, really a stoop, a shelter from rain with a roof that wasn’t exactly leak-proof. But that wasn’t the main attraction. A leather-clad man, big, probably just over six feet, nearly as wide with beefy muscle. The man’s back was to them, and the mewling noise was coming from him.

Dutch tensed.

Free looked back at Dutch and blinked, his eyes cleared now and back to normal. He’d found the object of his search. Cautiously, Free knelt down and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. The man stilled, and the awful noise stopped. Dutch tensed, ready for the fight, if it came to that.

Then the man crumbled, like someone had removed his spine, and he collapsed backward into Free’s arms.

The man lost consciousness and his unbuttoned vest sagged open. Scratched into his bare chest, just over his heart was some weird bloody design, and Dutch had no clue what it was. He did know, however, that it hadn’t been done by a common street thug. Keeping his blade in one hand, the other flicked open the camera on his phone.

What are you doing? Free asked, trembling as he always did once the trance left him.

You know what this symbol means? Dutch snapped the picture.

Yeah, I do.

Dutch stopped and glanced at his partner.

Free’s expression was set and grim. It means we’ve got something to kill.

Dutch dialed the phone, calling emergency. He gave the details, quick and to the point. Hung up.

Mewling again, the man began to struggle in Free’s grip. The man’s eyelids fluttered, and he began to thrash in earnest.

What the— Dutch breathed. What the hell happened to his peepers?

Free hissed. They’re gone.

Where the man’s eyes should’ve been were empty holes. Strangely, not bloody but more like something really, really hot had done the work.

The man stopped his struggle and became dead weight, Free hefted him, fireman carry-style, weighed down under the substantial load. Free stumbled once.

Dutch grimaced. This should not be a contest for them. When Rafael had been in charge, Dutch had had all the strength he needed. He was coming to love Syd, he was, but he didn’t want to die, either.

Dutch turned, wanting out of the alley and to get the biker guy to help. Free’s gift only activated if the target was about to kick it into the afterlife, so the guy needed help, pronto. Dutch had many skills, advanced first aid included, but that didn’t include eyeball removal, or whatever else was pushing the guy toward the white light.

Free walked right behind him, so close Dutch could hear his breath as it got heavier with the exertion of carrying his burden.

Now only ten feet separated the alley from the street, but blocking the way back to the Tahoe, someone stood, outlined in darkness. Light hair, hands behind the back, male build, slightly shorter than Dutch’s height, 5’10ish. The stance said anything but ‘innocent bystander.’

Out of the way. Dutch advanced.

Instead of backing up, the figure stalked forward. Guardians. Well, isn’t this a surprise.

Dutch didn’t need to look to know Free had hung back.

The night just got a whole lot more interesting.

Chapter Three

Tyler stood ten feet back, his nose bloodied, his chest heaving, his shirt torn from the exertion of the fistfight. He had a gun aimed straight at Devon’s head. The small living room of the house was a wreck, torn apart as they’d been grappling.

Devon examined the stolen knife in his hand. Gleaming, it was a beautiful, utilitarian weapon with a black hilt, crafted with precision. Such a paradox that to do the job it had been so well-designed for, the knife would lose its edge.

Tyler laughed. Can’t believe you came back here.

Devon glanced down at the knife he’d stolen from the guy in the brawl. The last time Devon had been on this desolate block of the east side of Detroit, Rafael had had Syd in Dr. Byrne’s little lab of nightmares. At the time, Devon had intentionally started to pick a fight with Tyler and his buddy. Believe me, I can’t believe I’m back here, either.

Tyler chuckled and wagged the gun in Devon’s direction. Yo man, you ever hear of bringing a knife to a gun fight? ‘Cause, for real, that’s you right now.

Just answer my question. Devon put his index finger to the tip of the blade, pushed his skin to the edge of splitting. He leaned a hip against the doorframe.

An’ I still can’t tell you where that crazy doctor bitch is, man. Fact, I’m done talking. Gonna shoot your ass now.

Out of the mouths of humans.

Devon moved through space, appeared behind the man as the round popped off, kicking into the wall behind where his knee had been. He brought the knife up, biting through the skin and into the cartilage of Tyler’s throat. Such a well-built weapon, he barely had to exert any pressure. Lovely.

You might want to reexamine your metaphor, Devon drawled. Drop the gun.

Metal thunked on the ground, and Tyler shook like dead leaves in the wind.

Better. Devon pressed deeper with the blade. Let’s try this again before my patience really wears thin. Think of the last time you saw Dr. Byrne. Sure, he could rip through the man’s thoughts, but that would be…painful. Better to ask a question and then watch the TV inside his head. Neater.

I barely ever saw her, man. It was a whisper.

Inside Tyler’s brain, Devon waited and watched the choppy, frantic thoughts for anything pertinent. Anything to tell him where Byrne might’ve gone. Devon had been in Byrne’s head recently, deep and virus-like. As Rafael’s best tracker, he should be able to pick up a signal of her, if she was anywhere nearby. Hell, even if she wasn’t close, he should get something. But there was nothing. And so, he was reduced to carving into thugs for answers.

That brainy bitch could seriously grate.

Plus, it was true, Devon saw as he rifled through Tyler’s thoughts. He had seen Dr. Byrne only from a distance and only a handful of times, living down the block from her, but that was about it. And no sightings at all since Syd had immolated Malik. She’d Houdini’d herself. Or someone had Houdini’d her ass for her. Or she was dead. That was another possibility he had to consider.

It didn’t make sense, though. Devon had gone over to the house and someone was definitely still living there. Who else would make that basement their base of operations? Definitely wasn’t Rafael’s style.

It was weak, but through Tyler’s memory, Devon saw the license plate number on the Beemer the doctor drove. It was something. Releasing the blade from Tyler’s throat, Devon telekinetically pushed and Tyler skidded palms first into the scarred hardwood. Absently, Devon spun the bloodied blade in his palm, thinking through his next action.

Don’ kill me, Tyler whispered.

Devon halted the spinning blade and narrowed his eyes. Why not?

Tyler blinked, swallowed. I got kids, man.

True enough. Devon’s smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Have you even met the youngest one?

Tyler clenched his teeth and his fists. "Jade won’t let me—wait, what the fuck, how you know all this? You like some sorta magician, disappearing ‘n shit?"

Ignoring the question, Devon glanced around and decided to pursue the conversation. Truth told, he had nothing better to do. He wasn’t about to show his belly and go back to the Guardian Army. He had willfully ignored Syd and had deliberately not done any checking in at all. It was a slippery slope, that. Getting involved. And Syd made him act…not like himself. He’d nearly died because of it. At Malik’s hand. Staying away from Syd felt a bit like Survival 101.

Ultimately, she hadn’t ordered him back. As Captain of the Army, technically she could demand him to return, and that would be an interesting game of chicken, wouldn’t it? She hadn’t played that card yet.

Anyway, Syd had things under control—didn’t she always?

And where did that leave Devon? After that last confrontation with the Archangel Rafael, the one where the angel had released Jack from service, had killed his brother, Devon was adrift. Shortly after that, Syd had made it clear she didn’t need Devon, either. Then she’d confronted a massively powerful demon, Malik, and had won without breaking the Pledge. If Devon was ever going to believe in miracles, it would be right now.

So.

Jack was dead. Rafael had taken off, though not before promising to kill Devon. After the one-year moratorium Syd had negotiated for Devon’s safety had passed. He stiffened; anger lodged dead center in his chest.

Maybe that was why he was pondering all the existential bullshit. For the first time in over eight hundred years, Devon had no real purpose. He was no better than Tyler sprawled on the dirty carpet before him.

Devon dropped into a grimy loveseat, the arms of which were formerly overstuffed, now his forearms rested more on plywood than stuffing. Using the couch, he wiped the blood off the blade.

I’m actually interested in why you get up every morning. Devon gestured to the house. You own basically nothing of value. You live in fear of the cops figuring out the impressive assortment of your illegal activities and sending your ass to jail. Again. Your kids don’t know you enough to properly hate you. So why. Why should I not kill you?

Tyler groaned and planted his feet on the floor, bending his arms around his knees. "Man, they should not hire you for 1-800-Suicide."

I’m no Dr. Phil, that’s for sure. Devon smiled and stabbed the blade into the couch, folded his hands on his lap. Still waiting for an answer.

Tyler’s eyes flitted around. Didn’ Jesus say all life is precious, or some shit?

A vision of the Archangel Rafael flitted through Devon’s mind, and his lip curled into a sneer. Maybe, but I don’t share the sentiment. It’s why killing has never bothered me.

Instead of the expected dissolution into a crying, begging mess, Tyler’s eyes hardened. He stood slowly, no sudden movements.

Lounging on the couch, Devon watched.

"It should bother you." Tyler stood tall but his hands trembled against his leg.

He was scared. He should be. Devon withdrew from Tyler’s mind and waited. He was interested where this was headed, didn’t want to spoil the surprise.

Tyler gestured to his temple, keeping Devon’s eyes. "Killing messes you up. But everyone just does what they have to. And yeah, I got kids, I want to show them how to be better than me. You ain’t got the right to kill me, man."

Devon waited a breath before responding. "You want to be better—why