They were circling each other, each move perfectly gauged. Sammael could be fully human in appearance, but he chose to wear hooves for effect. Each clopping step he took was like a gunshot in the quiet. There was no doubt that he was the predator and Raguel was the prey.

“Why?” Raguel asked again, wondering why his brother seemed unconcerned about the death of his pet. Fact was, Havoc had been an unmitigated success, and if it was true that it was vulnerable only to an Infernal’s hand, then its loss should be a lamentable one to him.

“It was a transgression, a show of cockiness by a lower-level demon flush with his first successes.”

“Are you losing control of your domain?”

“Never.” The word was spoken with such vehemence it reverberated through the room around them.

The door at the far end of the chamber opened and Azazel entered. The archdemon had been Sammael’s lieutenant forever. He bowed before his ruler and waited to be acknowledged.

“You will see for yourself,” Sammael said, his focus still on Raguel, “since you will not be leaving. I cannot kill you . . . yet, my brother, but I can keep you. And I shall.”

“My liege,” Azazel murmured. “Forgive the intrusion. I bring news of importance.”

Sammael’s growl echoed through the vast space. He turned his back to Raguel and stormed away, his form changing as he moved into that of a fully realized man in Tudor-era hose with waistcoat, doublet, jerkin, and gown. His hair was long, past his shoulder blades, and it moved as a separate entity. Lifting and shifting as if caressed by a breeze. But the air was sulfuric and stagnant here. Oppressive.

The Prince of Hell took his throne, lounging with long legs extended and arms draped over the thick, carved wooden armrests. He was majestic, and as graceful as a feline. “What is it?”

Azazel approached. Aside from similar height and build, he was as opposite from Sammael as opposite could be. His hair and eyes were white, his skin like ivory. Dressed in breeches and doublet of silver and blue, he looked as cool as the snow . . . in a place as hot as Hell. “Cain has been advanced to archangel and placed as head of the North American firm.”

Raguel stumbled, the room suddenly spinning around him. He had been gone only hours . . .

His gaze shifted wildly, his brain struggling to catch up with the ramifications. He saw the dead beast on the floor; its massive body lying on its side, its opened gut still oozing gore. Its legs were sprawled, its male genitalia clearly visible.

He froze.

Why have reproductive organs? Unless it had a mate . . . ?

“See how easily you are replaced?” Sammael gloated with a triumphant smile lighting his darkly beautiful face. “Discarded and forgotten. Expendable. Where is the love and loyalty Father promised you all of your life?”

Raguel spread his wings for balance as the room began to spin. Did no one find and recognize the clues he’d left behind? Did they think he was dead to them . . . lost forever?

Why Cain, of all the Marks? Once again, Jehovah favored one who was far less than perfect. Raguel would not have chosen him as his successor.

“What are your orders?” Azazel asked.

“Orders?” Sammael made a careless gesture with a flick of his wrist. “I have none.”

“None?” The archdemon glanced at Raguel.

“My brother’s presence does not hold my tongue. This is cause for celebration, not alarm. Cain is removed from the field. Raguel has learned how little he means in the grand scheme of things.” Sammael stroked his chin thoughtfully. “However, it does me little good to keep Raguel if it is believed that he is dead. The word of his capture can be spread, of course.”

“And quickly,” Azazel added.

“Yes. But I think it might be more effective to return him to a world in which he has lost importance. I will have to consider the matter further.” Sammael’s malice-laced smile was riveting. “You can always choose to stay of your own accord, brother. I welcome you with open arms.”

“Never,” Raguel spat.

Sammael snapped his fingers and Raguel found himself contained in a cage suspended over the fiery pits of Hell. Smoke, ash, and heat billowed upward and wrapped him a cocoon of torment. But what was worse was the dead space inside him that he hadn’t noticed while consumed by fear.

For all of his life, his mind and heart had been filled with a steady influx of orders from the seraphim, reports from handlers and mentors, and the occasional comment from Jehovah himself—new assignments for his Marks, reports and receipts, commentary and encouragement. It had sounded like the faint buzzing of hundreds of flies, a steady hum that was the rhythm of his existence. The beat to which he marched, the tempo of his heart, the cadence of his life. The sudden awful silence within him was like a yawning black hole.

Discarded. Forgotten. Expendable.

Raguel sank to his knees and cried.

Azazel approached his prince, his face schooled to impassivity so as not to give away his surprise. He would not have expected his liege to act so boldly in regards to the archangel Raguel. Terror and temptation were expected. Torture and imprisonment were not.

He looked at the fallen hellhound and shook his head at the loss. “The boy is a loose cannon. He is a danger to us all.”

Sammael smiled. “He thinks he is invincible and who can blame him? He was at ground zero in an explosion that took out an entire city block, yet he lives to cause more trouble.”

“I request permission to kill him.”

“Kill him? He walks among Marks as one of them. The glamour he wears is so perfect none suspect him. If he pulls this off, he will prove that we are being too cautious.”

“He is an abomination,” Azazel said. “I would celebrate that fact, if he were not also an idiot.”

“When his time comes, you may have him.” The prince stood. “In the meantime, we have many successes to relish. Our position has not been so favorable in a very long time.”

Azazel shifted with unease. “Will you keep Raguel, then?”

“No. I will hold him only long enough to despair and doubt his faith. The rest he will do to himself, because of jealousy and resentment. It is more fun that way.”

“Cain’s advancement could be quite a coup for you,” the lieutenant agreed. “You might consider telling him the truth.”

Sammael laughed. “I am still waiting for his mother to do the honors.”

“After all these centuries? I doubt she intends to.”

“The time will come,” Sammael said, his gaze dreamy and his thoughts on some future Azazel could not see. “When it does, all Hell will break loose. What a day that will be, my friend. What a day.”

CHAPTER 16

Alec didn’t shift directly into the Grimshaw compound. Instead, he paused at the convenience store across the street and studied the main entrance from a safe distance. He breathed with concentrated steadiness, willing his system to become accustomed to his long-repressed mal’akh power to shift from one location to another.

From the exterior, the Charleston Estates gated residential community looked like many others. A fountain occupied the center of a circular drive. A guard station stood at the entrance. A tall stucco fence surrounded the entire perimeter, providing privacy for the homeowners inside. Mature trees dotted the winding streets, providing shade and an exterior appearance of tranquillity. While the developer’s brochure listed some upscale amenities—tennis courts, a helipad, and a concierge house—there was nothing to proclaim it as the domain of the Black Diamond Pack. But every single resident was a wolf under Charles’s command.

It was ingenious, actually. An ideal way to keep tabs on his subordinates . . . and to ensure that secrets stayed secret.

Like the Lebensborn-2 program.

Thanks to Giselle, he had a fairly thorough map of the community in his mind. The Mare was frightened by his transformation to archangel and equally wary of what would happen if he were to be captured with the motel room key on his person. She would not fare well if Charles found her in the possession of Cain the Archangel. It wasn’t a risk she was willing to take, so he trusted that the map she drew him was as correct as she could make it.

The question now was whether he should go to the kennel first and kill the hellhound pups, or whether it would be wiser to take out Charles, then deal with the Alpha’s mess. He glanced at his watch. It was quarter after two. Forty-five minutes until the conference call. This might have to be a reconnaissance mission. Get the lay of the land. Get out. Come back later.

But he’d much prefer to strike during the day when the wolves least expected it, when they were at their laziest and most vulnerable. Maybe he would blow off the conference call instead. The other archangels weren’t expecting him. It might be better to allow them time to adjust to his new role.

The sooner he finished this task, the sooner he could return to Eve. That was still his motivation, although it was a conscious decision rather than an emotional compulsion.

He felt her. Tangibly. As if she stood beside him with her hand in his. But in reality it wasn’t his hand she was holding, it was Abel’s. He felt no personal response to that, a lack of reaction that made him feel like a stranger in his own skin. Worse yet, in lieu of his own feelings, he felt Abel’s—a brutal, covetous, consuming lust for Eve that fed off Alec’s connection to the hundreds of Infernals under Raguel’s command. The ties to the demons were thready, but what he did absorb was cool, dark, and very seductive.

Alec could only conclude that just as the Novium found a loophole around the lack of physical response, his brain was finagling around the lack of emotional reaction. It was telling him that Abel’s feelings for Eve were his, not his brother’s.

In short, he was screwed.

Instead of the peaceful disassociation archangels enjoyed, he felt the frustration and lust that were Abel’s. Mixed with the confusion and heartbreak Eve was experiencing, Alec was suffering like a teenager with a megadose of pubescent hormones.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way; archangels were serene. But Eve’s Novium was throwing a wrench into everything, along with the fraternal bond between him and Abel, her affection for both of them, their pressing desire for her, and the triumvirate of mentor/Mark/handler. The whole morass was completely unique, creating an environment that fostered an anomalous connection that had to be addressed as soon as possible. With the overwhelming influx of information pouring into him from both the seraphim and Raguel’s Infernals, Alec didn’t have the energy left over for . . . angst. He felt as he suspected schizophrenics might, with hundreds of voices in his head telling him what to do and when to do it, while his own mind was telling him that Eve was still important to him no matter how he felt. Or didn’t feel, as the case may be.