Do not fear the darkness.

He felt the sword draw from his flesh and gasped with the agony and ecstasy of it, for no angel carried a guardian’s sword without pain. It fed on the blood of heaven’s sons. Mortal hands could not touch it. And no angel would survive its strike.

“Grimold,” he whispered. “It is time.”

The angel met Barak with a hail of bullets shot from the hands of his children. Kostas’s men sprang forward, attacking them as the angel fell on the archangel, his face flaming with rage.

“You will not do this!” Grimold screamed. “He has seen our victory!”

“He lied.”

JARON landed on the roof of the opera house, the building rattling under his feet as chips of stone went flying. Volund crashed into him, his blade arching through the air and glancing off Jaron’s shoulder before he spun away.

“Where is she?”

“Grimold’s sons are dying,” Jaron said, ignoring Volund’s question. “You are going to lose.”

Volund laughed. “Svarog’s men have not even arrived to join the fun! This battle is not over.”

“No,” Jaron said with a slow smile. “Svarog’s children have not arrived. How curious.”

Volund’s smile fell, then he sneered again, rushing Jaron in a rage.

Jaron accepted the slashing blow to his arm, reveling in the pain as he felt his right hand turn to dust under the guardian’s blade.

“What do you see now, you fool?” Volund shouted. “What vision did our Master send you? Did you see this, Jaron? Did you see your brother take you apart, piece by piece?”

He felt. For the first time in his millennia of existence, Jaron reveled in anguish. He fell to his knees laughing and shouting. Volund cocked his head, no doubt wondering where the solemn advisor of heaven had gone.

But Jaron saw.

He had seen the truth in his daughter’s eyes, and it had made him yearn. Made him want.

Made him rage.

He had planned for decades, only to have his own machinations turned upside down by something as simple—as profound—as love.

Do not fear the darkness—his Creator had whispered to him once—for it is only a shadow of the sun.

Then Jaron, son of heaven, raised his eyes as his Master showed him the blade that would bring him home.

He jumped to his feet and ran at Volund, grinning when the guardian’s sword pierced his belly. He wrapped his good arm around Volund’s waist and jumped from the top of the Opera house, leaping into the storm as icy rain began to fall on empty streets.

“AVA, come back inside.”

“I can’t.” She could hear them, curling on the ground in utter pain. She could hear their screams.

And she loved it.

Ba dahaa.

She felt their suffering in her bones, but she would not relent. Ava fed the black void and felt her power grow. The hollow Malachi had drawn from was full, not with his own bright magic, but the black power that grew and flourished in her.

“Ava, come back.”

“No.”

She felt the glass cutting into her stomach, felt the sharp, icy rain at her back, and the tearing pain in her abdomen and legs.

Ava didn’t care.

Ba dahaa.

Zi yada.

She could taste it. The sweet satisfaction of her enemies’ cries. They screamed, their voices echoing down the city streets as the Irin cut them back.

“Ava!” Leo pulled her into the building and she spun, tearing at his face with clawed hands.

“Let me go!”

“They’re winning!” He pointed to the streets below where Irin scribes and even a few singers had flooded the plaza, overwhelming the Grigori forces, many of whom were in retreat. “They’re beating them back. You have to stop.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You must!”

“No!”

“You are hurting Kyra,” he shouted. “You have to stop.”

She turned to the corner where the kareshta lay, no longer frozen but curled in agonized silence, her body twitching in the wake of Ava’s magic.

Ava took a deep breath and pulled her power in. “No.”

Leo knelt next to her. “I don’t know what happened. But every time you hit one of the Grigori outside, she feels it.”

“She can’t filter them out,” Ava said. “She’s not strong enough yet. Hold her, Leo.”

“I need to protect you too!”

“I’ve got it!” She glanced out the window. “And I think they have it too. Something is happening to the Grigori.”

BARAK and Grimold wrestled, and the ground shook below them. Iron tracks buckled and popped, tossing railcars into the air as the sky let loose the hail that had gathered in the clouds. A great rumbling shook the earth as the train cars cracked together, drawn to Grimold’s elemental power.

Barak felt his sons fighting around him, and for the first time in millennium he felt… pride. His child had resisted his draw. Once Barak was gone, they would be strong. Safe. They would not bring shame to his line. He wanted to pretend it did not matter, but he was a creature of brutal honesty, if nothing else.

He cared.

Grimold had no such pride. He drew his children to his side, throwing them at Barak like so much fodder. The guardian’s sword sprayed dust as it slew them.

“Stop, Grimold. You kill them for nothing.”

“I will kill you,” the angel screamed. “Traitor!”