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Zoltan slammed his fist onto the armrest of his throne and rose to his feet.

“Imbeciles!” he yelled.

Only a dozen demons were assembled in the throne room, messengers who brought news from up top—the human world. Months, hell, two years, had gone by since they’d brought him any decent intelligence on the Stealth Guardians, the protectors of humankind, who so far had thwarted every single one of Zoltan’s attempts to expand his power and reach his goal of world domination.

Frustration charged through every cell of his body, bringing his green demon blood to a boil. With it, he could sense something else approaching: a migraine-like attack that would cripple him for minutes, if not longer. These painful episodes had started long before he’d become the leader of the demons, the Great One. He’d always managed to keep them hidden from his underlings. Still, he’d had some close calls, and if his subjects ever found out that he wasn’t the picture of strength and power he portrayed, well, he wouldn’t be the Great One for long.

He descended from his throne, eager to leave the vast cavern where flames shot through crevices in the rocks, throwing eerie shadows onto the jagged walls and uneven ceiling. Without a word, he motioned to his right-hand man, Vintoq, to release the assembly, and headed for one of the four exits.

A voice stopped him. “Oh Great One, you haven’t heard my report yet.”

Zoltan spun around and glared at the demon who’d dared to speak. His eyes fell on a stout blond man. He appeared nervous, but when Zoltan charged toward him, he didn’t shrink back.

“Oh Great One,” Vintoq interrupted. “Why don’t I handle this for you?”

Anger already boiling over, Zoltan now directed his glower at his second-in-command. Had it been another time—or had Vintoq been more discreet—he would have acquiesced, but he couldn’t allow his subjects to get the impression that Vintoq could make him do anything he hadn’t thought of himself.

“I’m fully capable of listening to another useless report,” he snapped, dismissing Vintoq’s suggestion with an angry swipe of his hand. “And if his report is as disappointing as all the others’, then I’m also fully capable of taking his head off.”

Vintoq immediately bowed in deference.

“Good.” Zoltan turned back to the blond demon. “Make it quick. My patience wears thin.” And the painful attack was impatiently waiting in the wings.

Bowing, the demon said, “Oh Great One, I bring good news. I have discovered a psychic.”

“A psychic?”

Zoltan wasn’t the only one who echoed the word in disbelief. A rumbling of low voices traveled through the throne room, amplified by the rock walls.

“There hasn’t been a confirmed report of a real psychic in twenty years! True psychics are rarer than a needle in a haystack.” Or a demon with a brain.

Zoltan grunted in displeasure. “You’re wasting my time!” He reached for his dagger, drawing it from its sheath.

“I have proof!” the demon quickly added and pulled a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket.

Zoltan snatched it and unfolded it. He stared at the drawing, then waved it in the air. “What is this supposed to be?”

“She draws the things she sees in her visions. That”—the demon pointed to the piece of paper—“is one of the things she saw: a Stealth Guardian portal.”

Zoltan looked back at the drawing and focused his eyes on the hastily scribbled lines and blotches. This psychic was no artist, but she was able to convey the essential idea. Zoltan recognized the distinctive dagger that the Stealth Guardians carried and noticed that it was engraved in a door that looked like it was part of a stone wall. Could it really be a portal? Could this person truly be a psychic?

“Are there more drawings like this one?”

The demon nodded. “Many more. Different ones of portals, buildings, weapons. But I didn’t want to arouse her suspicion, so I only took one that I thought she might not miss.”

Zoltan raised an eyebrow. One of his underlings had a brain and knew how to use it? Definitely a novelty. But he stopped short of praising his subject. It was too early for that.

“What’s your name?”

“Colton.”

Zoltan nodded at the demon, then addressed the assembled messengers. “Colton will pick three of you to follow his lead and check out this psychic to make sure she’s real. If she is, we have to bring her to our side. She’s valuable beyond all else. A true psychic can provide us with information and insight on the Stealth Guardians that will enable us to destroy them. This is our key to winning the war.”

The demons nodded dutifully.

A memory of what had happened two decades earlier when he’d last had a psychic in his grasp was suddenly all too vivid again.

He’d brought her to their side. She’d succumbed. But then the Stealth Guardians had swooped in and killed her. Zoltan’s gut knotted, while his temples began to throb with the first waves of his migraine. “I’m warning you all. If she slips through your fingers, your blood will paint this cave green. I hope we understand each other.”

“Yes, oh Great One,” they said in unison, whether out of loyalty or fear, Zoltan didn’t care. As long as they obeyed him and executed his orders faithfully.

With a nod, Zoltan rushed past his subjects and hurried into the corridor leading to his private quarters, his temples throbbing from the horrible pain. This attack was worse than the previous ones. He’d tried everything to make them stop, even human medication, but nothing halted the attacks or lessened the pain. As if he was cursed. He could only hope he would make it to the privacy of his rooms before he collapsed.