The morning dawned cold and foggy, unlike anything the humans in Saint James Parish had come to expect. But they shrugged and went about their day, blind to the supernatural conflict brewing around them. No one had noticed when the sons of the Fallen stole into the country. No one connected the old people who hadn’t woken from their beds or the transients who had disappeared.

Humans could be so blind.

The old man sat on the dock at the bend of the river, watching the forest of trees that lined the old Delaure plantation. If he were only an old man, he would have seen nothing but an overgrown mess and a crumbling house fenced off from the road.

But he was not an old man, he was an ancient one.

The raven had come to him three days before, speaking in the Old Language of heaven’s sons, tempting him and teasing him with the promise of a feast. He’d smelled the echoes of fragrant meat roasting beyond the wards, smelled the spices drifting on the breeze with the scent of river mud and bayou rot.

They mock you, the raven said. They rise again, defiant in their celebration. Who are they to think they own the earth? They were mongrel dogs; he was the glory of heaven.

The old man plucked a twisting fish from the line and opened his mouth wide, swallowing the slithering creature whole. He coughed up the bones and flicked them to his hound.

His sons waited on the banks of the river, looking up at him in adoration, waiting for scraps.

“Go,” he whispered to them. “The wards will not stop you now. Your feast is within.”

* * *

The first Grigori came from the river. The Tomir sentry raised the alarms and the Koconah Citlal warriors descended on them, four warriors against two dozen. Even with those odds, it was no contest. The Koconah Citlal were an ancient clan who had never lived under a golden age. There was no peace between the Irin and the Fallen in the south. They swept down on Bozidar’s Grigori with no mercy, their blades swift and silent in the morning fog.

The long, curving blades of the southern warriors took the heads of the Grigori. They thumped on the ground like falling rocks, and gold dust mixed with the cold, drifting fog.

Runners ran to other watch points.

Grigori are here. The Fallen is coming.

Singers and scribes spread through the haven, running along the boundaries and watching the footpaths.

“The fields,” Patiala told her mate. “They will come through the cane fields where they can remain hidden.”

“The river—”

“Watch the road.” She spread her hands over the map of the property. “The Fallen might come from the road. But the Grigori are cowards. They’ll come through the fields.”

* * *

Meera dressed in linen, the loose pants and shirt the easiest wardrobe for practicing magic. She wore no weapons, though her mate had many. Her battle would not be fought with blades but with magic.

Sari sat next to her, meditating before the fire.

“Have you fought an angel before?” Meera asked.

“Not directly, but you have.”

Meera frowned. “I haven’t.”

Sari turned to her. “Somasikara, you have. You have fought, and you have won.”

She nodded, knowing what Sari was trying to say. “I only find that a little reassuring.”

“The hardest part isn’t going to be killing this angel. The hard part is going to be letting him hurt our mates.”

“I know.”

* * *

Rhys and Damien bound their weapons to their bodies, their talesm alive and pulsing with power. Both had shared magic with their mates that morning. Both were redolent with innate and shared magic.

“Missing your black blade?” Rhys asked.

Damien gave him a grim smile. “This will be quite unlike any other battle we’ve fought. I don’t think a black blade would even work against him.”

“Do we have any idea what Bozidar’s power is?”

“Sight.”

“So he might have seen this coming?”

“It’s possible.”

“We have to provoke him. None of this works unless he is provoked.”

Damien slapped Rhys on the shoulder. “He’s an arrogant archangel who calls himself the gift of heaven. And you’re you. Provoking him should be the easy part.”

* * *

The young Grigori stole through the cane fields, tripping over his own feet, rising, running. He gave no thought to snakes or the usual dangers in the dense cane. He only knew that it had been days since the prostitute had fed him, and he was voracious. His father had said there was a rich feasting waiting for all of them, but the Grigori knew Bozidar had been talking to him. Others were there, but his father loved him the most.

The feast is waiting for you. The sweet souls of the Irina will fill you to the brim.

It was all he thought of. All he wanted. He could see lights and trees in the distance. The haven was close. He could smell them.

They would be his.

The trip wire caught him unawares. He planted face-first in the mud, caught in the tangled net of tall grass. He didn’t feel the pierce of the silver blade at the back of his neck.

His death came too quickly for him to feel anything.

* * *

Roch killed the Grigori, releasing his soul, only to find three more soldiers piling on top of him. They were running like rats through the wet, green fields.

He sent a sharp whistle up as he fought them off. Push, shove, kick, elbow. No one fought elegantly in the mud.

An arrow sang over his head. He ducked down and it punched through the chest of the Grigori riding his back. Roch kicked out and rolled over, his clothes caked with mud, hoping that none of his brothers or sisters mistook him for the enemy.

It was dark. It was muddy. The fog wasn’t helping. In the thick of battle, the line between scribe and Grigori was harder than ever to discern.

“Ya domem.” His mate’s whisper snaked through the cane fields, hitting its Grigori target without even touching him.

Sabine ran to the edge of the field. “Again?”

Roch struck out and pierced the spine of one Grigori, but two more still struggled. “Again!”

“Domem man!”

The stunning spell left both the Grigori reeling, and even Roch was a little woozy. He managed to kick both the men to their bellies and dispatched them before he ran out of the fields.

He grabbed Sabine by the waist and kissed her hard. “You gorgeous, vicious little thing.”

“I try.”

“You succeed.” He grabbed her by the hand. “Let’s check on the others. These bastards don’t seem to have an end.”

The wild expression in her eyes settled with her mate’s touch. “Were we foolish? Are you weaker?”

“Your song makes me strong,” he said. “A little wild, but strong.”

Their mating had been done with no fanfare or ceremony. Sabine didn’t want any, and neither did Roch. They hadn’t even told Patiala they’d done it, though Roch suspected Rhys and Meera could tell.

No magic bullet had struck its target, but Roch could tell that whatever mating magic they’d shared had steadied her in ways he couldn’t before. He was feeling more edgy, more erratic, giving him a better glimpse into her mind. It was a process and would continue to be a process, but in the middle of battle, he decided a bit of an edge wasn’t a bad thing.

He caught movement beyond a stand of trees. Dark shadows hidden by the fog.

It was a young singer, a girl who worked in the kitchen, set upon by three Grigori. Roch couldn’t tell if she was dead or alive, but she wasn’t moving.

“No!” Sabine screamed.

Before Roch could catch what she was doing, Sabine had flicked a lighter from her pocket and grabbed a flame, hurling it toward the three men who fed from her sister.

“Sabine, no!”

The flames arrowed toward the Grigori and enveloped them. Roch ran over and dragged the singer from beneath the burning, screaming men.

She was dead. Her lips were blue and her gold eyes stared into the grey dawn sky.

Sabine screamed and laughed and screamed again. The Grigori curled and howled on the grass.

Roch glanced at the cane fields, hoping all the scribes and singers had run toward the house, because all hell was about to break loose.

* * *

“The cane fields are on fire.” The sentry ran into the library, her eyes wild.

Patiala looked up. “Sabine.”

The sentry nodded.

Patiala grabbed her bow and walked to the back porch overlooking the fields. “Bring me another quiver.”

The sentry ran off as Patiala grabbed the first arrow. With the fields on fire, the rats would be fleeing their cover. “Get the scope,” she barked at her assistant.

“It’s foggy,” her spotter said.

“I trust you.”

Her angle wasn’t perfect, but she hit the first Grigori in the shoulder, spinning him around so she had a clear angle on his back. The second arrow pierced his spine.

“Dust,” her spotter said.

“Find me another one.”

Where was the Fallen? Patiala bit back a curse and resisted the urge to abandon the house and find her daughter. She needed to trust Meera. She needed to trust Rhys.

“Dust,” he spotter said again.

And again.

And again.

Patiala picked off the Grigori one by one, but she was no match for the Tomir warriors moving like shadows through the haven.

But still there was no sign of the Fallen.

* * *

The old man patted the hound dog on the head and glanced at the laughing raven that perched on the top of his house.

“Are you afraid?” the bird asked.

“Who are you?” He was irritated he couldn’t discern the raven’s identity. This was a trickster. A dragon sent to mock him.

“I am your audience,” the raven said. “I came here for a show, but you are boring me. Are you afraid of the Wolf?”

“I’m not afraid of a mongrel woman.”

“She’s old.” The raven taunted him. “She killed Nalu, who was far more powerful than you. I think you’re afraid. You probably should be.”

The old man turned back to his fishing pole. “My sons can win this battle for me. That is why I made them.” Soon he would rid himself of these vain Irina and turn his attention back to the real prize, a city filled with vulnerable humans ripe for the taking. And he would rid the city of the lurking power he’d sensed weeks ago.

This territory was his and his alone.

“Your sons will spill their blood and take your spoils.” The raven’s message was as annoying as his voice. “But why would you want your sons to enjoy the fruit of this battle?”

“The prize of an old warrior?” He picked his teeth. “I like softer flesh.”

The raven transformed into a black cat, sliding between the old man’s legs. “Don’t you know who waits in that haven, Bozidar?”

“Of course I do.”

“No you don’t. If you did, you’d never let your sons enjoy this prize.” The cat clawed up the old man’s back and hissed. “Somasssssikara.”

The old man rose to his feet. He hadn’t known the haven guarded a keeper, not that he’d tell the annoying messenger taunting him.

Somasikara?

The lure of such a soul was too powerful to resist.

The old man flipped off his bright red hat, walked off the porch and across the road, passing through the wards with barely a hitch. He shrugged off the itch along his skin. Their wards were nothing to him. Not now. Not with his blood staining the ground. His sons had made their sacrifice, and he reaped the benefit.

Havre Hélène would be his.