“Is this a joke?”

Just up the street from the Inferno, Ella Thomas crossed her arms and cocked a hip as she stared at a very empty alleyway—the exact location Moira had given her only two hours earlier. At first she’d thought the text alert from her best friend had been a part of her dream: Moira had been MIA for roughly three weeks without a word. She had missed her final exams. She hadn’t turned in any of her term papers. She hadn’t come home and she had stopped answering her phone.

Just as Ella had been about to file a missing persons report, their roommate Hannah had come home with news from Moira’s advisor: she had applied for compassionate leave and put her semester on hold. Apparently she would be able to resume working on her degree when she was ready, but that didn’t matter to Ella. Moira wasn’t the type to bail on schoolwork. She had always been diligent. Professional, even. It had been that way since elementary school—until now. Now, she was secretive and distant. Ella had barely seen her in the last two months. They’d had fewer and fewer movie nights together, and barely any dinner dates. She couldn’t remember the last time they had sat alone in one of their bedrooms, door closed, serenaded by nineties pop ballads, and just talked.

When all this had started, she’d hoped Moira had maybe found a guy worth dating, but the jerk who showed up to collect her things that one time hadn’t seemed remotely Moira’s type. Still, with everything that had happened over the last two years, her best friend deserved to be with someone who made her happy—even if Ella thought the guy was an ass.

Moira had been all over the place emotionally for months now. Upbeat one minute, down the next. Ella hadn’t blamed her. The woman’s mom had died. Her hair had fallen out. Her eyes had changed colour, for goodness sake, and none of the doctors she had seen had been very helpful. Ella had even reamed one out when she tagged along for an appointment; the guy had heavily insinuated that Moira was a junkie, and therefore he could do nothing for her.

Moira was the last person to take drugs. Alcohol—sure. They were in university. Alcohol came with the territory. But drugs? The guy was off his rocker, even if Moira’s cheeks were gaunt. Even if she was losing weight faster than Ella thought healthy. And even if she had abandoned much of her former social life to mope around her room. The girl had been going through some heavy shit. People needed to cut her some slack—it was what Ella had done the moment she found out Lara Aurelia was dying. She’d loved Moira’s mom more than her own mother, and her death had hit them both hard.

Still, through her grief, Ella had continued to stand by her, biting her tongue as Moira steadily retreated from the rest of the world. She offered fashion advice, hair tips, and positive reinforcement whenever possible, hoping that one day Moira would just snap out of it, that Ella would finally get her best friend back—but was more than willing to ride this out in the meantime. Because that’s what sisters did. They stuck it out, through thick and thin, and Ella had always thought of Moira as her sister—the sister she had chosen, and who had chosen her right back.

Then Moira had disappeared.

And it just wasn’t like Ella to be this upset with her best friend. This wasn’t who they were. They didn’t disappear on each other. They didn’t keep secrets. And they definitely didn’t vanish for three weeks after some cryptic text about meeting on campus for coffee and details, which, in the end, Moira had flaked out on too.

So, when she had discovered the text message this morning, Ella thought that she had to be dreaming.

But no, it had been real. Moira wanted to meet. She promised to explain everything.

I’m so sorry.

Bitter tears had sprung to her eyes as Ella read that text message, her hands trembling and her body prickling with a storm of jumbled emotion. Not wanting to say something that would send Moira running again, she had opted to take a shower first, drink a strong cup of black coffee, and wait. Wait for her emotions to settle. Wait for her tears to stop. And wait for her hands to steady.

Her reply had been succinct: When and where?

So, here she was. Just where Moira had told her to be—on time as always. It was something they had always shared: punctuality.

Her honey-brown gaze wandered between the two buildings on either side of the alley. She glanced up, wondering if Moira might be staring back from one of the windows. Nothing. With a huff, Ella dug her phone out of her slouchy brown purse, the pleather sticking to her underarms in the midday heat. As May hurtled toward June, the heat had become merciless. Sweat starting the gather along her hairline, Ella fired off an annoyed text letting Moira know that she was here, and she found herself missing the blissful air-conditioning of the city bus she had taken downtown.

She’d barely slipped her phone back in the little pocket of her purse when she heard the creaking door hinges. Instinct told her to look left, toward the noise, but as she did, she happened upon a sight directly in front of her that made her heart drop into her stomach. Ella stumbled back with a gasp: Moira—she had materialized out of nowhere. There, in the vacant alley, a rectangular opening roughly the size of a large door revealed her best friend, and behind her…the interior of a house?

Ella blinked hard. Had someone slipped her something on the bus? This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.

“Hi.” Moira stood before her, fiddling with her fingers, a nervous habit she’d had since they were kids. While she looked almost the same as she had a month ago, subtle changes caught Ella’s eye as she studied her best friend. For one thing, she no longer looked so sickly-thin. Her cheeks had filled out to nearly pre-illness fullness, and her collarbones were no longer protruding sharply over the neckline of whatever she was wearing.

Wait—what was she wearing? Ella’s frown deepened. Moira hadn’t been a dress girl since before her mom died. This past year, she had been a sweatpants-and-grubby-T-shirt girl, unless she had to do a presentation in class. Even then, she had usually styled herself to disappear into the background.

Today, she wore a pinstriped white dress, the dotted vertical stripes a faded navy blue. It was almost…fashionable. Moira hadn’t cared about fashion in a long time. Square neckline, bodice flush to her figure, and a skirt that flared slightly down to her knees. Shoulders with some edge to them. Little cap sleeves. This was fashionable. Her toenails were painted to match the stripes of the dress, and—

“Oh my god, your hair.” The first thing Ella should have noticed was that Moira wasn’t hiding her stark white hair under some god-awful wool hat. Instead, she wore it in a fishtail braid—Moira doesn’t know how to braid her own hair—and even with it thrown over her shoulder, it trailed down to her hips. Had she been missing for three weeks—or three years? There was no way her hair had even been close to that length. Ella would have noticed.

Right?

Ella pressed her fingertips to her temples, massaging them firmly as a little headache started to blossom behind her eyes.

“Moira, what the hell is going on?” She met and held her best friend’s haunting blue gaze with some difficulty. Ella had put on a brave face when Moira’s eyes changed last year, but, honestly, they scared her. Moira had always had such warm eyes, eyes she could trust implicitly. The blue—sometimes cold, sometimes otherworldly… Well, she didn’t know how to handle the blue just yet.

“I know it doesn’t make any sense,” Moira said, her chin quivering when she pressed her lips together and took a quick breath. “I’m so sorry, Ella. I… I’ve wanted to tell you, but it was just too crazy. I should have told you from the first day.”

Ella hesitantly approached the opening, unable to resist peeking in.

There was a whole fucking room behind her. Stairs leading up.

“Moira, I don’t get it. Is this…?” What, exactly? Ella had no idea what to even ask.

“Take my hand.” Moira offered it, palm up. It shook slightly. “I’ll show you everything.”

She could have walked away. As Ella stared down at that hand, she knew she could have reveled in her anger, in her disappointment—but when it came down to it, she just missed her best friend. That was all that mattered.

Eyes welling with tears, Ella batted Moira’s hand aside and jumped on her instead, engulfing her in a hug. In an instant, Moira’s arms wrapped around her, and she hugged Ella right back as they stumbled into the room. While her feet tripped over a small step, and she could feel the difference between the sidewalk and what now felt like hardwood, Ella kept herself buried against Moira’s neck and shoulder, holding her tighter. They both trembled, propping one another up for what felt like hours.

When she finally did risk a look up, Ella discovered they were indeed in a room—a room that hadn’t been there before. Her gaze drifted toward an upscale kitchen, a wall-mounted herb garden, a dining table, then up the thin, steep stairs directly behind Moira. Black, white, grey—it wasn’t an aesthetic Moira would have chosen willingly. This had to be someone else’s house.

Someone’s…invisible…secret…magical house.

“Moira?” she croaked, her throat tight and voice thick. Her knees wanted to give out, but she held firm, fighting the freak-out. “Are we in Narnia?”

“Kind of.” Her best friend giggled, then eased back, her hands resting on Ella’s shoulders as she sniffled. Tears glistened in those blue eyes—blue eyes that were warm, just as her green ones had been. Warm and open. Raw, maybe just a little bit broken. Ella brushed away the tears as they fell, and Moira did the same for her.

“Missed you,” she murmured, and Moira’s smile quickly matched her own.

“Missed you more.”

“Not possible.” Ella let out a long sigh, a rush of weariness settling over her, then gestured to the room around them. “Okay, girl… What the actual fuck?”

* * *

Pain radiated up his arm when his fist collided with Kurron’s jaw. Something in the demon’s face cracked, bone and sinew giving way at last. He slumped over, viscous red liquid dribbling from his mouth, and Severus glanced down at his fist, annoyed to have split the last of his knuckles already.

Yesterday he’d been able to work over three demons before he reached this point, the skin having healed overnight. Perhaps he was being a little rougher on Kurron: the bastard had broken Alaric’s nose the night they rescued Moira, and then boasted about it when they hauled him in for questioning. Typical demon bravado: bound in chains, surrounded by enemies, and still sneering about something petty.

“You know, the other idiots in Diriel’s employ also haven’t squealed yet,” he mused, grabbing a fresh white towel to clean his hands. “They’re currently headless and rotting in the basement, but I’m sure you’d happily die for Diriel. I’m sure he’s like family to you.”

Kurron groaned again, the sound long and drawn out, before lifting his head with some effort. Then he grinned, his smile full of broken teeth and blood, his sneering arrogance intact. Severus rolled his eyes and tossed the towel back on the nearby table, then turned to the wide assortment of torture devices available to him. Tapping his chin thoughtfully, he worked his way through the lot before settling on the nails.

“All I want is his current location,” he insisted, keeping his voice even. He had learned to swallow his rage weeks ago; letting demons see how they affected him, how nothing more than their arrogance riled him, got him nowhere. After rescuing Moira, Severus had been wrathful. Had he the ability, he would have leveled this whole damn city to find Diriel. Unfortunately, if he wanted to do it right, once more he needed to be smart. Calculating. Use his strengths, even if it would have been easier to fall back on his rage.

He had been steadily working his way through Diriel’s minions, the few still hiding out around Farrow’s Hollow. Kurron was fourth in line from the top—one of Diriel’s semi-major players. He’d been found lurking in the warehouse district, which made transporting him to Verrier’s inventory facility a breeze.

With Alaric’s bottomless line of credit at his disposal, plus his own substantial fortune, Severus had hired a pair of renowned bounty hunters from Emerson, another hell-gate adjacent city, to seek out Diriel.

When a week passed and they’d found nothing on the demon himself, the hunters expanded their search, tracking and apprehending his moronic lackeys instead. Severus had been torturing them for two straight weeks, drawing out snippets of intel on Diriel, but nothing concrete enough to pinpoint an exact location. Both Severus and Alaric had agreed that he wouldn’t leave Farrow’s Hollow; the farther a demon traveled from a hell-gate, the weaker their abilities. Beyond that, Diriel only had pull in Farrow’s Hollow. Not only was he a nobody in Hell, but his arrogance, his flash, and his lower-class status had alienated him from the demon mob families. He had no allies. He was alone.

And Severus would root him out, one minion at a time.

The bastard was going to pay for what he’d done to her.

The bastard was going to suffer.

“Who knew a leech could,” Kurron’s voice hitched, a fresh blob of blood pluming from the corner of his mouth, “throw a-a punch like that? Colour me impressed.”

“That’s what all you fools don’t understand. Incubi aren’t weaker—we’ve just got a high metabolism,” Severus said with a sigh, crouching in front of the bound demon, nails in hand. The chair he tortured them all in smelled positively foul, blood and piss staining the wood. Still, the corpse rotting away in the corner of the windowless cement room—the body of the first demon he’d tortured and beheaded—smelled worse. The rest were on ice in the basement to minimize the smell, but he wanted all the new arrivals to see this body—just to let them know what they were in for if they opted not to cooperate.

If he simply tortured them and then let them live, they would all eventually heal from their injuries. All the trauma he’d inflicted—erased. They’d seek revenge, either on behalf of Diriel or for themselves. They’d go after Severus, and they would definitely go after Moira, maybe even force him to watch while they pulled her apart. Every last one of them needed to die, and, so far, all had met death at the end of Severus’s blade—which he had borrowed from the bounty hunters. Forged in Hell, the broadsword sat next to the rotting corpse, a pretty picture of his resolve—a solemn promise.

A vow of vengeance for what their boss had done to Moira.

“We’re not all that different, you and I,” Severus carried on lightly, smirking when Kurron spat at him. Blood peppered his face, but he merely lifted the demon’s index finger—and shoved the razor-sharp point under his nail. Kurron howled, struggling against the bindings around his wrists, ankles, and abdomen. Severus sat back on his heels, grinning, and held another two-inch nail up. “You see, this would hurt me too. We’re practically twins.”

He shoved the next one under Kurron’s thumbnail. Then the middle finger, and on and on and on, until all ten fingers had a nail embedded at least an inch into them. Severus had stopped asking questions, preferring to finish up in a timely manner. After all, there were a dozen other torture devices he would put to use before he lopped the fucker’s head off.

“Kurron, Kurron, Kurron.” He tsked at the demon, shaking his head as he stood. “No one likes a crybaby. Buck up, old chum. The tears are unbecoming.”

Kurron scowled up at him, shuddering as blood seeped out of his fingers. “F-f-fuck…y-y-y—”

“All right, don’t strain yourself. I think we both know where you were headed there,” Severus remarked. “Now, put an end to your suffering… Tell me where your boss is hiding and we’ll call it a day.”

“You’ll k-k-kill me no m-matter w-w-what—”

“Oh, you don’t know that.” Severus grinned down at him, hands on his hips. “I might surprise you. Come on. Give it a whirl. Play the odds, friend.”

The demon responded by spitting another mouthful of fresh blood at him, but this time Severus leaned slightly to the left to avoid the spray. Sighing, he shook his head in faux disappointment before clocking Kurron square in the jaw.

Severus hissed on the follow-through, straightening up to check his knuckles. Bleeding. So much blood these last few weeks; for the first time in his life, most of it had belonged to someone else.

When he glanced back, he found Kurron unconscious, a real heaviness to his body as it slumped this time.

“Fine. Brief pause,” he muttered, stalking back to the table to grab the towel and dab himself down. In the mood for a few shots of whiskey, he crossed toward the metal door on the other side of the room, its hue so faded that it almost blended with the cement walls and flooring. He paused, rubbing the towel at his chin before tossing it aside. Never one for torture before, Severus had worked his way through twelve of Diriel’s minions; he was starting to get rather good at it.

Or so he liked to think.

The objective of some torture was to extract information, and while the little weasels had squealed about Diriel’s business, his various homes and storage facilities around the city, the escorts he preferred to hire, how much he was embezzling from one of the mob families, no one had let slip his actual location—and that was what Severus needed. So, really, was he a skilled torturer?

Time would tell.

One of them would break. Severus would see to that. As long as he kept his strength up, they would find Diriel by the end of the month.

Unless none of them knew where their boss was hiding.

Which was a frustrating possibility. It wouldn’t be the first time a demon higher up on the food chain had kept their hired muscle out of the loop.

But someone had to know. Diriel had an annoyingly big mouth and a penchant for bragging. Someone had to know where he’d gone.

Before exiting the decidedly not soundproofed torture chamber, he pulled his phone from his pocket. No messages from Moira yet, though she usually checked in around dinner. The thought had him smiling softly; she had provided home-cooked meals—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—for the last three weeks, despite his and Alaric’s numerous protests that it was absolutely not necessary. She kept insisting the meals were one small way to repay them for all they were doing for her, and Severus didn’t exactly mind—she was a good cook, once she had figured out how to wrangle the oven.

A feat he had yet to accomplish without consulting the manual, and he’d lived in that damn house for years.

His ghost of a smile vanished when he saw that all three clients he had scheduled for tonight had confirmed. One of the things Moira insisted upon these days was that Severus continued seeing clients as often as he could.

“You need to be strong,” she had murmured as they held one another in his bed the morning after her rescue. “I don’t want to worry about you. Just… You can’t get it from me, so do what you need to do. I support it.”

He hadn’t believed her at first, but once he and Alaric really threw themselves into the hunt for Diriel, she’d put her foot down.

What she didn’t realize was that the inner demon was repulsed by all other women now. A wave of nausea hit Severus every time he kissed a client, and he had taken to touching them hard and fast as soon as they arrived, lulling them into a drugged sleep within the first ten minutes of their session. Because he would take so much, Severus had also started leaving the women in the rooms overnight, with notes left on the bedside table that a personal emergency had called him away, but thank you for a lovely evening as always, chat soon, xoxoxox—all that nonsense.

He had a little black book large enough that he’d been able to meet different clients these last two weeks, only repeating for regulars, like Pamela Prescott, who hounded him until he caved.

So, while he was in peak physical condition, he hadn’t had actual sex in over three weeks. Perhaps that was why he was such an adept torturer—he had to give the inner demon something. Moira may have crawled into his bed every night. She may have touched him, cuddled up to him, fallen asleep on top of him, but he hadn’t pushed for what she hadn’t offered.

As fiery as she’d been about extracting her vengeance on Diriel the night she’d been rescued, Moira needed time to heal—mentally, emotionally, physically. The inner demon almost seemed to understand, but all his sexual restraint had left Severus with a lot of pent-up everything.

He cast an unconscious Kurron one last look over his shoulder, then slipped out of the room. Standing guard at the end of the long, narrow corridor was Alaric’s daytime babysitter, Gibson. A stocky former debt collector, the demon had worked in Verrier’s services for years—the black fist of the organization, as it were. After Thompson’s untimely passing at the auction a few weeks ago, Verrier had switched up all of Alaric’s watchers, and Gibson had landed the daytime grind. He went wherever Alaric went from sunup to sundown, then monitored their home from an apartment across the street that he shared with Kingsley, the vampire who had replaced Thompson for the night shift.

“Gibby,” Severus said with a nod in passing. “Our little friend is unconscious. Give me a shout when he comes to.”

The demon grunted in acknowledgement, but he didn’t look at Severus—not in the eye, anyway. Sighing, Severus carried on without missing a beat. Most of Alaric’s demon handlers didn’t vibe well with him, so it wasn’t a surprise that some twat who barely clung to the edges of Hell’s high society would have an issue taking orders from an incubus. Still, he did as he was told—because that was his job.

And because Alaric had ordered him to.

Taking the sharp turn to the left, he strolled into a much larger room, which they had set up as a makeshift command center. The wall-mounted cameras in the torture chamber allowed Alaric and the bounty hunters—currently out scoping for more lackeys—to watch Severus’s sessions. Sometimes they had feedback. Occasionally the bounty hunters had new techniques to offer, having more experience extracting information than Severus. Alaric usually appeared pale-faced and somber; he’d never had the stomach for violence.

Kingsley, a gaunt fucker who could have been a perfect match for Cordelia in his Victorian-era attire, sat in front of the twin display monitors next to the entryway today. The vampire nodded when Severus strode in, then flicked his eyes pointedly over his shoulder. Frowning, Severus followed his line of sight—and gulped when he clued in to what Kingsley was hinting at.

“My lord,” Severus managed, adopting as respectful a tone as possible while he dipped into a sweeping bow. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

Across the near-empty room, normally used as furniture storage for both Rose’s Corner and The Inferno, stood Verrier. In the flesh. The statuesque former prince of Hell merely raised a white eyebrow in response, the bright lights overhead highlighting every feature of his aristocratic visage.

Even when Verrier stood next to his son, it was hard to connect the pair, but Alaric had always said he looked more like his mother. While Alaric was lean and copper-haired, green-eyed and freckled, handsome but not necessarily extraordinary, Verrier had presence. His broad, powerful figure was cloaked in a tailored black suit—Versace, as was his preference—and he wore his thick white hair, shoulder-length and straight, swept back in a low ponytail. Haunting blue eyes stared Severus down, unflinching and unimpressed, while Verrier leaned on an onyx walking stick, a trio of small silver skulls at its head.

“I’ve been forced to relocate my shipments for weeks, boys,” Verrier mused, his gaze wandering the empty room with an air of nonchalance—a nonchalance that Severus didn’t trust for a second. With a sigh, Verrier strode forth to study the monitors, placing a firm hand on Kingsley’s shoulder when the blond vampire tried to rise. “Sit.”

“Yes, my lord,” the vampire murmured, doing as he was told, and Severus watched the former prince stare at the monitors with a distant, unfocused look in his eye.

“So, I thought I might see what my dear son and his little friend are up to,” Verrier continued. He lifted his walking cane so suddenly, so abruptly, that Severus flinched back when it prodded his chest. Verrier cocked his head to the side, turning his full attention on the incubus at last. “Torturing demons. You know I don’t approve of the way you corrupt my son.”

“I volunteered to help Severus, Father,” Alaric insisted from across the room. “We’re searching for Diriel, and nobody wants to talk.”

“Ah, yes, Diriel.” Verrier’s cheek twitched slightly as he sneered the demon’s name, disgust oozing over every syllable. “He kidnapped your hybrid, didn’t he? Tortured her? Likely searching for her wings…”

Severus swallowed thickly, his palms clammy under that unrelenting blue stare—a stare that suddenly reminded him of Moira’s. “Yes, my lord.”

“And now you wish to, what, extract revenge?” Verrier finally dropped the sharp end of his cane back to the floor, allowing Severus to draw a full breath once more. “Severus, I never took you for the vengeance type.”

“Moira won’t be safe until that worm is dealt with,” Severus told him. He lifted his chin, knowing Verrier would have obliterated anyone who had touched his Rose back in the day—and she had been completely human. “Alaric and I agreed that this is the best course of action.”

“Hmm.” Expression utterly unreadable, the former prince returned to the monitors, studying them over Kingsley’s shoulder. “And how much longer will you require the use of my warehouse?”

Severus cleared his throat, glancing swiftly to Alaric—did that mean Verrier approved of all this? His friend shrugged, then hurriedly crossed the room to stand next to him.

“We’re hoping to break this one today,” Alaric told his father. “He ranks fairly high in Diriel’s inner circle. Severus has been working on him for the last hour.”

“The nails are a nice touch.”

Severus’s eyebrows shot up, but he quickly composed himself when Verrier glanced his way. It was difficult not to react when Verrier bestowed you with a compliment.

“Thank you, my lord.” Sensing an opportunity, Severus gestured to the nearest monitor. “I thought I’d make him suffer a little. After all, he was the one who broke Alaric’s nose the night we rescued Moira.”

He pointedly ignored Alaric’s soft, disapproving groan, keeping his gaze trained on Verrier. The demon’s grip tightened around the head of his cane, and his eyes narrowed at the monitor before he looked to Severus sharply. The barely noticeable quirk of his brow was question enough; Severus nodded in confirmation. Alaric’s nose might have healed within a few days of the rescue, but Verrier’s rage over the matter had yet to cool.

The former prince unbuttoned his sleek black jacket in a single motion, then rolled it off his shoulders as Alaric continued to huff and puff beside them.

“Father, really—”

“Not a word.” Verrier thrust his jacket and cane at Severus, but a quick glance at the incubus’s bloodstained hands had him handing his effects off to Alaric instead. The hybrid accepted everything with another sigh, and as Verrier uncuffed his dress shirt and started rolling up the sleeves, he nodded to the monitors. “Turn those off.”

Kingsley complied in a heartbeat, and Severus watched the former prince go with a steady click, click, click of his spotless oxfords. Once Verrier was out of earshot, disappearing into the corridor from which Severus had recently emerged, Alaric gave him a hard poke in the middle of his back with his father’s cane.

“Sev, why do you have to provoke him?”

“I didn’t provoke,” he insisted, glancing at those dark monitors and wishing he could have an unfiltered view of the shitstorm headed Kurron’s way. “I merely…shared some information that your father found relevant—”

“Shut up.” He glanced back to find Alaric scowling. “I hate it when he does this and you know it.”

“Well, if it gets us the information that we—”

Screams echoed from deep within the torture chamber, far louder than any Severus had been able to draw out thus far. The trio in the command center fell silent, listening as Kurron begged and pleaded, screamed and howled, on and on for ten agonizing minutes, until it all just…stopped. As suddenly as it had started, an eerie quiet descended over the warehouse—until the familiar click, click, click greeted them from the corridor.

Verrier emerged in the same condition in which he had departed, save for a drop of bright red blood on his cheek. As Alaric helped him back into his jacket, he murmured something to his father, and Verrier brushed the blood away with a rather regal flick of his hand.

“Diriel is in Hell,” he said flatly, accepting his walking stick with a genuinely warm smile reserved only for Alaric. “He fled the night you took your hybrid back, and intends to stay there until all this blows over.”

Severus’s jaw clenched. Of course the coward had run to Hell. While on Earth he would be resigned to seek shelter in cities close to hell-gates, he had an entire realm below to make use of. Endless territory. Plenty of cracks and crevices to hide in. Severus had thought his low status below might have forced him to stay topside, to stay where he was relevant; clearly not.

“Bastard—”

“He was commanded to kidnap your hybrid, Severus,” Verrier remarked, his tone light and airy, as if making pleasant conversation. “Kidnap, torture, kill, I believe were the instructions issued by her father.”

Severus’s arms dropped to his side, a cold shockwave rippling through him. “W-what?”

“If we’re to believe the information that one has provided,” Verrier mused. When he nodded to Kingsley, the vampire turned the monitors back on—and the mess was incredible. Bits of Kurron splattered across all four walls of the interrogation room; Alaric blanched and turned away from the sight with a deep breath.

“Do you believe him?” Severus asked, wishing he sounded stronger—the news had just taken him by surprise. Moira’s father knew Diriel—and had ordered the wretch to kill her?

The news would break her.

“I do.” Verrier retrieved a pair of silk gloves from his pocket. “I wouldn’t have butchered him if I hadn’t.”

“Did he provide the name of the angel?” Severus knew he was pressing his luck, but if he had, it would save everyone a great deal of time and energy.

The former prince merely slid his hands into his gloves, the flash of a deep red mark on his palm, like a smear of blood, catching Severus’s attention fleetingly. As Verrier pursed his lips and shot Severus an irritated look, the incubus realized he had never seen Verrier’s hands before; they had always been gloved when he was out in public. He’d never questioned it before, either, but that mark—

“No. The rat provided no name. Just…the father.” Verrier sighed, shaking his head. “Her father.”

Severus shuffled back into the tables, slumping onto one as Kingsley continued to stare at the monitors, horrified.

“I trust that you’ll be attending dinner this evening,” Verrier remarked, addressing his son as he held Alaric’s face with one hand. When he nodded, the demon grinned and stroked his pale cheek. “Good boy. Seven o’clock sharp at our usual booth.”

“Yes, Father.”

While it seemed Verrier was on the way out, he made one last stop before he departed. Turning sharply, he stalked over to Severus and slammed a gloved hand to his throat, startling him out of his racing thoughts. Verrier pinned him back against the wall, his expression passive but his gaze downright malicious as Severus sputtered.

“Don’t you dare entangle my boy with angels,” he hissed. “Do you understand, incubus?”

“Y-yes,” Severus stammered, the demon’s grasp crushing his windpipe like it was nothing. “Y-you know I-I’d never endanger him. Alaric is m-my dearest f-f-friend—”

“I will hold you to it,” Verrier remarked, choking him hard enough that Severus saw stars. “Should anything happen to him, I will rip you apart.”

“Father,” Alaric said with a groan. “Enough. Please. Sev would die for me. You know that.”

Finally, the demon released him, and Severus sank back to the table, wheezing, his crushed trachea slowly popping back to its proper shape. He shrank away when Verrier reached for him again, having no shame in cowering, but this time the demon merely dusted him off and straightened his shirt before marching out of the room. Click, click, click, click.

Gone.

“Always a pleasure when your father stops by,” Severus rasped, rubbing at his raw throat.

“Well, you didn’t have to bring him into it—”

“But now we know.” Now they knew that an angel was responsible for Moira’s torment, for her agony—for all the monstrous deeds that Diriel had done to her. Was she aware that her father had played a role in all of it?

“Do we tell her?” Alaric asked. He motioned for Kingsley to give them a moment, and the vampire disappeared down the corridor. Within seconds, they spied both handlers in the interrogation room, half-heartedly starting to clean demon innards off the walls.

“Good little servants, aren’t they?”

“Severus.”

He dragged in a steadying breath, then let it out slowly, his gaze distant, all the while knowing Alaric wouldn’t let him avoid the question forever. “I don’t know. She’s been doing so much better this week. I don’t want to undo that by…”

By telling her that the one man she had been thinking about her entire life, the man she had been searching for, wanted her dead. How did one even approach that conversation?

“Well, do you think anyone else in Diriel’s inner circle will know the angel by name?”

“Unlikely. He’ll play that close to the chest.” Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing what he needed to do next—and loathing the very idea of it. “I’ll need to retrieve Diriel. I’ll need to…”

Go straight to Hell.

Severus closed his eyes and let his head thump back against the wall. Fuck.