Light finger-shaped bruises form around my neck, and I spend the next few days pulling the collar of my coat up, my hair swinging loose. Other than the bruising and a mild concussion, the worst thing I suffer is a blow to my pride. Nothing yells adulting quite like being found in a fetal position on the bathroom floor covered in blood and shame.

After three days of sweat-inducing terrifying nightmares—the same one every night—sympathetic stares, Court interrogations, and my aunt’s outrageous herbal concoctions, relief washes over me the minute I step into the driveway of my new home. It’s perfect. A remote, fully furnished, one-bedroom log cabin in the mountains, the home is everything I had worked to achieve: independence.

Inhaling the cold mountain air, I sling a camera bag over my shoulder before tugging the single rolling suitcase after me. My life in one bag and one suitcase. I don’t know if that’s sad or impressive.

Mine.

My fingers tremble when I insert the key in the lock, the sound of it clicking open like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

Now would be a good time for intro music, something about freedom and home, but all I get is the heavy arched door creaking open on its iron hinges. The door is part of the reason I love the place. Sunlight spills in like a spotlight on stage, revealing a stuffed leather sofa, wood-burning fireplace, and stone-accented kitchen, but the best part is what the place is missing.

No television. No books. No cell phones. No signs.

No trouble.

You will have a place in Hell, Lucas Fox. Cast and chained in the Infernum of darkness. Death to the messenger. Death to those who give her sanctuary.

The message haunts me, but I push it away. I’m sick of evil controlling my life.

Setting the suitcase and camera bag inside the entry, I switch on the lights and quietly shut the door behind me, my fingers running over the frame. Home. Excitement burrows a den in my heart.

Unable to stop smiling, I move through the house doing mundane things I never thought I’d appreciate: starting a fire, unpacking clothes, and sweeping the floors with a broom I find in the hallway utility closet.

My fireplace. My dust. My broom.

In the middle of my living room, I take it all in, embarrassed by the tears pricking the back of my eyes. I am proud of this.

“They tell me you’re the messenger,” a low voice says from the direction of the kitchen.

I freeze, goosebumps rising on my skin, my fingers gripping the broom in my hand so hard my knuckles turn a mottled shade of red, the flesh around it pallid.

Death to the messenger.

Chest heaving, I turn slowly.

A man—no, a golden Adonis—leans against the island bar separating the kitchen from the living area. He’s tall, over six feet, with blond hair cropped close to his head and eyes so blue, it’s like looking at the sky. Jeans rest low on his hips, and a white button-up shirt hugs a muscular frame too magnificent to be covered up.

He’s too everything to be human, and he came out of nowhere. This should be what frightens me the most, but sadly, I’m used to strange things happening to me. Or, more accurately, me doing strange things. Like me relaying demonic words and images I shouldn’t see or me being hurled across an office by an evil entity. This, however, would be the first time an actual man appeared.

Considering my gifts, he can be only one thing.

I wield the broom like a sword. “I don’t know what you are or what you want, but know that I won’t go down without putting up one hell of a fight.”

He studies me, his gaze flicking over the bruises on my neck before falling to the broom. “Congratulations, Ms. Sinclair. I’ve got to say, this is the first time I’ve ever been challenged with a broom.” Pushing away from the bar, he steps toward me.

I stumble backward. He knows my name.

“I’m not here to harm you,” he promises.

Jabbing the air with my makeshift weapon, I circle toward the front door and then stop, because I refuse to leave my house. “Prove it. Keep your distance.” He pauses, and I swallow tears. There’s nothing worse than feeling the urge to cry when angry. “Why won’t all of you leave me alone? You can’t let me have even this? Stealing words from me wasn’t enough? Taking away a normal life wasn’t enough?”

His chin rises, and I can’t help but notice how sharp his face is. He’s more rugged than beautiful. Terrifying even.

“I’m not a demon,” he reveals.

My grip on the broom loosens and then tightens again. “You’re lying. You can’t be anything else. Only demons and evil spirits come to me.”

“They come to you in messages. Do I look like a message to you?” he asks.

“Do the bruises on my neck look like a message?”

“Quite frankly, yes.”

The broom wavers. “What are you?”

He smirks. “More like who am I? You should know. You channeled the asshole who threatened me.”

You will have a place in Hell, Lucas Fox. Cast and chained in the Infernum of darkness. Death to the messenger. Death to those who give her sanctuary.

The broom hits the floor. “Lucas Fox.”

“I never did understand the mortal need for last names.”

He’s moved closer while speaking, and I keep backing away, circling so that I’m not caught against a wall.

“Heritage. Family,” I reply, unsure why I care. At one point, I have to climb on the arm of my new couch.

Lucas’s eyes twinkle. “They didn’t tell me you were so young . . . or so intriguing.”

“Who are they?”

“The Court. Your town’s Court. You know, the whole Sun and Moon thing?”

Startled, I almost fall off the sofa, my fingers finding purchase on the leather. “The Court sent you?”

Lucas stops in front of the couch, and I drop down behind it, the sofa a shield between us.

“They would have told me.” I glance around frantically. “S-supernatural newcomers are supposed to register with the Court. The wards . . . they’ll know you’re here.” I shake a finger at him. “Demons aren’t immune.”

He smiles. “They summoned me with quite an interesting message. I told you I’m not a demon, and I’m not very good with rules. They’ll know I’m here when I’m ready for them to know. Going to them first would have been a lot less interesting than this.” Glancing at the floor, he cocks a brow. “I kind of miss the broom. You looked cute with it.”

What dignity I have left bristles at his comment. “You’ve got a lot of . . .” The words trail off, my eyes widening. Only one kind of supernatural being is immune to the Court and the wards, and as far as I know, not many of them make their homes in Havenwood Falls. “You’re an angel.” Shock colors my words.

He dips his head. “Well done, Harper.” Spreading his arms wide, he adds, “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, do you want to tell me why I smell Hell on you?”

I may not watch television or read any books, but I do listen to a lot of audiobooks on CDs from which my aunt removes the labels. Mostly science fiction and romance, because sci-fi is cool and romance is, well, romance.

The last thing a girl ever wants to hear from anyone—it doesn’t matter who it is—is that they smell like Hell.

It takes everything I’ve got not to sniff myself. “Hell has a smell?”

He laughs, the sound masculine and deep. It gives me an odd feeling, as if it’s the kind of laugh that gives purpose to life, which seems weird, and yet . . . maybe not. Every time I’ve accidentally channeled a demon over the years, it felt like something was stolen from me. This laugh—an angel’s laugh—gives something back.

For a woman drowning in darkness, it’s a heady feeling.

“It doesn’t smell like mortals would assume,” Lucas assures me. “It’s not all brimstone and sulfur.” His eyes shine. “It smells like sin.”

“Which is bad, right?”

“To some.” The way he arches his brows suggests he isn’t one of the “some.”

My mouth gapes. “You’re fallen.” The words come out on a whisper. It doesn’t take much to figure out what he is. Lucas has that how can something that looks so good be so bad feel to him, and he definitely doesn’t smell like Hell.

He sits on the arm of the couch, and I’m tempted to lunge for my broom. Fallen angels have to be fallen for a reason, right?

“Don’t look so horrified,” he says. “Considering the evil you channeled, you’re going to be glad I am who I am. I feel him. He shouldn’t be coming, but he is. You and this town are going to need me.”

His warning makes my heart race, and I touch the bruises on my neck. “If he’s a demon—”

“He’s more than a demon. He’s an archdemon. A lord of Hell. A part of the highest order in the underworld. You called royalty, Ms. Sinclair.”

I am pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Lucas stands. “You have a nice home.”

A thank you hangs off the tip of my tongue, but it never makes it out of my mouth before Lucas suddenly vanishes.

My legs give out, and I sink to the floor, the fire crackling in the hearth the only sound in the room. The blaze should warm me, but I feel cold. Way too cold.

Fallen angels. Archdemons.

I own a house. I don’t know why I cling to that thought. Maybe because, with everything happening to me, I need a reminder that a little piece of me remains.

There’s only one remedy for the sick feeling in my stomach: grilled cheese sandwiches.

That’s the thing with issues like mine. After years of having to face the monsters under my bed, or in my case, out of accidental messages, I’ve had to find ways to cope. Wine is a pretty good remedy. Hell, there’ve been times I’ve just thrown back the hard stuff, but drunkenness means losing control. Losing control means forgetting not to read messages or write. That leaves food. Forget ice cream. There’s nothing better for stress eating than carbs and melted cheese. And butter.

Oh, the butter.