“No one would suspect the Cruor being in this hovel.” Bane stomped around the dim room, kicking trash out of his way. He didn’t expect an answer because he hadn’t posed a question, also, he was alone.

He crossed to a boarded window. The tiniest bit of sun peeked through the imperfect attachment. All around light leaked into the room, threatening his existence. The house was well out of town, surrounded by farm land. The nearest dwelling was miles away, and that farm house was also abandoned.

The basement was several feet deep and multilayered, with some modifications, completely suitable for UnHallowed needs. On top of Michael’s betrayal, Bane’s mind kept spinning and churning, and bouncing from Michael to his UnHallowed brethren to the Darklings, and every damn thing in between. Finally he settled on the face of the female that he’d met last night, and laughed. He couldn’t see her face or any part of her, except for her muddy green eyes.

He wanted to see her face, catch the scent of her hair, touch her body, have her heat against his side. Her eyes. The green was all wrong. Contact lenses had to be the cause. What was their true color? The need to discover all her secrets burned almost as hot as the sun searing his flesh.

Bane stepped over the debris and squashed his annoyance. He dumped himself into the only chair in the room, a gnawed-on straight back which creaked under his weight. The battered desk in front of him wasn’t in any better condition.

Shadows gathered in the corners of the room, reminding him of his brethren. Michael may only trust Bane, but the Cruor deserved more than one UnHallowed protecting it. He may be able to convince Tahariél, Kushiél, and Daghony to lend their aid. His head ached at the thought of trying to negotiate with those three and any of the others.

The UnHallowed needed a guiding hand to lead them out of the darkness and into the light, so to speak. He was the man to take the reins. The rest were too solitary to manage the feat. Too comfortable in the darkness to be of much use for guard duty. However, they also needed a leader to place them back on the sunlit path. He’d worked toward that goal from the moment the Maker granted the fallen angels a reprieve and allowed them to crawl out of the lowest level of Hell.

The Maker, his and the other UnHalloweds’ name for their absent Father since they fell.

Bane pushed thoughts of the Creator out of his mind and moved to the staircase leading to the lower level. Two stories down, the basement was the typical root cellar built into the foundation of a Midwestern home. Until you adjusted a shelf on the back wall and another set of stairs appeared behind it.

A knock sounded on the front door, then a prolonged squeal of the hinges as the door opened, followed by the sound of footsteps overhead. Someone had come calling. And it wasn’t Michael.

* * *

A

maya slowed her Camry until it crawled down the packed-dirt lane. The house came into view in painstaking increments. Set back at least fifty feet from the pitted road, and nearly buried by tall grass, it was a traditional two-story country farmhouse with a sagging wraparound porch and shuttered windows. The house would’ve been pretty if the paint was fresh instead of a filthy gray and peeling. The windows on the second floor were broken, while those on the ground floor were boarded with warped planks. A dead tree leaned against the side of a rusted car in the middle of the yard.

She tried to check the address on her phone’s GPS, but the app stopped working two miles ago. She drove the rest of the way by instinct. Perhaps Michael had implanted that information also.

Quietly, on foot, she circled the house. Overhead the sun beamed. Chances of a Darkling attack was slim, yet Amaya refused to second-guess her instincts. And right now, her instincts had planted a big flashing stop sign in her path. Everything in her screamed “Reverse! Go back.” Turning back wasn’t in her nature.

She was a bit early when she stepped onto the porch, rubbed her sweaty hands on her jeans, and knocked.

No one answered.

She turned the knob and gave the door a push. Light leaking from the warped wood covering the windows illuminated the dark interior. There was movement inside, a rush for the shadowy places in the room as light spilled into the foyer and beat back the dark. A wild animal she suspected. Still, she freed her weapons—never left home without them—toed the door open a bit wider, and eased inside.

The foyer was small and opened to a large living room. To the left was the dining room. To the right, a study lined with empty bookshelves. Dust, a mile thick, covered everything in a gray blanket. Light peeked through the uneven slats of the boards covering the windows, creating a speckled field where dust motes danced.

There was grandeur to the old place, even with the warped wood, peeling plaster, and fading wallpaper. She didn’t know much about houses, but was certain with love and care the house was salvageable. She always wanted to live in a big house, the kind of house TV families had, with a mother and father, lots of kids each with their own rooms. And a dog. A collie with long hair.

Nice dream. Unachievable on her salary as a clerk at the DMV. And her chances of getting married ranked up there with winning the Mega Lottery.

Amaya stiffened. Danger had her heart slowing, her muscles tensing for a fight. She wasn’t alone.

Behind her.

On the right.

A predator stalked her.

Tall, muscular, male, and deadly. That’s all she could tell from her peripheral vision. It was enough.

Hands on the hilts of her weapons, Amaya spun. The man stepped out of the dark corner of the room, a smile she well remembered gracing his arrogant face.

“You,” she gasped.