Scanning the crowd, Alistair paid only scant attention to the milling guests, the panoply of colors and noise too much for a man who preferred the quiet—and no people.

If Alistair could have his way, he’d be anywhere else, with Willow.

But something was going to happen tonight. He could feel it. Tension thrummed in the air. Other people felt it, too; you could tell by the way they kept glancing around and engaging in hushed whispers.

Then there was Morfeus, who’d winked at him upon his arrival. An expression Alistair didn’t trust now that he knew about the corruption of someone highly placed in the TDCM. He didn’t worry about possession. Those with magic were immune to that particular curse; however, that didn’t mean a wizard couldn’t be swayed.

The fact that they’d gotten to Morfeus, and probably others, led Alistair to believe the demons weren’t worried about hiding as much anymore. Things were coming to a head.

Speaking of head, he didn’t spot a redheaded one returning from the ladies’ room. Willow had left some time ago, and while he understood women needed more time to freshen up, this seemed inordinately long.

Too long, and it nagged at him. Seeking her out, though, seemed a little too desperate. Clingy.

A male should never be clingy.

A man should also never ignore the tingling of his gut that said something wasn’t right. Alistair began edging his way to the outer rim of the room, past heavily perfumed trolls—who could never completely hide their musky scent. The smell always gave them away even if they remained hidden behind the glamours that made their eight-foot, hulking bodies appear small and svelte. Some species didn’t trust the new world and preferred to continue hiding.

Alistair skirted around a group of fairies, already drunk on nectar and shaking their wings hard enough to send glitter flying. Damned stuff never came out.

He barely spared a glance at the glass wall of the giant aquarium; the bright coral inside specially shaped to act as furniture for the aquatic guests.

Alistair had made it to the very edge of the room when he felt it. A shift in the air, a drop in the volume of humming conversations. If an omen had a feeling, this was it.

He turned his head to see the receptionist from the TDCM making his way through the crowd and without having to shove. The wizard moved unimpeded as people stepped out of his way, as if he had a bubble around him pushing them.

I don’t see any magic.

Perhaps it was the object he carried. A very charred yet recognizable horn.

This wouldn’t be good.

The guy climbed up the steps to the dais where the band played. Without saying a word, they tapered off, and the crowd quieted. In the hush, Alistair could hear the anticipation.

The horn sat flat in the fellow’s hands, a burnt husk that crackled with magic. Power Alistair could finally see but only because it was broken.

Not broken enough.

As the guy blew into it, Alistair could see a bubble emerge, a distorted ripple suspended in mid-air. A portal to another world, about four feet wide and eight feet tall. Big enough to cause trouble.

A hand slipped out of the crackling ether first. A human-looking hand. Followed by a humanish body. The fellow, his hair a fiery orange with hints of silver at the temples, wearing an ensemble more suited for the 1700s, landed on the dais and perused the crowd.

“How kind of you to gather in one spot. This will make things easier,” said the stranger, rubbing his hands.

“Who are you?” a rather distinguished elf asked, his silver head taller than most, his tone firm yet melodically sweet.

“I am Braxius, from the branch of the Terrible Ones. The descendant of the one you banished, the one called Lucifer.” He smiled, his filed teeth deadly as a shark’s, his eyes red pits of madness. “I am the last true ruler of the world your kind calls Hell, and now, with my legion behind me, I shall move from that dead land into yours. Bow before your king.”

It might have been more impressive if a) people understood exactly who Braxius was—a psychotic inbred despot of a dying land desperate to keep from dying out—and b) if those people weren’t rulers in their own right.

As it was, it started with one titter, then a handful, until the whole room erupted in laughter.

Yeah, that really wouldn’t go over well.

“Cease at once!” Braxius yelled. When that didn’t work, he stood taller, then straighter still, and a black miasma surrounded him, a wispy cloud of magical motes drawn through the rift. Hell might not have trees—anymore—but it had plenty of magic.

“Let us see if you still laugh when you meet my army! It is time to come forth, legion.” His voice rang, loud and ominous. “Come feast upon the bodies so kindly being offered.”

A black cloud swirled around Braxius, echoing his words before shooting off to cling to the rift, a tear everyone could now see outlined in the air.

A portal that widened.

Really not good.

Yet Alistair didn’t move to stop it. It could just be a diversion.

Willow still hadn’t reappeared, and given he didn’t spot Morfeus…he had a bad feeling. Alistair pushed his way through the riveted crowd—who still didn’t grasp the danger—and headed for the hall she’d disappeared down.

When the crowd ooohed, he briefly looked over his shoulder to see why.

The first demon crawled through the rift, a smallish version, sporting stubby wings, horns on its forehead, and a tail. It peered at the crowd and hissed.

The crowd hissed back.

The wizard on stage stumbled to the side when the gaze of the demon turned on him. He held up his hands. “I’m on your side.”

The last treacherous words he ever said.

The room went quiet, and all heard the wet slurp as the demon fed, and grew.

Another creature stepped out of the rift. In its claws, another horn, a black one with a wide, fluted end. A warhorn.

The demon held it to his mouth and blew.

A clarion note emerged, strong and never-ending. It echoed through the room, staggering people as it swept through and past them. The sound went on and on, rolling over the surrounding buildings, thundering through neighborhoods. It rolled for miles, Alistair would wager, giving the signal.

The sign for the legion to come forth.

Out they marched from the rip in the air, one by one, demons as depicted in the books, monsters no one had ever imagined, and, worst of all, those who looked just like the humans and elves but with only one thought in mind.

Destruction.

There was no more laughing now. Few screams, too. The species gathered in the room weren’t prone to hysteria. They wouldn’t have survived long against the humans if they were. Nor did they come to the ball unarmed.

Centuries ago, they’d learned their lesson. Even among allies, sometimes you had to defend.

Blades were drawn, sometimes from the very air itself, and the room swirled with magic.

Blood would be shed this evening, and with so many ready to do battle, Alistair didn’t feel compelled to remain. His gut still insisted that this was but a diversionary tactic.

He slipped out of the ballroom as the chaos of battle began and waded through those striving to re-enter to join their friends and allies. While some would flee the violence, many, hamstrung by today’s rules, would welcome a chance to unleash their more violent sides. Even the elves, who touted themselves as more evolved, enjoyed a good skirmish.

The path suddenly cleared, and he could see the doors to the facilities. Alistair poked his head inside.

An amethyst-eyed fairy wearing a gossamer-thin gown blinked at him. “You have the wrong facilities, sir.”

He ignored her and called out, “Willow, are you in here?”

No reply. Dammit. Where had she gone?

About to leave, a dulcet soft voice said, “Are you looking for the redheaded witch?”

He whirled. “Yes. Have you seen her?”

Wispy hair in baby blue curls bounced as she nodded. “I was on my way in here when I saw her. A gray-haired wizard with the department knocked her out with a good whack to the head in the hall. Said she snuck in.”

Morfeus! He fought to keep chill foreboding at bay as he growled. “Which way did they go?”

Thin shoulders lifted and fell. “No idea. They went up the hall, and I came in here. I should rejoin the party.”

The damned conscience he’d acquired nudged him. “The ballroom is under attack. By demons.”

A human would have screamed and run away. But a fairy was made of sterner stuff, despite what the legends said.

The amethyst gaze turned hard, and she pulled a needle-thin sword from a hidden spot down her spine, between her wings. “About time they finally provided some entertainment for this thing.” Off she flitted past him, and he could only shake his head.

Would no one take this seriously?

At least now he knew who had Willow. It didn’t reassure, especially given how much Morfeus appeared to hate her. Alistair would have to move fast to save her.

Where would Morfeus have taken Willow? And why?

You know why. Willow was a witch, and guess who needed to feed on them?

The demons needed that magical blood, and she had more power than most. More than many witches combined. Someone, Braxius or one of his minions, would delight in using her to fuel their existence on this plane.

Since Morfeus couldn’t be possessed, that meant he planned to offer Willow to someone else. Someone worth the trouble of performing a kidnapping at a very public event.

“Where did you go?” he muttered out loud. The spell he’d used previously had faded, which meant tracking her down visually since there were too many scents around. Hard stone floors also didn’t leave a mark.

The hall extended to the back of the convention center, the bathrooms only a short distance from the kitchens. He went through the swinging door to find it empty. The pots left bubbling on the stove, food, partially chopped on the counters. Massive trays loaded with snacks.

They looked and smelled delicious. He was tempted to snare a handful on his way out the door, but juggling food while fighting? A male should have standards.

Alistair emerged into a fragrant herb garden, vacant of anyone, the air redolent with the smell of the plants.

The power of it masked every scent. His head turned side to side. Which way had they gone? Had Morfeus left the house or—

Lightning crackled overhead. Quick, short stabs of light, one after another. Peeking upwards, he saw nothing on the heavily sloped rooftop.

The jagged streaks kept coming, but less overhead and more to his left. Alistair took off at a steady pace, vaulting over the small gate that bordered the garden. He landed on a cultivated lawn that went down in tiers, almost like giant, green steps. The far edges of it were bordered by trees through which peeked fairy lights—which couldn’t start fires—and the faint hum of music. Some guests had chosen to party outside. The dryads had gotten shy since their wide-scale murder by the forest industry.

Having arrived when it was still light, he knew a small lake, little more than a pond really, sat at the bottom of the tiers. The water shimmered during the day, a clear and clean blue with a sandy bottom. Night had fallen, which meant the only light came from glowing glass globes that did little to pierce the foggy morass forming over the lake.

Where he’d grown up, thick fog, the kind that you couldn’t see your hand in, didn’t bode well. Not at all.

But the worst thing about those kinds of thick mists? Sound. Sound always seemed amplified. The screams echoing louder and longer. The chill in your bones not from the cold.

This fog didn’t have screaming—yet. However, Alistair did hear voices, stilted pieces of conversation.

“…time you…cleanse the…filthy hearth witch.”

Found you.

Alistair made straight for the fog.

A warm wind hit him, redolent with the scent of brimstone and ash. Another rift had formed.

The worlds had aligned even more, the holes between them growing in number. He could only hope this was the apex of the alignment. According to research—unverified and rare—once the peak was reached, the worlds would quickly fall out of sync, which stymied the more scientifically inclined because of how long it took to reach this point.

Decades of moving into position, the thin spots were barely noticed unless by accident. But with the planes perfectly aligned, even the blindest demons could spot a chance to cross over, and given humanity’s dense population, they’d find a body to possess for survival.

It had to be stopped.

If the people of this world can stand against the legion tonight, then maybe there is a chance for tomorrow.

Clenching his fists at his sides, Alistair began to draw power to himself, sucking it from the very air, drawing it from the unnatural mist even, clearing it the more he siphoned the magic creating it.

As the fog receded, so appeared those he sought.

First thing he noted, a mauve heap on the ground. Willow, not moving at all. The cause? A smirking Morfeus, who stood over her, hands raised.

You’ll die for that.

Of more concern, the whirlpool in the center of the lake, a yawing hole from which rumbled forth a noise that chilled his blood.

Something was coming. The whirlpool was a rip.

It swirled, churning faster and faster, growing in size, yet nothing appeared. Nothing flew out. Perhaps the water stopped it.

Then what of that sound, a low, ululating cry, a tremble in the air?

What would emerge?

He expected tentacles, something to come waggling out of there, an ancestor of the Kraken that had crawled onto land. Perhaps from that hole would appear another of those red-haired bastards because Braxius certainly wasn’t the only one. The children and grandchildren of the original Lucifer had multiplied over the centuries. Lucifer had been prolific in ensuring the continuation of his bloodline after they banished him. Just like not all his children were born from his kind.

Fornication and magic brought forth all kinds of heirs. All dangerous. All powerful.

In the case of the giant line Lucifer had seeded those many, many years ago, they were huge.

Big fingers, larger than Alistair’s thigh, gripped the edge of the water. Yes, gripped. Magic could do so many, many things, especially when you had lots of it to play with.

Size did matter.

Speaking of sizeable, a huge beast began to heave itself out of the whirlpool, the arms bulging as it strained to pull itself up, the tips of curved, ebony horns protruding.

An old one from the time of the goliaths had stirred. They were supposed to remain asleep.

“What have you done?” Alistair snapped at Morfeus.

Turning to face him, Morfeus smiled, and Alistair could see the madness of fanaticism peeking out of his eyes. “He’s coming. The Dark Lord who will cleanse this Earth.”

“That’s not the Dark Lord, you idiot.” Just a massive beast, Hell’s version of a dinosaur, with a modicum of intelligence.

“The Dark Lord will need soldiers in this world.”

“Soldiers are wasted. The Dark Lord can’t survive on this plane,” Alistair stated. Those who lived in the other dimension couldn’t just walk into this world, not without suffering—unless they took over a body or ate the right kind of magic.

His gaze strayed to Willow with her brilliant red hair. A human with epic magic. Possibly descended from Lucifer himself before he’d been banished. A perfect blood match to those seeking to cross over.

Shit.

Alistair moved forward, raising his hands, two glowing fists of mauve magic, only to have Morfeus cackle. “No need for you to feed the Dark Lord’s pet. Her blood will do.”

“You idiot. You don’t understand what you’re unleashing.”

“And you’re obviously not who I thought you were.” Morfeus’s gaze narrowed. “You have an unnatural bond with the witch. She’s obviously cast a spell on you.”

“No spell, asshole,” snapped Willow, pushing herself up on her elbows. “It’s called being a decent human being.”

“Human?” Morfeus laughed. “He’s not human. Hasn’t been since he crossed over a few years back. Alistair here is a demon. A highly placed one, too. Here to pave the way for our coming.”

A shocked green gaze met his. “Is that true?”

He wanted to deny it, to lie. To do anything but see the betrayal in her gaze.

Except the beast chose that moment to heave his head and shoulders from the whirlpool and open his mouth to roar.