in the doorway, her thighs colliding with the couch. The thing gleamed like a polished black sports car—wearing armor. Its red eyes were the only part with color.
She made the obvious guess. “Sinistari?”
With a confirming nod, it said in a sepulchral voice, “I’ve come for the Fallen.”
She gestured with a shaky hand toward Sam, trapped in the center of the room. As if the demon couldn’t plainly see him.
Smarten up, Cassandra. It’s happening. Deal with it.
The demon stalked into the room, each footstep clanking metallic on the cement. The exposed flesh on its face, neck and hands appeared hematite, yet moved like muscle. Ebony horns curled at the side of its head, and it wore black armor over legs, arms and torso.
It was beautiful, and she wanted to touch it, to connect with the impossible—but she wasn’t stupid.
If she could inch toward the door …
“Release the wards,” the demon commanded.
Halfway to the door, Cassandra spun about. “You can’t get at it like that?”
“It?” Sam scoffed and crossed his arms. “I’m standing right here. I can hear you.”
“You won’t hear much after I’ve ripped your head from your neck,” the demon said on a toothy snarl. He had mastered menacing nicely.
Sam tutted an admonishment and shook his head at the demon. “Apparently,” he said, “you’re not up on angel-slaying techniques.”
“You’re supposed to protect me!” Cassandra cried.
The Sinistari swung a look toward her and snorted. “I am not charged with your protection, mortal female, only to slay this wicked one.”
Sam chuffed. “Me, wicked? Look who’s sporting the black metal like some kind of satanic death cult worshipper.”
“Satan has no dealings in our situation. I possess divinity,” the Sinistari hissed. “Unlike you.”
Sam shrugged, offering a dismissive splay of hands. “So my feet have touched mortal soil. So have yours.”
“Not before I was created,” the Sinistari corrected.
Cassandra knew the Sinistari had been forged from the Fallen. Twenty angels were caught as the original two hundred Fell and were made into something dark, dangerous and set only to the one task—slaying angels. While the Fallen had been imprisoned in the Ninth Void awaiting summons, the Sinistari lived Beneath. Cassandra had never imagined what the place was like, and now she didn’t have to because a part of it stood before her.
“This won’t even be a fight,” Sam taunted. “You can’t slay me unless I shift. And I don’t intend to do that again for a while.” He shrugged a bare shoulder, wincing. “Hurts like a bitch when I’m wearing mortal flesh.”
“You will shift if challenged,” the Sinistari answered confidently.
Cassandra had made it to the doorway, gripping the now-loose doorknob, when the Sinistari reached around and slapped her against the kitchen counter.
“Don’t touch her!” Sam roared. He beat his fists against the invisible walls. “Let me out, Cassandra. I will kill him for touching you!”
“Sweet,” she managed. “Commit murder for me?”
“Anything for you, cupcake. And I prefer the word smite over murder.”
She quirked an eyebrow. Was he joking or actually being serious? It was impossible to determine with him.
The Sinistari growled at her, exposing sharp teeth. On second assessment she decided it was ugly and not at all beautiful. But if he had it in for the Fallen, then she may be able to escape while the two engaged in battle.
Never one to shun opportunity, Cassandra spoke the reversal spell, then dodged to avoid Sam as his release sent him plunging forward.
The Fallen charged the demon. Metal clashed with solid muscle and might. They soared backward into the door, which splintered and spit out the tangled opponents into the hallway.
They exchanged punches that sounded like heavy sacks of sand hitting metal. Neither appeared the least injured, nor reacted with pain. They faced off before the door, spoiling Cassandra’s escape plans.
One of Sam’s fists missed the Sinistari’s face and knocked out a section of door frame.
Eyeing the Taser lying on the floor, Cassandra crawled out from behind the kitchen counter and grabbed it.
The demon kicked high, and his faltering equilibrium teetered him backward. Sam lunged and the twosome tumbled down the stairwell, damaging the plaster walls and bending the iron railing as they went at it, wrapped together in a death clutch.
But Sam had spoken correctly. The Sinistari, who possessed a blade capable of entering the Fallen’s glass heart, could only slay the angel if he was in winged, half form. She wasn’t sure why, but that was how it worked. So he was safe—
“Or not.”
Cassandra clasped the uppermost railing and watched as the angel shifted, releasing those deadly silver wings. The hallway was tight and his wings could not stretch out completely, but a full unfurl wasn’t required. He swung them as weapons toward the Sinistari.
The demon’s only purpose for walking this earth was to slay the Fallen. But from the looks of it, this angel slayer had met his match.
Thrusting high the hand that clutched the halo, Sam let out a deafening cry. Cassandra stumbled backward, slapping her palms to her ears and tucking her head against the wall. Sharp and piercing, the angelic cry heated her veins. She thought her blood would boil and bubble through her skin—
And then it stopped. And she heard nothing, only muffled thumping noises—her heart. The angel’s cry had affected her hearing.
Gripping the railing and pulling herself to a wobbly stand, she gasped, which succeeded in popping her ears and restoring some sound. A swirl of dark glitter fluttered about the shirtless angel. Arms extended out, wings stretched high along the wall and ceiling, the angel was bathed in the demon’s ashy remains. The halo dripped with black tar, the demon’s blood.
The angel had defended her honor. Go, Fallen one!
Yet Sam’s wings were out.
That shocking realization shifted her instincts to overdrive. She started for her loft then paused. That choice would trap her.
She raced down the hall to the door that led to the roof. Without stopping to see if Sam followed, she grabbed the stairwell door. With luck, he would be so enthralled by his kill she could slip away unnoticed.
Samandiriel shook off the demon ash from his arms and with a flick of the halo to shed the demon blood, he replaced it at his hip. He toed the pile of ash.
“I was quicker,” he muttered. “But you gave good fight. Rest
