Time he did not have.
He cringed every time he was forced to bring another demon into his circle. But the Fallen were picking his minions off like flies. And it rubbed him raw—powerful as he was—having to rely on others to perform certain crucial tasks.
He longed to summon the Sword of Kathnesh to him, longed to hold it in his own hand, just once, just to feel the power radiating from it. He wanted to witness the blade with his own eyes, the blade that would set him free and make him ruler of all.
But he didn’t dare. Couldn’t risk having the blade anywhere near him lest Lucifer suspect him of such foul treachery. Nor would he risk bringing the sword out in the open, not even for his own peace of mind. It was safe, under his control. He would have to content himself with that.
Especially now that the Fallen had stolen the Arc Stone out from under his nose. Now he had no choice but to press his timetable forward. The pressure to find the other relics was mounting, and time was running out. The longer it took for him to collect the relics, the greater the risk of discovery. Without interference from the Fallen, he would have been able to continue his search with none the wiser.
Now? Now it felt as if his every move were being broadcast across the realms.
Just the reminder of that cursed bunch of traitors made his blood boil. He motioned toward the Charocté and watched as it fell, writhing on the floor, its features contorting in hideous pain. He flicked his finger this way and that, like a metronome. The servant flopped about on the floor, its mouth stretched wide as its screams filled the air.
Stolas sighed. Why was begetting one offspring so difficult?
He watched, detached, as blood welled in the Charocté’s eyes, gushed from its mouth. A wave of Stolas’s finger caused bones to snap and skin to rupture.
Bored, he waved his hand, and the Charocté erupted in flames, eventually disintegrating in ashes.
More ashes. How I despise ashes.
He’d been born to this realm. Born to fire and brimstone. Born to ashes and searing heat. But the stories his minions had brought back of Earth fueled his determination. A color called green. He wanted to see it with his own eyes. Trees with actual leaves. Waters that ran cold and smelled pleasant, not stagnant, sulfurous pools that boiled. And things called snow and ice. Rumored to be so cold they could freeze flesh.
Just imagine the sheer decadence of that!
Nothing would stop him. He would feel snow upon his skin. He would bury his enemies beneath a mountain of it.
Chapter Four
When her captor didn’t immediately reply, feigning shock instead, Maggie turned her face to the wall, determined not to give an inch. If the sperm donor thought this abduction was going to scare her into submission he had another thing coming.
“Well, that saves a bit of time then,” her abductor said in his honey-smooth Southern drawl, his amber stare drilling into her, searching, she was sure, for the slightest hint of weakness. From the periphery of her vision, she watched him as he tilted his head—only a fool took her attention off her enemy.
“Do you know what your father is?” he pressed.
She snapped her teeth together, gritting them in a desperate bid for control. She would not shout that Michael was not her father. A father was someone who was there for you when you needed him. Someone to teach you to swim and ride a bike. Someone to scare away the nightmares and to hold you in his arms when it stormed. Someone who told you he loved you no matter what.
A father didn’t show up out of the blue the day of your twenty-first birthday to tell you that you were different.
Not special. Not precious. Not loved.
Just different.
He didn’t place his hand upon your head and “unlock your special gifts”, as he so magnanimously decreed. Well, his gifts had turned out to be curses, as far as she was concerned. What good were random visions of the future when you couldn’t change them? What good was a sixth sense, the ability to identify those who meant her harm, if it didn’t also include a way for her to fight them off or escape should they capture her?
Like right now.
And a father did not resort to scare tactics like this.
“Have you met him? Spoken to him?” That honeyed drawl came once more.
The sperm donor’s henchman could press for answers all he wanted. She was a clam. She wouldn’t talk. She bit back a mocking laugh as she heard the henchman draw a deep breath, as if he was seeking patience. Well, he’d better have an endless well of it, because she had nothing to say to Michael or any of his cronies, no matter how attractive they might be.
“You noticed those three demons at the nightclub right away, didn’t you?” So he wanted to change tactics, did he? It wouldn’t do him any good. She wouldn’t answer. “How did you know what they were?”