Jasper caught Annabella in the first of their high lifts, the one Custo had seen earlier in the studio, with Annabella supported high in the air at her hips. The movement looked effortless, but all things considered—wolf and wraiths—Custo wanted her two feet on the floor.
Wraiths weren’t in the plan, certainly not a coordinated public attack. They had to have been tipped off by someone inside Segue. The traitor. How had Adam survived so long with someone sabotaging every effort to fight?
Anger beat furiously through Custo’s system. He clenched his hands—the last time someone betrayed Adam, they hadn’t lived to regret it. This time would be no different.
A rustle behind Custo had him glancing back, but he saw only ghostly ballerinas in white waiting their turn to go back onstage.
The edge on his nerves had him looking closer, peering harder. There was no one unexpected, except…
In the blackest shadows, the figure of a man. He was dressed in black as well, his head covered by the hood of a sweatshirt, and bowed, difficult to see. His body seemed fit, a good 220 pounds and broad enough to have some muscle.
Not a stagehand. Not a Segue soldier.
Who was he? Custo extended his consciousness toward the man. Nothing.
He tried again, alarm sending a cold thrill of dread down his spine. His mind found only empty shadow, which left two possibilities: wolf or wraith.
Custo moved back, his stomach muscles tensing, his balance shifting to the balls of his feet, ready to fight. The dancers shuffled around him, filling his spot as he eased into the open area of the wing.
He was in full view of the man now, who had not so much as twitched. The stillness around him was uncanny, unnatural, a vacuum.
If fae reacted badly to the presence of angels, as Talia had, then the man was not the wolf, or he’d be cringing. More likely, he was a wraith, part of the assault on the building, lying in wait until a prescribed moment when he would attack.
“Got one backstage,” Custo said, alerting the Segue team. “Look for others.”
Wraiths by definition were obscenely strong and couldn’t die, characteristics that drew thousands of people to relinquish their humanity for eternal youth.
A series of “all clears” came from the rest of the Segue team inside the theater.
The fight was outside, except for this one lone wraith. Coincidence? Custo didn’t care. The monster was getting a bullet to the head, then dragged out for transport and a lengthy wait in a cell until Talia delivered and could scream him to death.
In his peripheral vision, Custo marked the doorway that led to the outer hallway. He reached for his gun, not to fire—the report would disturb the performance—but to add stability to his fist. Then he’d force the wraith out and plug him in the hall. Several times.
The dancers aligned again, a commotion of silent white. In a blur they streamed onto the stage.
Custo stalked closer to his target, noting the subtle rise of the wraith’s chest as he took an unnecessary breath. Strange. Why wasn’t the monster moving? Why wasn’t it ripping the air with its shriek?
Then his head came up, the hood dropping to reveal his face.
The blood in Custo’s veins abruptly reversed its course. Not the wolf. Not a wraith. Those angry black eyes belonged to Death.
“Oh God,” Custo said.
“Ironic you should call on Him now,” Shadowman answered with a dark smile. He shifted away from the wall to standing. The planes of his face freckled with minute black splotches, burns, which fell in dust to the floor as the skin beneath rapidly healed.
The fae were harmed by angels, yes, but this was the lord of the fae, who had stood at Heaven’s Gate too many times to count.
Shadowman advanced, and Custo stumbled backward, glancing quickly at the fae forest growing around Annabella, her gift blooming to the night.
Custo raised his hands to hold Death at bay. “An angel has already come for me. I’ve agreed to go when this is done. One night is all I asked.”
“I am not concerned with the work of angels. Why would I be? I am nothing to them.” Shadowman’s voice was low, menacing. “I want only you. You who deceived me.”
Custo planted his feet, flexed his strength to keep him in one spot. “I had to get out of Heaven. I had to return to Earth. Lives depend on me. Please, I have to stay.”
Shadowman stalked closer. “How many souls, do you think, have pleaded before me? I have refused pain and anguish the likes of which you cannot begin to imagine. Spare me your sad tale of woe; I have heard far worse than yours and remained unmoved.”
But…“One of the fae, one of your own kind, threatens that dancer. She is vulnerable, innocent. But look what she can do!”
Custo looked over to the woman weaving magic not ten paces from his position. Annabella glowed with the intensity of her gift.
A sneer curled Shadowman’s lips. He didn’t deign to look at the stage. “My Kathleen painted the unimaginable vistas of the twilight Shadowlands, and she still passed beyond, as all must do. You want to help your woman, yet you contrived to keep me from mine.”