Shaking his head, Alejandro rolled over onto his knees, forming his clothes. Irena did the same, and reached out with her senses. No one. But something felt different in the back of her mind. Something had changed . . . something new. Something with the same resonance in her psyche as a Gate.
By the gods.
A Gate.
Her stomach dropped, and then she was on her feet, sprinting toward central Caelum. In the middle of the city, near Michael’s temple, lay a huge courtyard that no one but the teleporting Guardians could enter. Gates surrounded it, made of marble arches; between them, buildings and temples created walls.
Those walls had shifted, their shape had changed. Irena raced around them until she found the new archway.
A
new
Gate. Somewhere on Earth, a Guardian had sacrificed herself to save another. At that spot, a new portal had formed, linked to this Gate in Caelum.
And whoever had killed a Guardian was on the other side. Irena called in her knives.
Steel glinted in Alejandro’s hands. “I am at your back,” he said.
CHAPTER 18
The coppery scent of vampire blood struck Irena the moment she rushed through the Gate into an enormous room. A
familiar
room—the gymnasium at Special Investigations.
Echo and Ben lay in the center, chests split open, eyes wide with surprise in death. Their weapons lay beside them, un-bloodied. Whoever had done this hadn’t given the vampires a chance to defend themselves.
And she would not give
them
time.
Her gaze darted around the room—empty—and she turned as Alejandro came through the Gate. She saw his shock as he recognized the gymnasium, then his cold fury when he spotted Echo and Ben. She looked past him through the open double doors, where the Gate had formed. Her blood ran cold.
A single red shoe lay in the hallway.
No. By the gods,
no
. Not Dru.
Alejandro caught her as she stumbled forward. “The Gate, Irena. You can’t go through the door.”
She’d end up back in Caelum. Her voice trembled. “Make one.”
He nodded, and passed in front of her. She tried to prepare herself, stepped forward until she stood only a small distance from the Gate.
Grief hit her, almost doubled her over. Pim sat in the hallway, cradling Dru’s body against her chest. Though her arm was limp, Dru still gripped her sword. Blood soaked her white lab coat and pooled on the floor beneath them. Pim held Dru’s blond head against the body’s neck, and the frantic thrust of the novice’s healing Gift carried her terror, her grief, her denial.
Swallowing hard against her own, Irena whispered, “Pim.”
The novice looked up, her eyes glassed over and cheeks wet. Her voice was high and thin. “I can’t fix her. I can’t fix her.”
No. Dru couldn’t be healed. Her vision blurred, and Irena wiped at her eyes.
Not now. Not yet.
A loud shredding sound ripped through the room, and she glanced over at Alejandro. He’d lifted his swords over his head, speared his blades through the wall, and was dragging them down to the floor. Within seconds, they’d be out of the gymnasium.
“Who did this, Pim? What are we facing?” When the novice didn’t answer, Irena sharpened her voice. “Pim!”
“The nephilim.” Her healing Gift shook against Irena’s psyche again. “She pushed me behind her. I can’t fix her.”
A shout came from farther within the warehouse, followed by a desperate scream. Irena’s gut tightened. That had been Savi.
“Hurry, Olek.”
In answer, he slammed his foot into the wall, sending the piece he’d cut out crashing into the hallway.
She followed him through.
They didn’t have to go far. Beyond the end of the hall, at least four nephilim stood in the hub. They’d shifted to their demon forms. Their black wings blocked her view of the opposite hallway, which led to the warehouse entrance, but she could hear several racing heartbeats, someone choking on their breath, a soft keening. Panic and pain raged through psychic scents, all too chaotic to separate.
She drew abreast of Olek at the end of the hall. He took the right side, she the left.
No nephilim were guarding the mouth of the corridor. Across the hub and to her left, five stood in a large semicircle that cordoned off a quarter of the room. Each nephil faced outward—protecting someone behind them. Through the gaps between their wings, Irena saw a woman holding Colin Ames-Beaumont against the wall.
Anaria.
Though she’d been called the light twin, Anaria had the same coloring as Michael. Bronze skin, waist-length black hair. Beneath a simple linen sheath cinched with a narrow leather belt, her form appeared small and delicate. Her legs looked no more substantial than a yearling doe’s.
Irena couldn’t doubt her strength, however. The grigori had lifted Ames-Beaumont aloft with one hand around his neck. The vampire was as strong as a novice, but though he pulled at her wrist—was probably trying to crush it—Anaria did not appear to feel his efforts.
Blood slicked the front of the vampire’s black shirt. A leather-wrapped hilt protruded from his chest. Anaria had impaled a sword through his ribs, pinning him to the wall.
But not through the heart, Irena saw with relief. Not yet.
Farther left of the nephilim, near the head of the corridor leading to Lilith’s office, Sir Pup stood in his demon form—taller than Alejandro, his eyes glowing crimson. But the hellhound wasn’t threatening the nephilim; instead, he restrained a struggling figure beneath his forepaws, the jaws of his middle head gently gripping the back of her neck. Savi.
Irena stepped out of the corridor.
The nephil closest to her spoke. “No Guardians will die if you do not fight us. We have no quarrel with you.”
Were they cow-fucking idiots? When they’d killed Dru, Echo, and Ben, they’d established a monster of a quarrel with the Guardians. She glanced at Alejandro. He’d stolen farther into open space on the right side of the hub and crouched, attempting to look past the nephilim and the hellhound, into the left corridor.
Her heart careening against her ribs, Irena glanced back at the stairs. Three novices—Randall, Becca, and Nadia—had gathered at the top, their swords ready. Though their faces were pale with fear, they looked to her for a signal to attack.
Irena shook her head.
Stay there,
she signed.
Three novices, a hellhound, Alejandro, and her—against five nephilim and Anaria. It would not be a fight. It would be a slaughter.
The choking she’d heard earlier repeated, a tortured gurgling breath.
“Lilith,” Alejandro said softly, and glanced up at Irena.
She walked toward the center of the hub, almost within a sword’s length of a nephil, and took a single glance into the corridor. Hugh held Lilith tightly to his chest, agony carving deep lines beside his mouth. Blood slid from between Lilith’s lips. Her body convulsed, but like Dru, she still gripped her sword. Had she tried to protect Ames-Beaumont from Anaria? The grigori would have stopped her with barely a flick of her hand.
And to a human, even a human as strong as Lilith, a flick of Anaria’s hand was a crushing blow.
Irena turned and sprinted back down the gymnasium hall, where Pim sat rocking Dru’s body.
“Pim, you are needed.”
“I can’t fix her. I can’t—”
No time for this.
Irena ripped Dru’s head out of the novice’s hands. Pim’s shriek became a scream as Irena grabbed a fistful of her black hair and ran, dragging the novice down the hall. She raced into the hub, skirting the nephilim, past the hellhound.
Hugh glanced up. The desolation in his eyes became a fragile hope.
Irena shoved the novice down next to Lilith. “Heal her.”
Doubt seized Pim’s features. “I—”
“Now!”
The novice scrambled to her knees. Her Gift reached out, searching for Lilith’s injuries.
Irena turned, stalked back into the hub. Savi struggled beneath Sir Pup’s giant bulk. Irena’s stomach performed an uneasy dive. Savi’s eyes glowed as red as the hellhound’s. Her bare feet had stretched and lengthened. Her desperate cries had become growls and whimpers.
The hellhound watched her approach with his left head, his razor-sharp teeth bared. He’d obviously been ordered to protect Savi, but Irena didn’t know whether Sir Pup could hold the young vampire if she shifted.
Irena sank to her heels. She didn’t need to get low to speak to Savi, but it offered her a better view through the nephilim’s wings.
And she could see Olek now—and he, her. He held his cell phone. She briefly met his eyes. He shook his head.
Anaria must have put a shielding spell up around the warehouse,
he signed.
Which meant that they couldn’t call out for help—and no one could come in, either through the warehouse entrance or by teleporting. Only through the Gate—and unless Michael happened to go to Caelum, he wouldn’t know the new portal was there.
But he wouldn’t teleport to Caelum. Michael was only a few miles—a few
seconds
—away, watching over Taylor.
Feeling as if her stomach were lined with lead, she studied Anaria. From this angle, the grigori stood in profile to her. Her black hair was pulled back in a tail at her nape, revealing the graceful line of her neck. Like Khavi, Anaria possessed startling beauty—but she had none of Khavi’s fierceness. Her composed features suggested a deep and reassuring calm.
The serenity of her expression didn’t alter as she slipped a dagger from the belt at her waist and slashed Ames-Beaumont’s wrist. His blood ran. A bowl replaced Anaria’s dagger, and she held it beneath the crimson stream.
Bracing herself, Irena glanced at Ames-Beaumont.
Terror ripped through her. Her muscles trembled with the need to turn and run. Her heart galloped, her blood racing into her head in a dizzying rush. Clenching her teeth, she fought the psychic effect, strengthening her mental blocks. She kept looking.
Ames-Beaumont’s face was turned in her direction, his beauty a physical pain, a burning behind her eyes. His tortured gaze had fixed on Savi. His lips moved silently.
Beside Irena, Savi whimpered and begged the hellhound to let her up. The nephilim in front of them edged closer together, preparing to catch the vampire if she burst free.
Quietly, Irena said, “They’ll kill you, Savi.”
Heedless, the vampire struggled to pull herself forward. “Please.” Savi’s voice had become an almost unrecognizable growl. “
Please
, Sir Pup!”
“Do not let her move, pup.” Ames-Beaumont’s plea was hardly more than a whisper squeezed past Anaria’s choking grip and the sword through his ribs. “Do not fight him, sweet. I can bear this pain. I cannot bear you hurt.”
Savi went still, her growls dissolving into anguished sobs.
Anaria slashed his wrist open again. Irena’s fingers clenched at her thighs. She glanced over at Olek, knew he saw her helpless rage.
He smoothly stood, and she could only see his tall boots, his black trousers. She didn’t know how he managed to keep his voice even, concealing his anger and revealing only his strength when he spoke.
“You’ve murdered one of us, Anaria.”
The grigori turned slightly, looking first to Olek, then over at Irena. Her amber eyes were friendly. Her harmonious voice pulled at Irena, drew her in like a warm embrace. “We told the young one not to fight. My children defended themselves.”
For an instant, Anaria’s explanation made perfect sense. Irena almost found herself nodding before the words penetrated.
By the gods, what kind of power was that? Terrified, seething, Irena rocked back on her heels, mentally putting distance between herself and Anaria.
She saw Alejandro brace his feet slightly farther apart. He’d felt that, too. This time, his voice held the barbed silk of aristocratic disdain.
“And the vampires? Your children needed to defend themselves against young vampires, as well?”
“No.” Anaria vanished the bowl of blood. “Vampires are abominations. Bloodlust is a curse never meant for mankind.”
“But you obviously need
that
vampire,” Alejandro said.
Anaria tilted her head as she looked up at Ames-Beaumont. With a soft smile, she stroked her fingers down his face. Weakly, he tried to jerk away from her touch, his fangs bared.
“This one cannot hide what he carries within him. My Zakril was the same; he could not hide his light.” A deep sorrow filled her expression, made Irena want to weep. “But although this vampire has the look of an angel, it is not light that lives inside him. It is only Chaos.”
Abruptly, her hand fell to the handle of the sword sticking out from his chest.
Irena called in her knives. “Anaria!”
Anaria paused, glanced at her. Across the room, a pyramid of bricks appeared in front of Alejandro. He kneeled beside them.
Irena swallowed hard. Not bricks. Plastique. Enough to destroy the warehouse, possibly more. The explosion would kill everyone inside, but the sacrifice was well worth it.
Irena could not prevent Dru’s death, or Ben and Echo’s. But if one more died here, then the nephilim and Anaria would, too.
She projected the full force of her anger and hate. “If any more are harmed, demon spawn, we will not have mercy on you.”
“I do not wish to harm you. I would persuade all of you to join us.”
Irena turned, began to slowly circle around the nephilim toward Olek. She needed to touch him again first. “Join you for what?”
“We will take the throne Below, and slay the demons. We will free the humans in the Pit from their torture.”
Oh, how Irena wanted to. She forced her gaze away from Anaria. On the stairs, the novices stared at the grigori, their faces yearning, frightened. Irena vanished one of her knives.
If she kills Ames-Beaumont, Alejandro and I will fight. You will run. Find Michael. He is with Taylor.