His face wore an expression of pure surprise.
I’d seen that look before.
I sighed and my shoulders slumped forward, unfulfilled. This was my job, one that I would do for as long as I existed, which could be a significantly long time. But two years ago, I’d accepted that there was no longer any satisfaction to be had in my world.
No fairy tales.
Only the cold.
Turning toward where I thought my dagger had landed, my surroundings suddenly changed.
I was no longer seeing the warehouse. There were flashes of white, moving fast, pounding hooves. Horses. Silver streaked through the air like a dance. Swords. Slashes of red painted the sky. Something sharp and deadly ripping through flesh—wet and gruesome. Claws. Thousands and thousands of beings as far as I could see fought ruthlessly, with no sign of tiring. In the center, two warriors battled beneath a blinding light. I could not make out their faces.
I blinked hard.
The image was gone, and in its place, Gray stood against the wall of Lincoln’s warehouse, casually flipping my dagger in the air. “Would you like me to applaud?” he asked.
Leaning against a metal support pole, he had that midtwenties look I’d come to associate with the older Grigori—though I had no idea how old he really was—and was dressed in his usual black jeans, black T-shirt, and black leather jacket. Black really was the only color worth investing in—blood stains everything else. He sported about a week’s worth of growth on his face, though his head was shaved, the scars that ran over the top of his skull telling of a history both terrible and secret. Grigori did not generally scar, so I knew that whatever had caused these had occurred before Gray had turned seventeen.
I swallowed over the lump in my throat and glanced around as I composed myself. The whole…hallucination…had lasted only a couple of seconds. I clenched my jaw.
Christ. It was nothing. I’m just imagining things.
I snapped my bracelet back in place over my marking and shot him a dry look. “Should I be charging a spectator fee?”
My voice sounded normal but my ears felt like they were still ringing with the echoes of battle.
“Not if the show is going to be over so fast, princess.”
I glared at him for persisting with the stupid nickname. “You know, you could’ve stepped in and given me a hand.”
“Sure,” he said with a solemn nod. “And you could’ve waited until the meet time we’d all agreed on too.”
I looked away briefly. “So, why are you here early?” I asked, hoping to divert the conversation.
Gray tilted his head. “Because I know you.”
I shrugged off the veiled accusation, even though it was true. To a degree.
“It was easier this way.”
He threw my dagger into the air, and I caught it by the hilt and slipped it back into its sheath.
“Well you can explain that to the others, since they just arrived.”
“Children, it is the last hour, and just as you heard that
Antichrist is coming, even now many antichrists have appeared:
from this we know that it is the last hour.”
1 John 2:18
Gray and I found the other Rogues waiting in the designated meeting place around the corner from the market.
Spotting us, Carter took one look at me and hoisted himself onto the hood of his car, shaking his head. “Bloody hell, fellas, she’s done it again.”
Milo and Turk set hard looks on me. The first time I’d been on the receiving end of their stares, it almost made me think twice about fighting solo again. But then, the alternative was even less appealing.
I wished I could explain it so they would understand. Hell, I wished I could understand all the reasons why it was easier to fight alone. I could say it was because of my blood. That since none of them—apart from Gray—knew what I could do with it, I was merely protecting one of my many secrets. Rogues were a law unto themselves, and I was still learning all the rules that operated under the guise of having none. I could also argue that if one of them was hurt, I would feel responsible and have to heal them, creating a bond that, although nothing like that between Phoenix and me, still suggested some kind of ongoing commitment. Keeping my distance from people had become paramount to my day-to-day survival.
Really, though, I knew that it had more to do with not wanting to rely on anyone. And not being able to watch one of them take a fall.
Not that I was about to admit to any of that. These guys would eat me alive.
So instead, I shrugged. “I got here early and saw an opportunity, so I took it. Don’t we have somewhere else to be tonight anyway?”
Carter lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. Of all the Rogues, Carter was the most…unpredictable. And the biggest. The guy was built like a freight train and had the strength of one too. When he pushed his hand roughly through his overgrown brown hair and narrowed his amber eyes at me, it was not in jest.
I rolled mine in response, to which I am fairly certain he growled.
“We all know that job ain’t paying anything like this one,” he said, not even attempting to keep his voice down.
I folded my arms, unperturbed. “You’ll all still get your cut.” This was never about solo profiteering. “This way, we can get on with the other job, and you’ll all be able to start drinking earlier than planned.”
Milo threw me a wink, and Turk ruffled his bleached mohawk. I read both actions as signs that they were happy enough with my offer. Carter, however, was still eyeing me. He’d put on his full-length leather coat for nothing and was pissed he’d missed the fight.
I sighed. “I’ll buy you all a round,” I offered, to which Carter grunted but tossed his cigarette and slid off the hood.
“You’ll be buying at least a few, purple,” he said, getting into the driver’s seat as Milo and Turk filed into the back. “Where we headed?” he asked Gray.
“Around the back of King’s Cross Station. That big building they have all those billboards around,” Gray answered.
“The new Schrager hotel?” I asked.
Carter curled his lip. I suppose he didn’t really care who the designer was. I might have left my artist days behind, but I still noticed things like that.
“That’s the one,” Gray said. “You know the drill. It’s a London Academy job and they’re paying us to be there as backup. Tread on their toes and we don’t get paid. Got it?”
Everyone nodded except Carter, who grunted and started his deathtrap car. He didn’t offer me a lift, which sucked, since now I’d have to ride on the back of Gray’s bike. It was nothing personal, but I would have preferred the deathtrap. Of all the Rogues, I was closest to Gray, but letting people into my space—and hanging on to them on the back of a bike classified as such—wasn’t my idea of a good time. It reminded me of things I’d never again have.
Things broken beyond repair.
Taking part in Academy business was something I preferred to avoid, but this job had come in carrying an additional request from the New York Academy, and as much as I didn’t owe them any favors, I agreed to the occasional contract. When Gray first told me about this one earlier today, I’d felt that chill on the back of my neck that I’d learned to respond to and signed up.
“You really should invest in some helmets,” I said, not for the first time.
Gray gave me a flat stare and got on his Harley. “Feel free to walk.”
Like that was going to happen.
I hooked my leg over the seat, careful to maintain a distance between our bodies, and made a scoffing sound.
“Well, don’t expect me to heal you if you come off and land on your head.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I froze, remembering the scars on Gray’s head.
Was that what had happened to him?
Gray’s shoulder
s shook for a moment before he flashed a knowing smile at me. “Not even close, princess. And if I’m not gonna wear a bucket on my head when I fight exiles, I sure as hell won’t be bothering when I ride my bike.”
As he started the engine and pulled out, I knew I’d lost my fight. Gray loved his bike and the freedom that came with it.
I couldn’t deny him that.
We followed Carter’s souped-up Fiat and pulled up behind him a block away from the building. We walked the final distance, spotting a group of about a dozen Grigori huddled together not far from the construction site, as planned. They were beneath a glamour, hidden from human eyes. It was reasonably constructed but I’d seen better and stronger. It worried me.
Exile activity only seemed to be increasing, and while Grigori were strong and capable, we were limited in number. Although new Grigori continued to come through, it took seventeen years from first being given the essence of an angel before we could embrace our powers, and then even more time to train. Our numbers were simply not holding up. Had the angels not foreseen this problem?
They must have.
And yet I feared that the time when we would finally be overpowered was closer than we knew.
I stayed behind the guys. They didn’t think anything of me pulling on my worn Yankees cap—a gift from Zoe—and moving into the shadows. We were Rogues. Anonymity was our right. And a lot of Rogues had serious trust issues with the Academy.
The senior Grigori running the mission greeted Gray. I recognized Clive and his partner, Annette, from a previous gig we’d taken on a couple of months back—not that I’d ever spoken with them. Clive and Gray shook hands and talked quietly while I looked at the team they had assembled.
Another unsettling feeling swept over me. There were more than a dozen Grigori, but the majority were young. Apart from the leading pair, only a few looked prepared.
Gray returned to where we’d been standing at the edge of the pack.
“Okay, they had a tip-off that this is a tournament site. We have the north entry and exit, which is the closest. We hold the upper level.”
I wondered if this was the same tournament the exiles I’d taken on earlier had discussed. Tournaments had been popping up all over the city lately.
“How many?” Carter asked.
“They don’t know. Intel says it could be a big group.”
Milo gave a toothy grin. “Yeah. Bet they’re in there swapping recipes and baking bread.”
The guys chuckled.
“Why aren’t there more Grigori here? And more senior Grigori at that?” I asked, grimacing, as I realized my critical observation made me sound a lot like my mother. But London was a big city with an independent Academy. I was surprised they hadn’t sent in a more impressive show of force.
“Apparently they’re spread thin at the moment with this type of operation,” Gray said and shrugged. “That’s why they called us in, I suppose.” He glanced at the others. “Let’s just do our bit, get our money, and clear out.”
We all agreed, and I pushed my unease to the side and focused on the job at hand. Once we received the nod from Clive, we ran toward the northern entrance, which I was pleased to note was the closest, giving us the advantage of first eyes inside. Once the Academy Grigori started to filter into the building, any hope of stealth would be forgotten. They did not value our defensive shields in the same way Rogues—particularly our small group—did.
We slipped in through the side door and down a dark corridor that led toward another door. When Gray cracked it open, we heard the sounds immediately and tensed.
Flesh against flesh.
Ripping.
Beating.
Inhuman growling.
The sounds combined evoked death.
Slowly we stepped through the doorway and found ourselves looking down. The construction works had reduced the building to an outer shell that concealed nothing but a cavernous space.
Floodlights sat in the corners, lighting up what could only be described as the exile equivalent of a fight club.
“Maybe we should just leave them to it,” Carter whispered, gesturing toward the sparring figures below.
It wasn’t an altogether ridiculous idea. At this rate, the number we’d have to face would soon be considerably fewer. In Exile Fight Club, there is only one rule: the loser must die. And right then, there were four simultaneous fights going on and what looked like another two dozen exiles divided into two distinct groups, chomping at the bit as they waited on the sidelines.
Over the past two years, since the alliances that had been formed between light and dark in their mutual quest to destroy all Grigori had dissolved, out-in-the-open brawling had become common practice. But the “tournaments,” ones like this—premeditated, orderly—were new.
For all the benefits, being an angel and incorporeal had one definite drawback—no blood and guts. Dark and light have an eternal rivalry, but as angels, they are limited in ways that some cannot accept. In human form, their eternal fantasies play out. For exiles, earth and its offerings of life and beauty come a distant second to its promise of pain and death.
I pointed to the top of the scaffolding positioned in the center of the work site. “That’s why we can’t leave them to it.”
Tied to the top of the scaffolding were at least ten humans. Gagged and with their hands tied behind their backs, they were bound to the metal structure, trapped as it wobbled precariously in response to the hits it was absorbing from below.
Killing humans was the aim and prize of the game. The team that managed to take out enough of its opponents to make it to the top and savage the humans won. And somewhere in all that, some sick bastard kept score.
My gifts allowed me to differentiate between exiles of light and dark, and this helped to give me a more complete view of the organized mayhem below. Most of the exiles were dressed in fight wear, but the styles spanned different eras. Exiles tended to get stuck in the fashion of the time at which they first became human, so while there was typical street wear, there were also army fatigues, Roman-style weapons, ninja getups, and, of course, for those who insisted on rising above their peers to the end, perfectly pressed suits.
As empirically beautiful as each and every one of these exiles was, this was not some fight scene in a Hollywood movie and there was no sparring. It was a show of extreme violence as they launched no-holds-barred attacks on one another, knowing with complete certainty that every fight would be to the death.
We watched in silence as an exile of dark ripped the heart from an exile of light and those surrounding sneered and hissed with their own hunger for blood. Almost instantly, another exile of light had his heart torn free—and then any semblance of order evaporated as the remaining exiles of light began to randomly attack exiles of dark.
“Jesus Christ,” Gray mumbled, taking in the mayhem.
“On the upside, at least it’s keeping their focus off that lot,” Carter said, pointing to the group of Grigori moving in on them from the far wall.
“This isn’t going to end well, Gray,” I said under my breath. We were outnumbered and out-crazied. “I’m going down there,” I said.
“Gray,” Carter hissed.
Gray looked over the carnage below, the humans waiting to be slaughtered on the scaffolding above, and then to the young, inexperienced Grigori preparing to throw themselves into the fray, before turning back to us. He knew that Carter was worried we’d lose our bounty if I was caught taking matters into my own hands. We’d been ordered to stay on the upper level. But it didn’t take Gray long to see how this would play out if I didn’t do something.
“Since when did she listen to any of us?” he responded with a shrug.
I flashed Carter a tight-lipped smile, quickly climbed over the railing, and jumped the thirty feet to the ground, hoping I wouldn’t be seen by either the exiles or the o
ther Grigori.
I landed hard on the concrete, jarring my knee, but moved quickly. Two exiles spotted me and came straight at me, their eyes alight.
I threw my blade at one and was in the air, somersaulting over the second and landing behind him with enough time to grab his head and snap his neck before he could turn away. I picked up my dagger from where the first exile had now vanished, spun, and drove the blade through the other temporarily stunned exile, before dashing into the shadows. Catching my breath, I crouched and waited for the next exile to come close enough for me to deliver another silent, efficient attack.
In a battle zone, exiles forfeited their choices, and I took out five more the same way before the other Grigori even made it onto the far side of the basement level. I’d helped reduce the numbers a little, but there was still work to be done. Turk, Milo, and Gray leapt down from the upper level the same way I’d done, and I watched, my heart pounding, as each immediately engaged with their nearest exile.
Gray was an impressive fighter—fierce and unforgiving, the type who didn’t hesitate or slow for a second until the job was done. His style reminded me of…others. Turk was all brawn. He hit hard and got big results, whereas Milo was sneaky. He’d bring them in, bounce all around the place, and then, in a flash, his blade would be in their neck; they never saw it coming.
Once they’d cleared the way, I waved them over to my dark corner.
“Having all the fun, I see,” Milo said, looking out at the rapidly increasing mayhem. “What’s that you got, five?” he asked.
“Seven,” I corrected, keeping my eye on the exiles. The London Grigori were now in full swing, and the exiles’ attention was broken between fighting each other and engaging with Grigori, effectively helping us gain the upper hand. I breathed steadily, moving farther into the corner to get my bearings as I felt a familiar cold sweat run down the back of my neck. My eyes scanned the space anxiously. Something was wrong.
Gray settled beside me, also taking in the scene. My line of sight finally settled on the scaffolding hanging a couple of stories above us. Clive and Annette were fighting two exiles. I watched the senior Grigori gain the upper hand, and my shoulders relaxed when I saw their blades, first hers then his, take down the exiles in a flash of colorful Grigori mist. Clive stood behind Annette, both of them looking out over the fight below to see where they were most needed next.