Perhaps the wound in the Veil evoked a peacock, tinted in violet, sapphire, and emerald. His fingers hovered over canes of glass hued just so. Then he glanced over his shoulder.
From the vermeil filigree cage, the crow watched him, jet eyes catching a flicker from the fireplace. His brow furrowed. All the other birds had slept at night—but not the crow. It kept odd hours, and the rare glint of oil-slick color in its black plumage was just as unpredictable.
He should have killed the crow and set the trap again. He thought wistfully of a pigeon with powdery gray feathers, the rainbow sheen of the breast, the neck of purest white, the brilliant orange eye. Cheese curls were cheap bait, and he still had a little time.
He removed his ring, set it carefully aside, then ran his fingers over the pliers and pinchers, blades and shears, a blowtorch. Such ugly instruments of pain, for such delicate, beautiful work.
He jostled the jewel-colored canes, searching for the black, and the rods of glass chimed against one another in warning. He forced himself to calm, but the twisting inside him made his hands shake.
He’d fancied himself up to the task, patience honed like glass drawn to spun-sugar fineness. After all, as the saying went, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Nor had it fallen in a night. But Corvus had found, these days and nights, the world moved much more swiftly. His patience had suffered.
Just as well he knew all about suffering too.
A bead of liquid welled from his eye and fell. It hissed on the glass, where it left a smoky stain.
Turning away, Corvus poured himself a drink and went to the window. Below, the autumn color in the line of trees along the river had long since dulled, leaving only tattered skeletons of trunks and branches, waiting for a decent burial by snow.
He sipped the cognac. Mellow heat dampened his awareness of the petty darklings riled in the demon’s wake. Any havoc the darklings conceived was nothing compared to what lay just beyond the unlit horizon, beyond narrow human perception.
A swirl of his glass set the reflected flames from the fireplace dancing in the alcohol, flickering like a phoenix on the wing. In his own depths, the demon stirred, not deceived by his enforced calm. It surged along channels in his blood and bones, seeking outlet.
Not yet. He resisted, twisting the power back upon itself, upon himself, in ways a newly emergent demon and its chosen prey could never comprehend.
A tremor of excitement passed through him, and he hissed out a single breath.
The scouring inferno, when he loosed it, would burn with abandon. In its freedom he would find his own at last. He lacked only the fuse.
How convenient that tonight’s luminous trail would lead him straight to the spark that would help him ignite a conflagration that would scorch even hell itself.
Archer walked from the bridge back toward his loft to reconnoiter the neighborhood. Circling the industrial-sized blocks in Chicago’s meatpacking district, with its longtime butcher shops and more-recent art galleries, took a while. With a side trip down one alley, he drained a malice that had mistakenly tried to claim the vacant territory he’d created around his place.
He left the malice’s thin psychic cry to stain the bricks, a warning to the city’s other resident evils. The sign might serve only to bring a feralis sniffing around for leftovers, but Archer felt cranky enough to relish a pitched battle. At least that would get his blood flowing.
He found himself little caring if it all flowed away.
Except for the unlucky malice, the block was clean—until he got through the doorway leading up the narrow stairs to his loft.
He paused, head cocked to catch the faint rustle from the landing above. “Just when I thought I’d wiped out all the pests in the neighborhood.”
Niall leaned over the railing. “I wasn’t going to wait out in the cold.”
Archer marched up. “So, about respecting my privacy unless sweeping my place after my death . . .”
“This is more important,” Niall said. “You let the talya get away.”
Archer stared impassively at the other man. “Not talya yet. But I saw that somebody taped a sign to her back saying, ‘Possess me.’ That should do the trick.”
Niall glowered. “Ecco was recording everything. Even had some of Bookie’s new spectral-analysis equipment going. How often do we get to study an emergent demon? And you let its target walk away.”
“Study?” Archer lifted one eyebrow. “Can you preserve a malice in formaldehyde? Will dissecting a feralis bring any of the unfortunates it consumed back to life? If only I’d known a pocket protector keeps stains off the soul.”
“We need an edge, any edge in this fight.” Niall paced the tight confines of the landing. Despite his agitation, he left a careful space between them. “I know you sense it, even out here on the edges. Maybe from the outside you can see all sides.” He spun toward Archer, his expression stark under the black lines marring his temple. “Evil is winning.”
Archer shifted. “No worse than usual.”
“Much worse,” Niall said, plunging on. “The djinn have always mocked the limitations of our mandate, but lately even the lesser emanations are flipping us shit. I swear, the other night a malice gave me the finger before I drained it. Last week, Jonah took out a feralis feeding on a pigeon down by the lake. And the sun was up. An old lady on a park bench told him to leave the ‘poor doggie’ alone. Hell, it probably would’ve eaten her next.”
“You want confirmation e-mails of my daily demolition?” Archer asked tightly. “Not that the number of malice drained or ferales dismembered makes a damn bit of difference. There’s always another load of trash.”
Niall dragged a hand through his hair. “I know your counts. And, really, would it kill you to share some of those techniques? You must realize we’re falling behind.”
“Yes, it could kill me to share, or more likely kill your precious men, and hell yeah, we’re falling behind. You think having her is going to change that?” Archer refused to imagine the willowy Sera pitted against Jonah’s feralis.
Bad enough when the ferales just consumed cockroaches. The demonic emanations warped and mutated the ordinary chitin into battle-ready carapaces that turned aside blades and bullets with ease. He hated it when the lesser demons took wing.
“You think a woman couldn’t fight beside us? It’s unprecedented, I know, but Bookie’s already putting together a dossier on Sera Littlejohn, and she’s neither a shrinking violet nor a hothouse rose.” Niall peered at him. “Or is this some sort of misplaced Southern gentlemanly honor I wouldn’t know anything about? Damn it, Ferris, we’re at war.”
“They say honor is always the first casualty. I’m not an idiot, Liam.” He drew out the name to show he hadn’t missed—or appreciated—the other man’s familiarity. “And I’m not naïve. Neither are you, usually. You know she doesn’t have a chance.”
“But you gave her one anyway.”
Archer clenched his right hand against the phantom ache. “In the end, how many resist temptation? Not enough to make the counting worthwhile, especially considering the pathetic wrecks that remain. You said it yourself, the demons are winning.”
“The wrong ones,” Niall muttered.
“Right or wrong? You think that matters?
Niall narrowed his eyes. “You chose. Same as the rest of us.”
“Same as her. With luck”—Archer laughed, a hollow sound in his own ears—you’ll have a new demon-ridden talyan fighter for your hopeless battles. If I know anything about temptation, Sera Littlejohn is already possessed.”
CHAPTER 3