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CHAPTER 1

The French Quarter's cobblestones glistened under the moonlight like scattered jewels. Abraxos didn't give a shit about the picturesque view. His scarlet wings carved through the pre-dawn air as he tracked yet another demonic signature threading its way through New Orleans' oldest streets. For a fallen still gathering his powers, Lucifer was an active asshole.

The energies pulsing beneath the city's historic foundations had both stabilized and been more erratic over the past few weeks. Ever since Camael and his witch had bonded. The massive incidents like they’d seen right before their mating hadn’t continued happening, but the minor ones had increased tenfold. Tonight's patrol was serving up the kind of frustration that made him want to punch something. Preferably something ugly with too many teeth.

Fuck. He hit another dead end. The trail went cold near Bourbon Street. It dissolved into nothing but traces of sulfur and wasted time. This was the third lead tonight that had fizzled out like cheap champagne.

His comm crackled. "Anything?" Araton's voice carried that edge of tension they'd all been wearing lately.

"Negative." Abraxos banked hard around Jackson Square. His crimson wings reflected off ancient brick. "These bastards are getting better at masking their movements."

"That's what worries me," his brother replied. "Since when do demons understand stealth?"

"Since that bastard clawed his way topside, leaving his frozen time-out chair empty," Abraxos muttered, finally voicing what they'd all been thinking. A growl rumbled in his chest at the memory of how the Prince of Lies finally traded his icy prison for Earth's playground. "Speaking of Heaven's most wanted. Did you get anything on those energy spikes by the river?"

"It’s clean as a confessor's conscience. Whatever's causing them knows how to cover its tracks." Araton's curse crackled through the comm. "Ayil's checking the warehouse district, but I'm not holding my breath."

Abraxos’s boots hit the rooftop of the Presbytère with practiced silence. The pre-dawn air carried hints of beignets from Café du Monde mixing with traces of power that made his battle instincts hum. Below him, drunk tourists stumbled down Bourbon Street like sheep begging for supernatural predation.

"The Dark Warriors have the port locked down," he reported, scanning the skyline. "Something about this feels wrong. It’s almost like we're being herded."

"Tell me about it. Even the low-level demons are acting with tactical precision. Since when do hell-spawned uglies understand formation fighting?" Araton's question was rhetorical. They all knew the development was courtesy of Lucifer.

Abraxos’s mind went back to the problem at hand. Lucifer was still trying to free the Old Ones. They could all feel it. Even the air was charged like the moment before lightning strikes.

As it had every night for weeks, his gaze drifted to the weathered facade of Crescent City Arcane. Light still burned in the upstairs windows despite the unholy hour. Sarah Morgan was burning the midnight oil again. She was probably lost in those ancient texts she guarded so carefully. She’d been searching for something to help them hunt down Lucifer. Not that he was keeping tabs on the human bookseller. He absolutely wasn't.

"I'm going to check the Quarter's eastern perimeter," he told his brother. "Something's been bugging me all night."

"Sure, it has." Araton's knowing smirk came through loud and clear. "Nothing to do with a certain bookstore that happens to be in that sector?"

"Shut it," Abraxos growled, though his feet were already moving. His wings mantled as he dropped to street level. "The shop houses enough occult knowledge to give Lucifer new ideas. It's tactically sound to ensure its security."

"Keep telling yourself that, brother." Araton's laugh followed him down. "Just remember. Human females are complicated."

"Everything's complicated these days," Abraxos muttered as he landed.

He sent a pulse of angelic power through the wards and into the lock, opening it. The bell above the door chimed softly as he entered. The scent hit him first. It was old leather, paper, and something unique. The last one made his ancient blood sing. It was salt air and sunshine. And all Sarah.

Sarah emerged from the stairwell like she was ready for demonic batting practice. She had a Louisville Slugger gripped in hands that clearly knew how to use it. Her dark hair was a mess of waves escaping a messy bun. She was rocking a pair of flannel pajama pants covered in little cartoon skulls and a tank top that showed off curves that did serious damage to his concentration.

"We're closed," she announced. When her eyes landed on Abraxos, there wasn't much heat behind the words. Just the kind of bone-deep weariness that came from dealing with supernatural shit at ass o'clock in the morning. "Unless you're here about the tremors in the Quarter's foundation?"

The female looked ready to go ten rounds with Hell's ugliest. Holy hell, wasn't that just perfect? Most humans would be cowering under their beds if they felt the kind of power currently making the Quarter's foundations do the cha-cha. Instead, here she was, barefoot and beautiful, with enough steel in those green eyes to make a demon lord think twice.

Not that he was noticing how that tank top hugged her in all the right places. Or how those flannel pants hung low on her hips. Or how the bat was the icing on one very dangerous, very appealing cake. Shit. He was absolutely noticing all of it.

"You were expecting company?" he drawled as he nodded at her weapon of choice and moved deeper into the shop. His warrior's instincts automatically cataloged exits and sightlines. Old habits died hard.

"In this neighborhood?" Her smile could've cut glass. "Always." She gestured to a shelf where leather-bound volumes shuddered as if having seizures. "That started around midnight. It’s been driving me batty. Something old is stirring. Do you think he managed to wake the Old Ones? Who are they, anyway?"

How much did this female pick up on? Most assumed she was nothing more than a regular human, but Abraxos detected something else in her. "Define old," he told her.

She shifted her grip on the bat, and damn if that casual display of readiness didn't do things to his concentration. "Old enough to make those pretty wings of yours look like they showed up yesterday for kindergarten orientation." Her eyes tracked his scarlet pinions as they shifted restlessly. "And don't try that 'classified celestial information' bullshit. My books have been practically throwing themselves off the shelves."

Before he could respond, power slammed through the shop's wards like a battering ram. Books flew off shelves as something seemed to hit the side of the building. Abraxos moved without thought when Sarah stumbled. His hands caught her waist, and he steadied her against his chest as tremors rocked the building's foundation.

The contact sent a wave of awareness through him, unrelated to supernatural disturbances. And everything to do with how perfectly she fit against him. Her scent filled his lungs. Salt air and sunshine with an undertone of power no human should have.