Nulla stares out into the darkness of the garden.

Behind him, Hope is pushing up from her seat. ‘A demon?’

No. A demon would have come through the Boundary. They slip through all the time. That isn’t something that would have pinged his radar.

Slowly, he shakes his head. ‘No. It’s something stronger, and I think it’s coming for me.’ He frowns. He remembers what Ignácio said in his note. ‘You cast wards.’

Her hands are wrapped tight around the back of the chair, her knuckles white but she has her back straight and her jaw set. She nods. ‘Yeah.’

‘Then I want you to seal the sanctuary. I’ll come and get you all when it’s safe.’ He heads for the door to the garden.

It’s almost here. He doesn’t have enough time to arm himself. His weapons are kept in the sanctuary’s lower level. He’ll have to make do.

Hope hovers for a moment, worry etching brackets around the corners of her mouth. ‘But are you… you just woke up.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ he says and hopes the look he gives her is reassuring enough.

She bites her lip before giving a decisive nod. ‘Okay. I’ll seal it behind you.’

‘Thank you.’

When he opens the door, a feathery breeze touches the bare skin of his arms and feet. It carries with it a mixed scent, the green of the garden followed by the smells of meat and spices and the hint of fumes from nearby traffic. The air is heavier than the last time he’d fallen asleep, and the evening is warmer too, humid.

There’s one step down from the kitchen to the garden space. It’s covered in the same mosaic pattern as the floors inside. But immediately when he descends from that, cool grass cushions his feet, the stalks flattening under his steps as he makes his way to the centre of the space.

He hears Hope close the door behind him and her words, soft and just under her breath, seconds before a gentle pulse of power ripples outward. He looks over his shoulder to see her at the door, her hand still pressed to its window pane, her eyes serious before she turns and rushes off to seal the other entry points.

He can still hear the choir.

Good. No one else has sensed anything is out of the norm.

He pushes past the lingering lethargy of the long sleep and casts his senses wide. It feels like stretching his muscles, a slight ache that makes the space between his shoulder blades where his wings should have been, twitch.

Two benches stand facing each other on opposite sides of the garden, each with a tall tree stretching over them like guardians. Behind them are beds of flowers, their brilliant colours muted by shadows of night.

The greenhouse sits at the bottom of the garden, spanning the width of it. Despite its walls and domed ceiling being made of glass, Nulla can barely see into it. Vines and leaves press against every inch of its surface.

He takes one step towards the centre of the garden and feels every hair on his body stand on end.

The smell of the garden is overpowered by something metallic, not quite like blood, but reminiscent of it. It thickens, pluming out and filling his nose and mouth.

Nulla freezes.

A human wouldn’t have seen it.

Wedged into the pitch-black slither of space between the greenhouse and the tall walls of wooden panels fencing in the garden, are a pair of eyes staring at him.

They almost blend into the darkness except for the glint of light on their black surface and the luminescence of the bright white pupil at the centre.

The power it exudes vibrates in the very air.

A Demon Lord.

Something that shouldn’t have been able to cross into the human realm but is here regardless. It shouldn’t even be able to stand on sacred ground and yet is stationary, watching him as if it has all the time in the world.

The laws of the boundaries have always been clear. Demons and celestials were the only ones able to crossover into the human realm.

How is this possible? And why the beeline to the sanctuary?

In Nulla’s current state, pushing a Demon Lord back into the Fade won’t be easy. But he’s hyperaware of the humans in the surrounding area.

Where were the celestials? A Demon Lord should never have managed to set foot on human soil.

Careful, alert to any sudden movements, Nulla walks closer. ‘This isn’t the place for you, my Lord.’

The eyes watching him flare wide. Black tipped fingers slide over the corner of the greenhouse, as if gripping it tight and the glass emits a low hum. There’s a ripple in the malevolent power.

Nulla stops, frowning, thrown by the sudden sense of familiarity.

In a streak of black it launches itself at him. Its bloodlike scent bursts with violence as a hand wraps around his neck.

Nulla grips the wrist tightly, moving just as fast. He locks his leg around its side and his arm around its neck and twists. They hit the grass with a thud.

Teeth worn to points snap a breath away from his face, stopped only by Nulla’s hand locked around its chin. The strength of the demon is beyond what he’s dealt with in centuries and without any of his weapons and with his body still slowed from decades of sleep, Nulla knows he needs to send it back as soon as possible.

Every muscle in his body strains as he works to pin it beneath him, grateful for the hallowed ground they’re on. He blocks a hand aimed directly at his stomach and grunts with the effort it takes to keep it from punching through him.

A nail slices the skin of his cheek open, and even as he avoids those same fingers from piercing into his eye, he knows something is wrong here. He tightens his hold on the lower half of its face and manages to press its head into the ground.

The words to send it back are on the tip of his tongue when he finally takes note of the copper red strands of hair writhing on the glass like snakes and hears it speak. Its voice sounds as if it’s been scraped raw.

‘Ca—’

Nulla’s ears ring, pain knifing through his eardrums and piercing straight through to his mind. It’s bad enough that he almost lets it go.

That moment of weakness should have gotten him killed. But the Demon Lord doesn’t attack. Instead, he feels it grab his arms tight.

Nulla’s gaze skids to the face beneath his. His heart thuds heavily in his chest and for a second, his hearing feels as if it’s been stretched thin through a needle.

The black leeches from its eyes, even as those fingers continue to dig into the sinews of his arms. The white pupil changes. Iridescent lilac irises appear even as the black hovers in the corners.

Emotion, raw and suffocating, winds itself around Nulla’s chest and his breath stops.

‘Evangelos.’

The Demon Lord stops tearing at his skin. Strong fingers grip him tight, and the creature lifts its head. It takes huge breaths through its teeth, chest heaving with it, eyes locked on Nulla’s face.

‘Darsha. She’s in the Fade. She’s in—’

The words are broken up by hacking. Evangelos draws in a wheezing breath, their neck arching.

The black floods back in and Nulla feels himself flying through the air. His side slams into stone. Pain, white and hot, spreads over his ribs but he lands silently on the balls of his feet, holding his side and ready to defend himself.

His eyes scan the garden. It’s empty.

* 

‘Haaa…’

Séraphin lifts his head, jaw clenching in displeasure at the pungent smell that is worsening with each passing moment.

The smell is coming from the grotesque creature opposite him.

Dozens of faint white lines mar the black stone beneath them from the sharp points of its eight legs scrabbling every time it rouses enough to fight against its restraints.

Right now, the creature’s black skeletal frame is still, curled in tightly on itself, its head is tucked into the crook of its overly long thin arms. One of them is suspended by the wrist from a metal ring embedded in the curved wall of the exposed tower. Patches of hair hang from its skull. From behind them, its pearlescent eyes are fixed on him. Hungry.

The only thing that moves is its chest as it breathes. The bones are so prominent they look as if they could split its skin with each press.

They’d locked him in here with a hungry spinner and they’d made him hungry too. He can still feel the effects of the belladonna coursing through his bloodstream, keeping him weak. 

The spinner hasn’t blinked once since they locked them both here.

He’d come to with his wrists bound together and chained to the wall behind him.

He sneers and then hisses, wincing. The skin around his mouth pulls tight and he feels it split and as if in sympathy, his parched veins contract. His throat is dry and his skin is like paper from too many days of no feeding.

He’ll kill them just for locking him in here with something so ugly.

Clearly, they’re hoping the spinner will give in and latch onto him, killing them both in the process.

And if it doesn’t…

He tilts his head back and rests it against the warm stone behind him. The Fade’s inky black sky is directly overhead. Looking up at it is like drowning in black silk.

The Fade’s daylight will be here soon.

He smirks, bloodthirst pumping in his veins.

‘Je vais les massacrer, ces vauriens.’

Author's Note
Translation: 'I'm going slaughter these worthless fools.'