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“We need to get inside.” His brother Jaxon had his attention, and Julian nodded, slicing his way through the demon wall as he and Jaden fought their way toward the door.
They were the closest.
The demons were desperately trying to prevent them from gaining entrance, yet they were losing the battle. Jaxon and his crew had taken care of all but a few of them. It only confirmed the obvious.
Cormac was inside, and that meant that the fallen was as well.
Jaden leapt over several dead bodies, her gun firing as she did so. Julian followed in her wake, his dagger dripping dark with the foul poison of demon blood as he secured their path.
His chest heaved as he reached the door, and he snarled madly as his fingers gripped the handle. It was painfully hot, a vibrant conduit of energy that shot up his forearm.
His need to get to Azaiel was riding him hard. Everything was so close to being completed.
“Fuck,” he yelled, hissing as he gripped it harder and pushed it open.
Behind him, the noise evaporated into nothing but a mess that was easily ignored. How could it not? The sight before him was sobering.
He felt Jaden at his back, felt her warmth against his skin and the horror in her voice as she ducked around him.
“Oh my God,” she whispered hoarsely.
“God has nothing to do with this.”
An eerie howl whistled through the room, accompanied by a phantom wind that came from nowhere. The corners were in complete darkness, shrouded in mist and fog. The only light was centered in the middle.
Above them, suspended high in the air, was a man, his body bathed in a soft glow that should have been comforting but, instead, was sinister. His arms were spread wide, held aloft by invisible threads as he slowly turned in a circle. His upper body was bare, the lean, muscled lines, however, awash in crimson.
Blood flowed from his hands and dripped from his feet. His head hung low, as if he were unconscious, and as he made a full turn, Julian noticed the large wings that were tattooed upon his shoulders.
His eyes narrowed, and he realized they were not tattoos but an intricate marking that had been carved into his skin with perfect precision.
This was without a doubt Azaiel. The fallen.
The room was encased in iron walls that bled with never-ending water. It was in every miserable corner, the constant cold and wetness.
“Azaiel doesn’t look like he’s loving Vegas so much,” Jaden whispered.
Julian didn’t answer but stepped into the room.
Where the hell were Declan and Ana? He’d expected Cormac to be here as well.
Behind him, all sound ceased. There was no more fighting, no grunts of pain or screams of rage. He glanced back and saw the shock on every single face that filed into the room.
His brothers, their women, Nico, Finn, and Cracker . . . all of them were silent. Ethan Crane seemed a little unsettled at the sight of Azaiel suspended high in the air.
Julian smelled the evil in the air and knew that the shadows hid something dark.
Jagger pushed through and aimed his weapon into the air, but Julian grabbed it. “You will not shoot,” he snapped.
Jagger studied him for several long seconds. “You got a better idea how to get him down from there?”
“Where’s Declan?” Jaden asked, stepping between the two brothers.
“He’s there. Beyond.”
The words were hoarse and fell at them from above. Julian glanced up at Azaiel. The fallen’s eyes were open. They shimmered, their black roundness shot through with gold. It was fucking freaky, and if he had a spare pair of glasses, he’d toss them up pronto.
“And just when I thought this evening couldn’t get any more interesting.”
