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That didn’t last.
The slayer had the gun and it squared the muzzle off in Shuli’s face.
The world slowed down, as it did in the movies—a realization that he felt a weird, detached surprise at—and as he stared up into the face of evil, he couldn’t believe this was how he died. Behind a club. By a slayer turning his own weapon on him—
Fresh air.
All of a sudden, Shuli was staring up at the darkness that blanketed Caldwell. No gun. No lesser. Just the night sky.
In confusion, he turned… his… head.
For the second time, he couldn’t understand what was happening. The slayer was up off the pavement, suspended on high as if it had spontaneously levitated. Had one of the Black Dagger Brotherhood come from out of the blue—
The lesser was slammed into the ground, the impact sending black blood in a splatter all around.
When he saw a figure standing over the undead, he couldn’t process what he was looking at.
But it was Rahvyn. And she wasn’t finished.
Somehow, she picked up the slayer again and drove the undead into the asphalt once more. And as the lesser flailed uselessly, the female went down to his waist with her hands. There was a heartbeat of stillness—and then she lifted her arm over her head.
She had a knife in her grip, and its stainless steel blade gleamed for a split second.
The female cast the razor-sharp point downward, right into the center of the lesser’s chest.
A brilliant flash cast daylight all over the parking lot, the rear of the club, the huddle of two bodies by the back door—and with it came a popping sound that was so loud, Shuli’s ears hummed from the sting.
After that? Nothing but a scorched patch where the slayer had been, and the female standing there, panting.
“Jesus,” Shuli said. “How did you do that?”
“He’s hit! Shit, he’s bleeding out!”
As Nate spoke up by the club’s exit, Shuli scrambled toward the rear door while he went for his phone. “What happened—”
Just as he took out his cell, he got in range and his heart stopped. Nate was bleeding from a head wound—again—but that wasn’t the real problem. Theox was lying flat on his back, his lax hands flopping around his chest, his mouth open while he gurgled for air.
The front of his throat was glossy with blood.
“Oh, my God,” Shuli stammered. “I shot him. I fucking shot him.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
So you bought the car for how much?”
Back at the Audience House, while Wrath tossed the question out there, Lassiter really wanted some popcorn: As he and the other angels watched from the corner of the dining room, he had a thought that something of the salty, finger-food-persuasion would be perfect—and the idea he was worried about snacking while he was watching a good show was a welcome return to normal.
Up by the fire, Wrath was still in his armchair, but instead of a happy couple in front of him, the two males who had been prowling around the waiting area were front and center. Both were twitchy, cracking their knuckles, shifting their weight in their Nikes. Considering that they were each wearing themed outfits from the Buffalo Bills winter collection, and were also sporting the same mullet haircut, you had to wonder why they didn’t get along better.
“I paid seventy-five hundred for it,” the guy on the right said as he glared at his twinsie.
“And what kind of car is it?” the King asked.
The one on the left crossed his arms over his chest. “Toyota Corolla.”
“How many miles?”
“Fifty-eight thousand—”
“Fifty-nine,” the buyer shot back.
“Year?” Wrath reached down to the floor and picked up his dog, settling George in his lap. “And manual or automatic, if it’s an older model.”
The seller went full-in on the proverbial floor space. “It’s a twenty-twelve automatic. Look, it’s in good working order, the paint’s tight. Engine’s solid—”
“The problem isn’t the car,” the buyer snapped. “It’s the fact that I can’t get it registered because I don’t have the goddamn title.”
“I told you, I lost it.”
“Bullshit—” The male slapped his palm over his mouth. “No offense, Your Majesty.”
Wrath inclined his head. “I’ve done worse. Continue.”
The buyer threw up his hands. “He stole the car. And I know this because not only do I not have the goddamn title, I got pulled over by a cop tonight on the way to work. The plates pop up as stolen—”
“So you wipe some memories,” the other guy said with a shrug. “Big frickin’ deal—”
“Third time. Third, this month. I’m tired of erasing those rats without tails—and you should have disclosed this first—”
“You got a good deal—”
“Enough,” Wrath snapped—and the subjects went dead quiet, like they weren’t sure whether beheadings were still a thing or not. “Saxton.”
“Sire,” came the response from the desk.
Lassiter glanced over. The King’s solicitor, who’d just come in, was looking like the proper gentlemale he was, all waistcoated and blazer’d and cravat’d on the far side of his leather-bound books on the Old Laws.
