Strider wanted to know how much she knew and how she did what she did.

More than that, he hadn’t been able to do his job—aka dispose of Hunter trash—when he’d been alone with her.

Every time he’d tried, he’d looked at her beautiful face and hesitated. The hesitation had given way to desire, and he’d started battling urges to kiss her rather than “off” her.

Sabin wouldn’t let him get away with that shit. Sabin would ride his ass until he acted. Strider would have no choice but to step up to the plate and knock the bal out of the park.

Because… His hands curled into fists. Because this woman, this walking atrocity…

His teeth gritted, and his jaw clenched so tightly the ache shot through his temples and straight into his brain. He experienced the same reaction every time he considered what she’d once done. This woman had helped decapitate his friend Baden, once keeper of the demon of Distrust.

Strider could never forget or forgive that fact.

The savage beheading had taken place thousands of years ago, but the pain inside him was as fresh as if it had happened this morning. Along with his friend, a piece of his own soul had died that day, and as the girl had learned during their trek to this fortress, a good portion of his heart had withered, too.

Mercy wasn’t something he possessed. Not anymore. Most especial y not for her.

He thought he’d kil ed her in vengeance already, al those centuries ago. Recal ed the slash of his blade, the crimson tide of her blood and the metal ic stench of death wafting on the air. The sound of her body slamming into rock, her last gurgle of breath. Yet here she was, alive and wel and driving him flipping insane. Maybe he had kil ed her. Maybe she’d been reborn. Or maybe her soul had been stuffed inside another body. Or maybe this chick was more immortal than he was and had somehow healed after the beheading. He didn’t know, didn’t care.

Al that mattered was that she was Hadiee of ancient Greece. Wel , she cal ed herself Haidee now. From Hade-ay to Hay-dee. Evidently she’d changed the spel ing and pronunciation for “modernization.” Not that he gave a shit.

He cal ed her Ex, short for Demon Executioner, and that was that.

The proof of her crimes rested in her eyes. Those wintry, cal ous gray eyes. In the pride that dripped from her voice every time she spoke of that fateful night—I just loved the way his head rol ed. Didn’t you?—and the stark tattoos etched into her back. Tattoos that kept score. Haidee 1.

Lords 4.

She deserved everything he and Sabin would do to her.

“I’m taking her to the dungeon,” he said, and he’d never heard such a combination of relish and regret in his own voice before. Once again he started forward, throwing over his shoulder, “If you’d be a sweetheart and let Doubty-Poo know…”

“No can do, Stridey-man. There’s, uh, something you gotta see.” A blast of fear mixed with dread and grim expectation accompanied the words.

Strider halted, one foot raised midair. He straightened, stil -

sleeping baggage nearly sliding to the ground. Slowly he turned, adjusting Ex, and faced Torin, his own sense of dread sprouting as he spied his friend’s now pal id skin.

White dusted with tiny rivers of blue. “You said everything was fine. What’s wrong?”

Torin shook his head. “No way to explain until you’ve seen.

And I said everything was fine for the most part. Now come on.”

“The girl—”

“Bring her. She’l be guarded, you’l see.” A wave of Torin’s hand, and he was racing up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Dread increasing, Strider fol owed, Ex bouncing on his shoulder. If she’d been awake, she would have lost her breath, over and over again, grunting from the pain of having her stomach repeatedly slammed into his bone. She also would have fought him with a skil matched by few.

Too bad the drugs had been so potent. A good fight would have settled his nerves.

What was so important that Torin didn’t want him taking a few minutes to lock an abominable Hunter away?

His thoughts splintered the moment he hit the landing.

Al he could do was gape. Angels. So many angels. No wonder the house had been redecorated. Divine intervention and al that. Angels did like them some pretties.

They stood along the wal , the only space between them fil ed by the arch of their wings. White feathers laced with gold, the wings of warriors. Their scents perfumed the air, a col age of orchids, morning dew, chocolate and champagne. They ranged in height, though none were shorter than six foot three, and though they wore girly white robes, their muscle mass rivaled Strider’s.

Most were male, but al were demon assassins trained to hunt, to destroy, and when warranted, to protect. Since they didn’t rush at him, ripping swords of fire from the air, as he knew they were very capable of doing, he assumed they were here for the latter.

He studied them, searching for answers. Twenty-three in total, but not one of them glanced in his direction. They kept their eyes straight ahead, their stances taut, their hands anchored behind their backs.

Not a sound did they make.

Not even the rasp of breath.

Physical y, they…entranced him. And yeah, it was embarrassing as hel to admit that, even to himself.

But the sheer magnetism of them was stunning. Hypnotic. A drug for his eyes.

They possessed al different shades of hair. From the darkest of midnight to the palest of snow, but his favorite was the gold. So pure, so fluid, a king’s ransom that had been melted and mixed with the dazzle of summer sun.

Rich, vibrant. Almost…alive. No way he’d be teasing any of them about such prissy locks, though.

They might not be attacking him, might not even be looking at him, but death radiated from them.

Someone cleared his throat.

Strider blinked, Torin coming back into focus. His friend occupied the center of the hal way. Probably had the entire time, only Strider had lost sight of anything but the angels the moment he’d spied them.

Yep. Em-bar-rassing.

“Why?” was al he asked.

Torin understood. “Aeron and Wil iam took Amun into hel on a rescue mission. And yeah, they got Legion out of there. She’s alive, healing, but Amun…”

Strider fil ed in the rest and wanted to punch a hole in the wal . The keeper of Secrets had new voices in his head.

He’d been with Amun for thousands upon thousands of years. Eons, what seemed countless mil ennia.

He knew the warrior’s demon absorbed the darkest thoughts and deepest mysteries of anyone nearby.

Things long buried, horrific, gruesome. Unwanted, humiliating. Soul-changing.

And if Amun had been in hel , where demons roamed in their purest form, his head was now churning with al kinds of evil. Malevolent whispers, wicked images, both drowning the essence of who he was.

Or rather, who he’d been.

“The angels?” Strider gritted out. Yeah, he knew it was rude to discuss the beings as if they weren’t there, but he simply didn’t give a shit. He didn’t love many people, but he loved the other demon-possessed residents of this fortress. Even more than he loved himself, and that was a whole hel of a lot.

“They wanted to kil him, but—”

“Fuck no!” he roared. Anyone touched his friend, and they’d lose their hands—fol owed by their limbs, their organs and, when he tired of torturing them, their lives.

He hefted Ex off his shoulder and into his arms before easing her to the floor and stalking forward, already reaching for a blade.

Defeat sensed his need to destroy and laughed. Win!

“Stop.” Torin raised his arm to ward him off, even as he backtracked to maintain distance. “Let me finish, damn it!

They wanted to kil him, were supposed to kil him, but they haven’t. Won’t.”

Yet hung in the air like a noose around his neck. Strider chose to ignore that noose—for the moment—and stopped, already panting and sweating with the force of his instant and white-hot rage.

Win? his demon whined.

No chal enge has been issued. Therefore, he could back off without consequences.

Oh, he thought he heard, a whole lot of disappointment in the undertone.

“Why are they here, then?” he snapped, demanding an answer now. Or else.

Green eyes grew shadowed as Torin shifted from one foot to the other. His mouth opened and closed, the right explanation eluding him perhaps. “Amun didn’t just absorb new memories. He absorbed demon minions. Hundreds of them.”

“How? How the fuck is that possible? I’ve lived with him for centuries, and he’s never absorbed my demon.”

“Nor mine. But ours are High Lords who can bind themselves to humans. Those were mere underlings, and as you know, they can only bind themselves to, what? High Lords. Which they did, to his.

He’s…tainted now, a danger far worse than the brush of my skin. The angels are guarding him. Limiting the contact he has with others, ensuring he doesn’t leave and…hurt. Himself, humans.”

Strider scowled. Amun rarely spoke, containing the secrets he unwittingly stole inside himself so that no one else would have to deal with them, fear them or be sickened by them.

A grueling burden few could carry. Yet he did it because there was no one more concerned with the wel

-being of those around him. So, a danger? No. Strider refused to believe it.

“Explain better,” he commanded, offering Torin another chance to convince him.

Since they’d reunited a few months ago after centuries apart, he knew Torin was used to his smiles and jokes, but Disease didn’t flinch at Strider’s new vehemence. “Evil seeps from him. Just going into his room, you’l feel its sticky gloom. You’l crave things.” He shuddered. “Bad things. And you won’t be able to simply wish the disgusting desires away. They’l cling to you for days.”

Strider stil didn’t care and stil wouldn’t believe it. “I want to see him.”

Only the slightest hesitation, as if the decree had been expected, then Torin nodded. “But the girl…” His words trailed off.