There was another present—another who hung close to the shadows, watching the birth of the deadly armaments.

Having completed the second of the pair, the angel weaponeer turned, holding the glowing daggers in hand, presenting them to the figure cloaked in shadows. The light shining from the still-white-hot metal dispelled the pockets of darkness within the workshop, revealing the figure that stood there in wait.

As beautiful as Remy remembered him to be, he was adorned in armor the color of the sun’s rays, his sharp, noble features looking as though they had been sculpted by a master’s hand… which they had.

He was the first of the angels, and favorite to the Almighty.

He was the son of the dawn… the Morningstar.

He was Lucifer.

And the Pitiless belonged to him.

Remy awoke with the warmth of the Morningstar’s radiance still upon his face.

He was lying on his back upon a plush leather sofa, arms draped across his chest, a Pitiless dagger still clutched tightly in each hand. They were still whispering to him, attempting to pull him back into the visions of their violent glory, but he’d had just about enough of that.

Rising to a sitting position, he forced his cramped fingers open, allowing the twin blades to fall to the Oriental rug on the floor beneath him.

A fire burned cozily in the large marble fireplace across from where he sat, and he looked around the room at the beautiful floor-to-ceiling bookcases that covered three of the walls.

He was in somebody’s study; he could at least figure that out. But whose was the million-dollar question.

The back of his head throbbed, and his body ached in places where he didn’t think it was possible to ache. The animal… he’d been fighting the animal when he’d been knocked cold. Remy touched the back of his head, wincing from the tenderness there.

The door into the study opened, and a large, bald-headed man, who Remy could sense was a Denizen, peered in at him.

“Hey,” Remy said, having never seen the man before. He was hoping for some answers.

The man didn’t respond. Instead he turned to somebody outside the room. “He’s awake, sir,” the fallen angel said as he stepped back into the hallway.

Remy rubbed gently at the back of his head, trying to make the throbbing pain go away. It wasn’t doing much, but the continuous ache was helping to clear away the fog that had settled over his brain.

The bald man appeared in the doorway again, opening the door wider for another to enter, a tall, handsome figure with long blond hair that came down to his broad shoulders. And Remy then knew where he had ended up, but not how he had gotten there. Another heaping portion of mystery, on an already overflowing plate.

Yum.

“Hello, Byleth,” Remy said from the couch, eyeing the daggers to make sure they were within reach.

Byleth smiled as he strolled into the study, dressed in dark slacks and sports coat. The bald man came in as well, as did another Denizen lackey. They eyed him with distaste, which Remy could understand. He doubted they had much opportunity to mingle with Seraphim since their fall from grace, and imagined that his presence would likely remind them of things they’d rather remain forgotten.

“It’s good to see you, Remiel,” Byleth said, using his angelic name. “Or would you prefer that I call you Remy?” he asked with a chuckle.

Remy shrugged. “It’s been a long time since the old name actually meant something to me,” he said. “You can call me what you like.”

Byleth brought a long-fingered hand to his chest. He wore a red silk shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal part of a pale, muscular chest. There were gold chains around his neck. “I actually go by William these days,” he said, turning to approach a wooden cabinet in the corner.

“Drink?”

He opened the doors, removed a cut-crystal decanter, poured one glass, and then another. He delivered one to Remy on the sofa.

“William,” Remy said, taking the offered drink. “I wouldn’t figure you for a William.”

“No?” Byleth asked, taking a sip from his own glass.

Remy drank as well. It was Scotch, a really good Scotch—better than the stuff he’d drunk the other night with Mulvehill.

But would a Satan of the Denizen underworld serve anything less? Remy doubted it.

He’d heard through the grapevine that Byleth had taken the title but had preferred not to give it much thought.

The Denizen crime lord took a seat in the chocolate brown leather wingback chair across from Remy, beside the fireplace. He crossed his legs, resting the glass of fine Scotch on his knee.

“First I want to thank you,” he said with the slightest of nods.

“For?” Remy asked.

“You tried to keep my men from getting killed,” he explained. “I appreciate the gesture.”

“I was mainly looking out for myself,” Remy said, taking a small sip from his glass. “Knew that whatever the hell it was would be coming for me eventually, and I wasn’t wrong. You wouldn’t happen to know how I survived the encounter, would you? Last thing I remember I was about to have my face bitten off.”

“One of my people; he managed to empty a gun into the back of the animal’s head.”

“Kill it?” Remy asked.

Byleth shook his head. “But it seemed to take enough of the fight out of it so that he could bring you here,” he said.

“I’m pretty sure it was looking for these.”

Remy prodded the knives lying on the rug with the toe of his shoe.

“I think you’re right,” Byleth agreed, eyes momentarily fixed on the weapons at Remy’s feet.

“Any idea what that thing was exactly?” Remy asked. “It smelled like Hell.”

“From the description my man gave me, I’m not surprised that it did.” The Satan smiled slyly, drinking more of his Scotch.

“No, it smelled like the place,” Remy corrected. “It smelled like the place where God sent you and your lackeys when you decided to follow another leader.”

Byleth chuckled. “I know what you meant.”

Remy wasn’t laughing, waiting to see if the fallen angel would give him any more.

“The inmates of Tartarus call them Hellions,” Byleth went on, “a form of life especially created by our loving Lord God to hunt down any who might have the good fortune of escaping Tartarus to the wastelands.”

The Satan went eerily quiet, his eyes glazing over as he enjoyed more of his drink.

“What’s a creature of Hell doing on the streets of Boston?” Remy asked with a snarl, feeling his patience being seriously tested.

“You said it yourself,” Byleth commented, and pointed to the twin objects at Remy’s feet. “It probably has something to do with them.”

“Great,” Remy scoffed, taking a large gulp of Scotch to fortify himself.

Byleth laughed out loud. “It’s good to see you again, Remiel,” the fallen angel said. “It really is.”

Remy did not answer, swallowing the alcohol, allowing himself to feel its warmth spread through his chest. And as much as he cared not to, he remembered the last time he had seen Byleth.

When they were still brothers in service to God.

Before Byleth’s fall.

Eden, Before the War

“There you are, Byleth,” Remiel of the Heavenly host Seraphim said, dropping from the rich, blue sky, his magnificent wingspan spread wide as he slowed his descent to touch down in the lush Garden below him.

“Shh,” the angel of the host Virtues hissed as he peered through the thick underbrush at something Remiel could not yet see.

“What is it?” he asked, moving aside the thick vegetation to see what it was that so captivated Byleth.

There were two creatures; the female appeared to be bathing, while the other—the male—lay in a patch of warmth, one of the animal residents of the Garden, a large cat, its orange body adorned in black vertical stripes, lounging beside him.