Remy felt his anger flare, the Seraphim right there, eager to be set loose, but he held its leash tight. “But you didn’t listen.”

Byleth turned in the chair, anger burning in his eyes. “Of course we didn’t listen; even though a Nomad, he was still one of them… still of Heaven. And he wanted the weapons that we didn’t have.”

“What did you do?” Remy asked, already knowing the answer.

Byleth laughed, slumping in the chair. “We saw it as an opportunity,” he explained.

Mulciber was still moaning, attempting to stifle the flow of blood that poured from his damaged nose.

“We captured him,” the Satan continued with a certain amount of pride. “It wasn’t easy—he was strong—but at the same time, I don’t think he had all his faculties. It was almost as if something… some knowledge that he had locked away inside his head had driven him mad.”

It took everything that Remy had not to grab Byleth and beat him senseless. “You captured him and you cut him up,” he said through gritted teeth.

Byleth smiled weakly, knowing that what he had done was wrong, but still taking pleasure from it. “Normally I wouldn’t have had anything to do with it, but with this one… I cut out his eyes.”

Remy’s true nature fought harder than he could ever remember, and he could feel his skin begin to itch—to heat—as the warrior angel rose to the surface, ready to emerge and destroy these abominations in their nest. And Remy doubted that the unleashed Seraphim would have stopped there, flying into the night, hunting every Denizen it could find and destroying them one after the other.

This might have happened—if there hadn’t been a knock at the door.

It was just enough of a distraction to avert disaster.

“Yes,” Byleth called.

The door opened and another of his men stood there. He was holding a cell phone.

“It’s somebody named Mason,” the fallen angel said.

“He says that he’s out back and to tell you that he’s found what you’ve been looking for.”

Remy didn’t like the sound of that.

Byleth pulled himself together, running his long fingers through his straight blond hair. “It appears to be my lucky day,” he said. He removed his sports coat and squatted before the daggers.

“Depends on how you define lucky, I guess,” Remy said, watching as the Satan wrapped the knives in his jacket. “What are you going to do with them?”

“What do you think?” Byleth asked, a nasty glimmer in his eye. “They were to be Lucifer’s. The power of Heaven flows through them. Imagine the clout somebody with these bad boys in their possession would have.”

Remy couldn’t believe his ears. “You can’t be serious,” he said. “There’s something not right about this whole business,” the angel started to explain. “The kind of not right that involves a creature from Hell and an angel driven crazy by guilt. Do you seriously want to wrap this Pitiless albatross around your neck?”

“Losing Heaven nearly destroyed me,” Byleth began. “My time in Tartarus was nothing compared to the pain I felt… still feel… when God took it all away.”

The Satan looked to his men.

“Restrain him,” Byleth commanded.

Mulciber seemed to have learned his lesson; his face stained with blood, he looked to the floor. But not the other, the one that Byleth called Procell.

Remy had wondered about that one, not at all physically imposing, but there was something about him that flashed caution. He planted his feet, preparing for a physical attack that never came.

The fallen angel Procell lifted one of his hands, and Remy noticed the elaborate tattoos—sigils—that had been drawn upon the pale flesh. He didn’t have a chance to react as the Denizen waved his fingers in the air, an incantation of angel magick leaving his lips, cast through the air to ensnare Remy in its ancient power.

It was as if a net had been thrown over him. Remy felt immediately weak, the inner power that he suppressed quieted to an electric thrum. It had been ages since he’d been on the receiving end of angel spell casting, and was amazed that he was still conscious. It was like he’d taken an entire bottle of Vicodin and washed it down with a double-Scotch chaser.

Procell’s lips moved, uttering the same incantation over and over again, reminding Remy of buzzing swamp insects on a hot summer’s night. His eyes looked as though they’d been covered in morning frost.

“You’re making a terrible mistake,” Remy slurred, swaying slightly in the grip of the magick.

“I’ve worked and suffered greatly for what I have now,” Byleth said, holding the wrapped daggers close to his heart. “And no one is ever going to take it away from me again. Lucifer’s loss is my gain.” And with that, he turned toward the door and walked out of the room.

Remy stood there, helpless, wondering how long it would be before they figured out that they didn’t need him anymore.

Procell droned on.

“Would it be rude if I asked you to shut up?” Remy said to the fallen angel, who of course ignored the request.

And then his gaze fell on Mulciber. He saw a glint of maliciousness in the fallen angel’s eyes. “Gonna give a little bit of this pain back,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

Mulciber dug into his pockets to remove what looked like a knife. The blade was short, black, chipped from a larger body of stone. Remy made a mental note to Francis to ask him how the fallen from Tartarus were smuggling the pieces of Hell onto the Earth.

“And you’re just gonna stand there and let me hurt you,” the injured fallen continued.

Remy looked to Procell for backup. “How do you think your boss will feel about this?” he asked.

Procell just shrugged, repeating the incantation again and again, as Mulciber lurched toward Remy.

“First thing I’m going to fuck with is your eyes,” he said.

The fallen angel raised the shark-tooth-shaped blade, making sure that Remy could get a good look. “I’ve let the blade soak in the blood of one of your relatives,” Mulciber whispered, his breath stinking of onions.

“I’ll remember that,” Remy said, his gaze upon Mulciber’s eyes unwavering. “And I’ll remember you.”

The fallen angel laughed, immediately wincing as a new stream of blood started to flow from one of his nostrils.

He sniffled wetly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand as he moved the blade up to Remy’s face. He was just about to insert the point into the corner of Remy’s right eye, when Byleth came back into the room.

The Satan’s expression at first was excited, a flush of pink on his normally pale cheeks, but it quickly dropped when he saw what was about to happen.

“What the fuck is going on here?” he asked in a husky whisper.

Mulciber lowered the blade but stayed close. “I was about to give him a little payback.”

“No,” Byleth simply said.

The injured fallen whirled, knife still in hand. “No disrespect, but he should receive some of what he’s dished out.”

Byleth nodded. “You’re probably right, but not now.”

Remy breathed a sigh of relief, the fear that he might have to wear an eye patch fading away.

Mulciber stepped in close again, the blade slowly rising.

“Is that disobedience I smell?” Remy asked, barely able to hold back his grin.

“Get away from him,” Byleth commanded, and Mulciber backed down, stepping away, the blade disappearing back into his pocket.

“Thanks,” Remy said, turning his eyes to Byleth, who’d come a bit farther into the room.

The Satan smiled mischievously.

“I want to show you something.”

The hall outside the study was paneled with rich, dark oak. Framed black-and-white photographs—from some fabulously chic up-and-coming artist, Remy was sure—adorned the wood walls on both sides.