A definite flaw in the system, he thought, that taking out a Cornerstone could dismantle the entire thing. But they were called “Cornerstones” for a reason.

He dropped the shovel atop the now dead stone, then climbed from the hole. He pulled off the vest and tossed it in, too, then ran a hand through hair tousled by the release of magic. He shook it off, the dregs of that old spell, and felt his bones settle comfortably again, relieved of the itch of the city’s defenses.

Then he looked at the western horizon. The wave would travel, and they would know this wall was gone. They would know he had opened the door for them just a bit more.

Jonathan Black smiled as the sun passed overhead and the world moved one degree closer to dusk.

“Come in,” he murmured in that long-dead language to anyone who might hear. “I’ve prepared the way.”

A thousand miles away, a hundred miles away, they began their march toward Chicago—the city where demons were welcome once again.

Keep reading for an excerpt from the first Captain Kit Brightling Novel

THE BRIGHT AND BREAKING SEA

Available now from Berkley

There was a ribbon pinned to her coat, and a dagger in her hand. And as Captain Kit Brightling stared down at the little wooden box, there was a gleam in her gray eyes.

Two months of searching between the Saxon Isles and the Continent. Two months of sailing, of storms and sun, of crazed activity and mind-dulling monotony.

They hadn’t been sure what they’d find when the Diana set sail from New London—the seat of the Isles’ crown, named for the city rebuilt after the Great Fire’s destruction—only that they’d almost certainly find something. It had been nearly a year since the Gallic emperor Gerard Rousseau was exiled to Montgraf, since the end of the war that had spread death across the Continent like a dark plague. Gerard had finally been beaten back, his surrender and abdication just outside the Gallic capital city, Saint-Denis. The island nation of Montgraf, off the coast of Gallia, was now his prison, and a king had been installed in Gallia again.

There were reports of Gerard’s growing boredom and irritation with his exile, with the inadequacies of the island he’d been exiled to, with the failures of his replacement. There were rumors of plans, of the gathering of ships and soldiers, of missives sent across the water. Queen Charlotte had bid Kit, the only captain in the Queen’s Own Guards, to find those missives.

They’d patrolled the Narrow Sea that separated the Isles from the Continent, visiting grungy ports and gleaming cities, trading for information, or spreading coin through portside taverns when tipple loosened more tongues. Then they’d found the grimy little packet ship twenty miles off the coast, not far from Pencester. And in the captain’s stingy quarters, in a drawer cleverly concealed in his bunk, they’d found the lovely little box.

She couldn’t fault its design. Honey-colored wood, carefully hewn iron, and brass corners that gleamed even in the pale light of dawn. It was intended to hold secrets. And given its lock—a rather lovely contraption of copper and iron gears—hadn’t yet been triggered, it still did.