“I don’t want to know,” Naomi grumbled, punching up the volume of the TV. She pointed with the remote at Justinian, the youngest in the triarii. “And neither do you, so shut it.”

No, they really didn’t want to know.

Naomi—the only one of the triarii who was not Fallen—said to Hunt, “Isaiah told me that Micah wants you two playing investigators tomorrow for some shit in the Old Square. Isaiah will call you after breakfast with the details.”

The words barely registered. Isaiah. Tomorrow. Old Square.

Justinian snorted. “Good luck, man.” He swigged from his beer. “I hate the Old Square—it’s all university brats and tourist creeps.” Naomi and Viktoria grunted their agreement.

Hunt didn’t ask why they were up, or where Isaiah was, given that he couldn’t deliver the message. The angel was likely with whatever handsome male he was currently dating.

As Commander of the 33rd, acquired by Micah to shore up Crescent City’s defenses, Isaiah had enjoyed every second here since he’d arrived more than a decade ago. In four years, Hunt hadn’t seen the city’s appeal beyond it being a cleaner, more organized version of any Pangeran metropolis, with streets in clean lines rather than meandering curves that often doubled back on themselves, as if in no hurry to get anywhere.

But at least it wasn’t Ravilis. And at least it was Micah ruling over it, not Sandriel.

Sandriel—the Archangel and Governor of the northwestern quadrant of Pangera, and Hunt’s former owner before Micah had traded with her, desiring to have Hunt clear Crescent City of any enemies. Sandriel—his dead lover’s twin sister.

The formal papers declared that Hunt’s duties would be to track down and dispatch any loose demons. But considering that those sorts of disasters happened only once or twice a year, it was glaringly obvious why he’d really been brought over. He’d done most of the assassinating for Sandriel, the Archangel who bore the same face as his beloved, for the fifty-three years she’d possessed him.

A rare occurrence, for both siblings to bear an Archangel’s title and power. A good omen, people had believed. Until Shahar—until Hunt, leading her forces—had rebelled against everything the angels stood for. And betrayed her sister in the process.

Sandriel had been the third of his owners after the defeat at Mount Hermon, and had been arrogant enough to believe that despite the two Archangels before her who had failed to do so, she might be the one to break him. First in her horror show of a dungeon. Then in her blood-soaked arena in the heart of Ravilis, pitting him against warriors who never stood a chance. Then by commanding him to do what he did best: slipping into a room and ending lives. One after another after another, year after year, decade after decade.