Oberon threw back his head, screaming in agony. As the king slumped, Abrax grabbed him in his arms. Ursula felt an icy chill ripple through the air as the incubus drained Oberon’s soul.

For a moment, the fae soldiers stood transfixed, as if they weren’t sure if this was all part of the process, until Oberon’s limp body tumbled to the ground.

“Get down,” said Bael, pulling Ursula to the floor and shielding her with his arms. Above their heads, the pikes unleashed their magic like a thousand lightning bolts.

For few moments it was eerily silent, until a voice cried out, “The king is dead!”

Ursula lifted her head. Abrax stood by the throne, Bael’s “wings” clutched in a bloody hand, the body of the king at his feet. Fae soldiers circled him, their pikes ready.

“Your king was weak. It is better that his soul join Nyxobas in his kingdom of eternal night.”

“Avenge the king!” the soldiers shouted, shooting another round of magic. It didn’t seem to touch Abrax, who glided closer to the throne. He chanted in Angelic, moving fluidly in a swirl of black tendrils.

Bael rose, pulling Ursula to her feet with an iron grip. “Get your sword ready.”

Dark mist rose around them again, churning and twisting like a maelstrom. In the center of the vortex, a small figure appeared. With child-like proportions and an innocent face, it could have been a cherub—a theory that was immediately invalidated when it leapt onto a nearby soldier and began tearing the flesh off his face with sharpened teeth. The vortex whirled faster, and more and more of the horrific cherubs appeared, attacking the soldiers with inhuman speed.

Bael pulled her close, shielding her again. “First we kill the Oneiroi. You must move quickly to defeat them. Then, we get my wings.” He released her, and with a bone-trembling battle cry, he charged at Abrax.

Ursula gripped Honjo, her gaze darting around as she tried to figure out what to do. A few feet from her, a soldier writhed on the ground, one of the Oneiroi attached to his head like a leech. Honjo effortlessly sliced the creature from the fae’s scalp.

A blur of movement at the edge of her vision warned her that an Oneiroi was coming her way. She ducked, and as the demon passed over her head she cut her sword upward. Hot ichor splashed in her face. It smelled terrible, like sour milk. Gagging, she wiped it from her eyes.

Hopping to her feet, she spied Bael fighting through a group of the demons. She ran to him, cutting through the necks of two more Oneiroi. This time, she managed to avoid drenching herself in their juices.