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Loren stumbled up the steps of the pool, water splashing, her hand clasped tightly in Darien’s. The moon illuminated only one section of the long, dark room, silvery beams falling across the towel racks, the line of rain showers, the lounge chairs set up by the windows.

Darien let go of her hand long enough to grab two towels. “Dry off,” he said, passing her one. She started blotting the water off her body immediately. “We should find the others.”

“What do you think is happening?” she asked, lifting one foot after the other to dry them. “Is it like a Blood Moon or something?”

“I don’t know,” he said, aggressively scrubbing his towel through his hair. He shook the strands out of his face and threw the towel onto the closest lounger. When he looked her way, his face was barely visible in the dark. “You good?”

She was dry enough not to slip, so it would have to do. And she was about to reply, about to drape her towel across the lounger when the limited light in the room abruptly waned.

A mass of white fog had swallowed the yard. It blotted out the moon like a thick wad of cotton; no light could get through.

The bone-chilling wails of civil defense sirens sliced through the neighborhood, echoed by others that were farther away—every siren in the whole city crying out the same warning.

Darien had just reached for Loren’s hand when murky shapes began to move among the fog. Dozens of them. High baying and keening howls cut through the night, and in the distance, people screamed.

Without warning, every window in the room shattered.

No—exploded.

“Watch out!” Darien grabbed her, throwing her behind him as broken glass zipped through the air. She felt Darien wince, breath drawn through his teeth, as a volley of glass fragments buried themselves in his back.

As soon as the glass stopped, the last of the shards tinkling across the floor, Darien whipped around to face the yard, still using his body to shield her as he kicked the towel she’d dropped out of the way.

Loren peeked under his arm to see a pack of bloodthirsty demons stalking into the house on all fours.

The literal definition of the word ‘slayer’ was someone who killed a person or creature in a violent way.

Roman had spent so many years as a Darkslayer, he’d lost count of how many lives he’d taken. Roman knew death so well, had met with the Grim Reaper so many times, he could almost call it a friend.

He could feel death stalking through the shadows of his house now, could feel it consuming people throughout his street and the next one over. And the next. The next. Death had an appetite that was never sated.

But despite how familiar he was with Obitus and the god’s dark devourings, Roman’s whole body prickled with goose bumps at the screams of the frightened, the moans of the dying, the wet gurgles of lungs choking on blood.

Not in his house—not yet. And not at all, if he had anything to say about it.

Fog warnings were always bad—but never had the spells malfunctioned like this, leaving a city of over ten million people vulnerable to demon attack. The fog was like a Blood Moon—it drew every monster out of their dens and thrust them into a frenzy. They had only one need, one purpose: Feed. Without magic to stop them, the monsters could get into any street, any house, no matter how filthy rich the occupants. No amount of money could save you. The rich would die with the poor.

Only the strongest, only the most skilled in magic, would make it through this night.

Glass shattered somewhere downstairs. A deep voice ripped through the house.

Darien.

“Get to the panic rooms,” Roman said to Paxton and Eugene. “Right now—go.”

The kids bolted, but they didn’t even make it three feet before the windows on either side of the front door were smashed out, shards of glass flying. Eugene screamed.

Translucent-skinned demons shoved their way through the window frames, their eyes glowing like suns. More swarmed behind them. All different breeds, but they had one thing in common.

There was a stone pushed into their foreheads. A black stone that pulsed like a long forgotten star.

Deeper in the house, more glass shattered. Guttural snarls, deep baying, and the clicking of otherworldly forms of communication filled every corner, every room. Feet scuttled on the roof, and claws began to rip at the siding on the house, gouging lines and holes.

Paxton rushed to Roman’s side, the gleam of his frightened eyes showing in the dark. “Roman.”

He pulled his brother behind him. “Stay behind me.”

Ivy said, “We need to get upstairs. Darien has a blade in his room—it’s made of black adamant. It’s our best chance at killing these things.”