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“I am Cassiel,” he stated, as if this explained everything.

“That supposed to mean something to me?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice from wavering. Outside, I heard the distant sound of an engine approaching—one I recognized. Cade. About bloody time.

“You crossed my path,” Cassiel said, taking another step closer. “You and your marked companion.”

“My what?” The mention of Cade sent a chill through me. “How do you know about?—”

“I see more than your eyes can perceive, Sean,” he interrupted, my name sounding alien in his mouth. “I see the darkness that hunts you. The truth in your blood.”

“Stay back,” I warned, cocking my weapon. The sound echoed in the empty room.

Cassiel stopped, looking at my gun with mild curiosity, like a scientist observing an interesting but harmless specimen. “Your weapon cannot harm me.”

“Yeah? Well it'll make me feel a whole lot better to try.”

The tires screeched outside, and I felt a surge of relief. Cade was here. Not that it would necessarily help against whatever this Cassiel thing was, but I'd rather face the unknown with backup than alone.

Cassiel's head turned toward the sound, then back to me. “Your friend has arrived.”

10

CHOSEN AND DAMNED

SEAN

The door splintered open behind me as Cade burst into the room, gun already drawn and aimed at Hayes—or whatever Hayes had become. Without hesitation, he fired.

The gunshot echoed through the abandoned house, a deafening crack that should have ended things. But it didn't. Cassiel just stood there, looking at the hole in his chest with mild curiosity, like a man noticing a stain on his shirt. No blood. No pain. Nothing. Just a perfect round hole in the fabric where the bullet had passed clean through.

“What the feck?” I muttered, relief flooding through me at Cade's arrival even as the situation remained dire.

The air in the house felt charged, like the moment before a lightning strike, and the smell of gunpowder hung heavy between us. My pulse hammered in my ears as I watched Cassiel, waiting for him to fall, to bleed, to do anything a normal being would do after taking a bullet to the chest. But he just stood there, unperturbed, studying us with those cold, ancient eyes.

Cade didn't hesitate. Fifteen years of hunting had taught him not to waste time when plan A failed. He lunged forward with the fluid grace of a predator, pulling his demon dagger free in a sharp, practiced motion. The silver blade with its engraved symbols caught the dim light as he plunged it deep into Cassiel's torso, right where the heart should be.

Nothing happened. No flash of light, no dying scream, no crackling energy. The blade sank into Cassiel's body as if he were made of warm butter, but his expression didn't change. He simply stood there, regarding Cade with that unnervingly calm stare, like a scientist observing an interesting but ultimately harmless specimen.

“Are you done?” Cassiel asked, his voice flat and emotionless, devoid of even the faintest hint of discomfort.

Cade yanked the blade out and stepped back, his breath coming quick but controlled. I recognized the look on his face—part confusion, part calculation. The wheels turning behind those eyes, trying to figure out what the hell we were dealing with. The silver blade gleamed clean in his hand; no blood, no ichor, nothing to suggest it had just been buried six inches deep in a living being's chest.

“Demon daggers work on everything,” Cade said, his voice tight with frustration. I'd seen him kill a dozen different types of creatures with that blade. Demons, shapeshifters, even a particularly nasty Fetch. Nothing supernatural had ever just shrugged it off like this. Not even the most ancient vampires we'd faced or those black-eyed bastards from Queens.

Cassiel tilted his head, regarding Cade with something almost like pity, the gesture reminding me uncomfortably of a bird of prey studying a field mouse. “Not everything,” he replied simply.

The wound in his chest where the bullet had torn through was already closing, the torn fabric of his coat mending itselfbefore our eyes. Same with the stab wound, the hole sealing shut like it had never been there. No scar, no mark, no evidence that he'd been attacked at all.

“Well, shit,” I muttered, adjusting my grip on my own weapon. Not that it would do any good, but the familiar weight in my hand was reassuring. The cold metal grounded me, kept me focused when everything else seemed to be sliding sideways into the realm of the impossible. “Cade, any bright ideas?”

Cade's jaw tightened, the muscle there twitching like it always did when he was thinking fast and coming up empty. He glanced around the room, probably looking for anything we could use as a weapon. Holy water. Salt. Iron. The usual arsenal against the supernatural.

“Holy water?” he suggested, his free hand already moving toward the flask in his jacket pocket.

“You think that'll work when silver didn't even scratch him?” I reminded him, nodding toward the blade Cade tried earlier. The silver-edged knife had practically bounced off Cassiel, not even leaving a mark. “Whatever this thing is, it's not responding to our usual arsenal.”

“Iron? Salt?” Cade pressed, not ready to give up.

“The blade was silver-edged,” I pointed out. “Fat lot of good that did. If silver doesn't work, I doubt the rest of our trick bag will either.”