Page 58

“You're telling me you chose this?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “That you wanted to become... whatever the hell you are now?”

“I'm telling you I did what was necessary,” Cade replied, his voice so cold it burned. “I'm telling you I survived. And I'll keep doing whatever it takes to make sure we all survive what's coming.”

“At what cost?” I demanded, moving closer to him again, refusing to back down. “How many innocent people do we sacrifice along the way? Where's the line, Cade? Because from where I'm standing, you crossed it tonight.”

Cade met my gaze, and for just a second, I thought I saw something flicker in those empty eyes. Pain, maybe. Or regret. But it was gone so fast I might have imagined it.

“There is no line anymore, Sean,” he said quietly. “There's just survival. Just the mission.”

“That's not how we work,” I insisted. “That's not who we are.”

“It's who I am now,” Cade replied, moving toward the door. Each step precise, measured, controlled. Nothing like the man I'd known. “Get used to it.”

He walked out, leaving me standing alone in the war room, surrounded by maps and weapons and blood. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. And that silence scared the hell out of me.

Because for the first time since I'd known him, I had no idea who Cade Cross really was anymore. Or what was left of the man I'd spent six months searching for, who I'd never quite stopped believing in, even when everyone else had given up.

I sank into a chair, the weight of the night's revelations pressing down on me like a physical thing. Asmodeus. A deal Cade didn't remember making. Whatever had been taken from him. Whatever had been left behind.

“I'll fix this,” I promised the empty room, my hands curling into fists on the table. “Whatever it takes, I'll fix this.”

But deep down, I wasn't sure if there was anything left to fix. If the man who'd walked out that door was even Cade anymore. Or just something wearing his face, moving through the world with his memories but none of his humanity.

And the thought of losing him again, after everything we'd been through to get him back, was more than I could bear.

15

THE LAST SEAL

CADE

Iwas still feeling the weight of Sean's glare when Hawk called us over, cutting through the thick silence that had settled between us. The air in the abandoned warehouse seemed to vibrate with unspoken accusations, the concrete walls absorbing our tension like a sponge. I could still feel the phantom weight of the gun in my hand, the lack of hesitation when I'd pulled the trigger on possessed civilians. The emptiness inside me made it too easy to dismiss Sean's anger as unnecessary sentimentality.

But beneath that emptiness lurked something worse—the dawning realization that Sean was right to be horrified. That the old Cade would have been horrified too. That whatever crawled out of Hell wearing my skin wasn't fully me anymore.

I followed Hawk's beckoning hand, deliberately keeping space between myself and Sean. Better to focus on the mission than dwell on what might be broken beyond repair.

The war room was dimly lit, the scent of gunpowder and sweat lingering in the air. Strategic maps covered the makeshift table—an old door balanced on sawhorses—while weapons ofvarious origins hung on the walls in methodical arrangements. Bullets of different calibers were sorted into labeled containers, and ancient texts sat in precarious stacks beside modern surveillance equipment.

Hawk leaned against the table, arms crossed, eyes sharp as his namesake. Blood from a shallow cut along his forearm had dried to a rusty streak, but he hadn't bothered to clean it. His lean frame radiated the particular tension of a lifetime hunter—someone always ready to move, to fight, to kill. The fluorescent light above cast harsh shadows across his face, deepening the lines of exhaustion and highlighting the strange intensity in his gaze.

“You held up your end,” he said, voice like gravel against stone. “Now, here's what I know.” There was no gratitude in his tone, no relief at our success. Just the flat acknowledgment of a transaction completed. Business as usual in the hunting world where survival was payment enough.

Sean stayed tense beside me, shoulders rigid, jaw working silently. He stood close enough to fight alongside me if necessary but far enough away to make his displeasure known. The silent treatment wasn't Sean's usual style—he preferred direct confrontation, heated words, even physical altercations. This cold distance spoke volumes about how deeply my actions had disturbed him.

Hawk's eyes flicked between us, noting the tension with a hunter's observational skills. His expression remained neutral, but something shifted in his stance.

“Problems?” Hawk asked, the single word laden with meaning.

“Nothing that affects the job,” I replied before Sean could speak. The lie tasted stale on my tongue.

Hawk didn't look convinced, but he didn't press. In our world, personal drama was irrelevant against the backdrop of impending apocalypse.

“What do you know about the seals?” Hawk asked, shifting seamlessly from observer to interrogator. He pulled a leather-bound journal from inside his jacket—the pages yellowed with age, the binding reinforced with what looked suspiciously like sigils drawn in blood.

“Only what Sterling told you,” I said, the lie sliding easily from my lips, smooth and practiced despite the omission of Cassiel, of my own mark, of the visions that still plagued me.

Half-truths were safer than full disclosure. Hawk was Hallow-trained, after all, and Hallow hunters were notoriously black-and-white in their approach to supernatural beings. If Hawk knew about the mark, about my demonic connection—well, I'd seen how Hallow hunters “dealt with” such complications.