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A soul. The essence of a person, the core of their being, the source of their humanity. Gone.

The words hit like a punch to the chest, stealing my breath. Everything suddenly made terrible sense—Cade's emotional detachment, his lack of hesitation when killing, the absence of the moral compass that had once defined him.

He wasn't broken or traumatized or changed by hell. He was incomplete. Fundamental pieces of him were missing.

Cade looked between us, still breathing hard from the invasive examination. “...What?” His voice held confusion but not the horror the statement deserved—further evidence of the diagnosis.

He straightened slowly, pulling away from my supporting grip. “That's not possible. I'm here. I'm me.” But the protest lacked conviction, as if even Cade recognized the hollowness of his words.

I could only stare at him, seeing Cade—truly seeing him—for the first time since his return. The subtle wrongness I'd been noticing all along, the nagging sense that something fundamental had changed—it wasn't my imagination or paranoia.

Cade was hollow. The body had returned from hell, but the soul—the essence that made him Cade Cross—was still missing.

And in that moment of clarity, I faced the most terrifying question of all: if Cade's soul wasn't in his body, where was it? And what would it take to get it back?

17

THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

SEAN

“What if I don't want it back?”

I stared at him, waiting for the punchline, for the hint of a joke, for anything that would tell me he wasn't serious. But his face remained impassive, those familiar eyes now hollow mirrors reflecting nothing back.

“You can't be fecking serious,” I finally managed, my voice hoarse.

Cassiel stood silently in the corner, his expression unreadable, watching our exchange with that otherworldly stillness that always reminded me he wasn't human. His trench coat was rumpled as usual, his tie askew, but his eyes were sharp and focused.

Cade shrugged, the gesture so casual it made my blood boil. “It makes me a better hunter.”

I couldn't hold back. “A better hunter?” My voice came out sharp, almost dangerous. I stepped forward, fists clenched at my sides. “That's not you talking, Cade. That's not you.”

“Isn't it?” He tilted his head, studying me with clinical detachment. “I'm faster. Stronger. I don't hesitate. I don't let emotions cloud my judgment.”

“You don't feel anything at all,” I shot back. “You're just going through the motions.”

“So what?” Cade's voice remained calm, infuriatingly reasonable. “I get the job done. Isn't that what matters? I'm more effective now than I ever was before.”

“Effective?” I spat the word. “You're talking about killing people, Cade. Possessed people we could have saved. You didn't even try to exorcise them.”

“They were already dead,” Cade countered. “The demons had them for weeks. You know the odds.”

“We've saved people possessed longer than that!” My voice echoed against the warehouse walls. “But you didn't even consider it. You just pulled the trigger. Again and again.”

Cade's expression didn't change. Not a flicker of remorse, not a shadow of doubt. Nothing.

“It was the right call,” he said simply.

“Jaysus Christ,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “Listen to yourself.”

“I am listening,” Cade replied. “And for once, I'm thinking clearly. No guilt. No second-guessing. Just the mission.”

I glanced at Cassiel, looking for backup, but the angel was watching the exchange with grim fascination, his head tilted slightly in that birdlike way of his. I turned back to Cade, struggling to keep my voice steady.

“This isn't about the mission,” I said. “This is about you. The real you. Not this... shell.”

“Maybe the real me was the problem all along,” Cade suggested, spreading his hands. “Ever think of that? Maybe I was too soft, too hesitant. Maybe that's why we've lost so many.”