Page 55 of Love At the Gates of Hell (The Seven Sinners Trilogy #1)

“That’s not a risk I’m willing to take,” he said, shaking his head. “Frank is untouchable until the blood moon, and if we make a move, we’re only hurting Benny in the process.”

“So we just give him the ruby?” Cleo asked, exasperated.

Gideon poured himself a hefty glass of whiskey. “We follow the rules until we get her back, and then we blow the whole goddamn thing up.”

“You’ve got a plan, love?” Harker asked.

“The workings of one,” he replied before taking a sip.

“I think this is where I can be of assistance,” Tefi said.

Gideon was half asleep and more than half drunk, his body sprawled out on the sofa in the living room.

It was pretty late. Or really early. He couldn’t tell.

His phone was somewhere in the kitchen and his whole body felt heavy.

Too heavy to take the few steps and check.

Instead, he sank back into the cushions, his eyes drifting to the window.

The moon was glowing, the color vibrant as it approached the eclipse.

They just had to make it a little bit longer.

His fingers skimmed across the worn leather cover of the small book that sat beside him on the sofa.

Benny had shared it with him the night before, after they’d made love on the rooftop.

It had a necklace tucked inside, a small gold pendant on a thin gold chain.

He picked it up, the chain wrapped around his fingers, the woman in the chariot reminding him of Benny.

He clutched it in his hand as he let his eyes close. He was so tired. But every single time he tried to fall asleep, he thought of some new concern or risk—another way they could fail while trying to stop the ritual. Another way to fail Benny.

Fuck.

Just when he thought the risk was worth it, she was taken away from him.

A window rattled, the wind rustling outside.

He blinked open an eye with a groan, rubbing a hand over his face.

The loft was empty. Everyone had left hours ago, leaving Gideon the freedom to drink a little too much whiskey and fall into a healthy pit of self-loathing.

He hadn’t even changed, though he had at least unbuttoned his tuxedo shirt, his white undershirt untucked from his tuxedo pants.

The rattle came again, but this time from beneath his feet, the floorboards shaking along with the window jambs.

Like the loft was somehow on an earthquake fault line.

He jolted upright, nearly tripping over his own two feet as a creature appeared suddenly in the middle of the living room, looming over him in a flash of blinding bright light.

He staggered back, the sofa preventing him from flying back.

“Be not afraid, Gideon.”

“Jesus fuck —”

The winged creature was almost impossible to look at dead on, the more he tried the more his vision would blur.

He shielded his eyes with his hand, the intensity of the light surrounding the creature almost too much to bear.

But if he looked at it just right, he could see the face of a man with delicate nondescript features, nearly covered by wings—many pairs of wings.

And on either shoulder sat three other bodies, three other heads.

One belonging to an ox, one to a lion, the last one an eagle.

They stood on one set of legs, the soles of their feet like the hooves of the ox floating before him.

Four pairs of wings. Four bodies. Four voices.

“You will not be harmed,” they said.

Each head spoke with its own unique voice, the sound amplified and echoed.

“Great, what a relief,” Gideon replied, oddly more intrigued than horrified, wondering if he hadn’t had too much to drink after all. “So what are you doing in my living room?”

“We are here to deliver a message,” they replied. “There is a battle to come, and you must play your role, Gideon Crawford. You must let the witch burn brightly.”

Gideon blinked.

“Hold on,” he said, waving his hand. “What do you mean, I have a role? What is this? What are you?”

“There is an order,” they said. “The heavens have set a path that must be followed.”

He shook his head.

“Heaven?” he asked, incredulous. “Oh, fuck off. I can suspend my disbelief for a lot of shit but—”

“We are only the beginning of what you will encounter.”

“And what the hell am I encountering currently?”

“We are cherubim,” they replied. “Agents of the gods.”

“Plural? Gods, plural?” Gideon coughed.

“There are many gods, Gideon Crawford,” they said.

“Just as there are many devils in this world. Or do you not know of your brother’s affliction?

Halmanthoran is just the first of what is to come.

Seven sinners will bring seven atrocities.

The witch of the dawn must die, or there will be no atonement.

No forgiveness. Her death is essential.”

He felt a little nauseous.

“I have no intention of letting anything happen to Benny.”

“Death can be a gift,” they said. “Do not fail at this.”

And before Gideon could respond, the bright and blinding light seemed to cave in on itself, the creature disappearing into a vortex of wind.

He stood there, breathless, the loft left silent with its departure.

He rubbed his hand over his face, his eyes blinking as he tried to wrap his head around what the hell just happened. Did it happen?

Had he just imagined it?

But a part of him knew it had been real.

It spoke to every fear Benny had. Every fear he brushed aside.

Her death is essential.

He sat down on the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees as he lay his face in his hands. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.