Page 22

I t’s bound to be a trap.

As I soar toward the Great Lawn at the center of Central Park the following night, I assess all of the surrounding dangers.

The Great Lawn itself is deserted, and so are the nearby trees and much of the parkland, but as I suspected, the streets on either side of the park’s boundaries are teeming with supernaturals. Far too many to be a coincidence. Especially at this time of night.

I identify shifters and witches—all of them dark magic creatures—along with lower-level demons and even a dark angel.

That last one surprises me. Most dark angels have fallen from the light, actively choosing to turn to the darkness, but this one, judging by the energy surrounding his distant form, was born into the darkness. Incredibly rare.

As intrigued as I am, he’s too young to be of any threat to me, although that may change with time, so I file away his existence for now.

I also take note of human activity within the park itself, like the signs and obstructions strategically placed along walkways to guard against other humans coming near the Great Lawn. They quickly leave again, which is just as well.

Flying across one of the playing fields situated at the edge of the oval-shaped lawn, I alight in the lawn’s center.

I’m early. Midnight is still ten minutes away, but that’s the way I intended it.

I smooth down my hair and check my whip, putting on a nonchalant face while I remain aware of the beings gathering in the far distance.

Soon enough, I spot Slade and Striker making their way along the nearest footpath. Striker’s hand is on Slade’s shoulder, which allows him to take advantage of Slade’s blur. Both of them are completely invisible and undetectable to everyone around them, humans and supernaturals alike.

Except to me.

And my sisters.

I cast a quick question into our hive mind. Are you in position?

We are , they chime.

Unlike Striker, I didn’t promise to come alone, so my conscious doesn’t even twinge.

My forehead suddenly creases. Do I still have a conscience?

Certainly, I have a purpose, but in delivering vengeance, I do terrible things. Is it truly possible to achieve such awful justice while keeping a conscience intact…?

Huh. Well. That’s a fucking existential crisis for another day.

I return my focus to Striker and Slade as they exit the trees and head toward me.

I haven’t seen Slade since the final fight at the Academy. Before that, I killed him. Then brought him back to life. He showed me a rare compassion that I wasn’t expecting from a man with such a brutal occupation.

I envied the love between him and Hunter. I still do.

Dammit . More painful memories connected to my old life.

I shake them off, keeping my senses peeled.

Striker and Slade are now fifty paces away, but where is Vanguard…?

Nowhere to be seen. Not yet, anyway. My sisters also confirm this from their vantage points within the trees.

I stay alert even as Striker’s presence demands my full attention.

He and Slade are both dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts. Neither carries any visible weapons, although Slade’s silver assassin’s ring is a weapon in itself.

Striker’s black hair is less well-groomed than the last time I saw him—a shadow of growth around his jaw and a darkness under his eyes.

He isn’t sleeping well. I don’t need to read his emotions to know this.

As for his feelings, they are completely cloaked.

I refrain from addressing either of them until Striker removes his hand from Slade’s shoulder.

“Fury.” It’s Slade who greets me first, giving a brief bow.

It’s a rare gesture for a Master Assassin to make. They bow to nobody.

I accept the gesture and return the respect, inclining my head. “Legion Master.”

There isn’t time for more before a tingle of magic in the air makes me spin to the empty space on our right.

Three men appear in a burst of energy that quickly fades, revealing their features.

The man on the left is Jonah. He rests one hand on the shoulder of a central man, who is shorter than he, although still approaching six feet. That man has neat hair, bright eyes, and is dressed in a suit, although his collared shirt is unbuttoned. There’s ink on both of his palms.

To other supernaturals, it would probably look like he has tattoos on his hands, but my power allows me to discern that the ink is magical, a kind of conduit that enables him to act without a wand.

The third man, who is standing on the right, also with his hand on the central man’s shoulder, draws my attention.

Vanguard is as my sisters described: tall and brown-haired with a scar running down the left side of his face. The handle of a curved sword is visible at his shoulder. It seems he had no hesitation in bringing a weapon to this meeting.

Striker and Slade both tense. After all, the rules of the meeting were clear: Vanguard was to attend with Jonah and nobody else.

Vanguard quickly raises both of his hands and steps away from the central man.

“This is Orlan,” he says, gesturing to the third man. “He won’t stay. I simply needed a way to travel here quickly. I have no intention of breaking the conditions of our meeting.”

He inclines his head at Orlan, who immediately gives Vanguard a nod and takes a step back. With a clap of his hands and a burst of power between his palms, Orlan disappears.

I’m gratified when Slade and Striker both look at me.

“The warlock is gone,” I confirm.

“Then we should begin,” Striker says, taking a step forward.

I’m surprised at the way his outer facade melts away so quickly to reveal the beast he keeps concealed. The fire in his eyes and the power radiating out from him suddenly drowns out Vanguard’s energy.

Striker isn’t even half-shifted, and his power nearly drives me to my knees.

Was he always this powerful?

I’m certain he wasn’t. Not even at the Academy, where he dominated all of the other students. It’s as if… this calm that he carries now… this quiet strength… has made him even more formidable.

The impact on Vanguard and Jonah isn’t lost on me.

They hide their wariness quickly, but their immediate emotions are open to me. They are far more cautious now than they were even a minute ago.

“You’ve got my attention, Vanguard,” Striker growls, his voice a deep rumble that thrums through me, “but I won’t be drawn into a war. Tell me what you want. Give me your terms for peace, and I’ll consider them.”

Vanguard takes a moment, silently appraising Striker. “For a beast who was built for battle, I’m surprised to hear you speak of peace, Striker Draven.”

Striker’s gleaming eyes narrow. “War is easy. I could cut through your people and not give a fuck about the consequences. Peace requires effort.”

“So it does.” Vanguard scratches his chin. “But in what reality do you imagine my master desires peace?”

Striker takes a step closer to Vanguard, and I don’t miss the way Jonah tenses—or that the air around both men suddenly shimmers with heat.

“Why be enemies when we can be allies?” Striker asks.

Vanguard’s eyebrows rise. “An interesting idea.” He glances at Jonah before replying. “You would propose an alliance with the darkness?”

“I would ensure that my operations do not hinder yours, and I would ignore any activities I might otherwise take issue with. In return, you will leave me and those under my protection alone.”

Vanguard’s eyes narrow. “Your connection with the Assassin’s Legion makes it difficult for me to believe you would adhere to your side of the bargain. Particularly when it comes to looking the other way.”

“I will not pass on information to them,” Striker says. “Your issues with them, and their issues with you, are not my concern.”

Vanguard arches an eyebrow at Slade. “What say you, Legion Master?”

Slade gives a cold smile. “With all due respect to Striker Draven, we do not require his help.”

Vanguard takes a cordial step forward. “Well, my master would be pleased to hear this. A permanent truce, such as he had with Amalia Avery, would be beneficial. Particularly given the rumors of your dark heart, Striker Draven.”

Striker’s amber eyes narrow to glittering strips. “What of them?”

“Well, let’s just say my master hasn’t ruled out the possibility that you might challenge him for his position.”

Striker recoils, a harsh growl leaving his lips. “The fuck?”

I’m surprised that the dark entity would fear this—and then concerned that I hadn’t contemplated the possibility that it could happen, that Striker could challenge the entity for control.

How could I not consider this?

But even as I question myself, the answer comes to me instantly: Striker already made his choice.

I gave him full control of the White Wand and, with it, the chance to command an army of monsters. He was the only one who wasn’t drawn to the wand and didn’t succumb in some way to its magic. Even I was so strongly drawn to it that I risked hurting myself.

He was the only one who had the chance to dominate its power.

I demanded that he choose his path, and he did.

He burned that fucking wand right before my eyes as if it meant nothing, was nothing, had no relevance to him, all the while looking up at me as if…

As if…

I was everything to him.

The dark entity may not know Striker’s heart, but I do.

Striker’s reaction to Vanguard’s suggestion only seems to make the serpent shifter smile.

“The thought never occurred to you?” Vanguard asks, beginning a slow pace to the right.

As he moves, Jonah shifts a little, too, edging closer to me.

Where he stands a step behind Striker, Slade remains alert, his hands steady. He will be ready to draw on his power if he needs it.

Striker responds to Vanguard’s suggestion with a level of disgust in his voice that even I wasn’t expecting.

“It never fucking occurred to me because I have no fucking interest in power,” he snarls.

“All I want is the safety and happiness of the people I care about. I’m warning you right now, serpent.

Either your master accepts the peace I’m offering, or it won’t be a challenge he needs to worry about.

It will be the complete annihilation of his operations. ”

Striker takes a step toward Vanguard. “I will find whatever person or thing he cares about, and I will tear it down and rip it to shreds. I will bring pain and then death.” He takes a breath, visibly restraining his beast’s fury. “Or, your master can choose peace. One or the other.”

Vanguard’s smile only grows, but his voice lowers, a bare whisper on the breeze as he reaches back for his weapon, a bad sign. “I believe you, Striker Draven. But, unfortunately, it doesn’t matter what you’re offering or what my master wants because I can’t allow peace to happen.”

What?

I’m taking a step toward Striker when Jonah leaps at me, moving far faster than I anticipated, a blur of sudden fire blazing across my vision.

His arms close around me, and I prepare to shake him off, ready for my snakes to dart out and bite him, my exhalation filling with the scent of wildflowers and my power of compulsion flooding the air around me, and then?—

Pain .

Shattering agony explodes throughout my body.

More pain than I’ve felt since I became a full Fury.

Pain I shouldn’t be able to feel.

“Forgive me, Fury,” Jonah cries in my ear. “I have no choice.”

My head snaps back, trying to see his icy-blue eyes, a scream ripping out of me as I respond on pure instinct, wanting only to get away from this agony, this burning fire exploding around his chest and arms and enveloping me in a scorching heat.

His hold tightens around me, lifting me off my feet as I scratch and struggle and kick, and still, his fire erupts around me, flames bursting from his body, burning, scorching, eating at my skin and flesh and bones, destroying me even as my body heals and burns again.

I’m screaming, crying, struggling, fighting, clawing as hard as I can to get free, to get away.

Because how?

How is this happening?

Somewhere in the cold recesses of my mind, a horrible thought occurs to me.

Old magic creatures can hurt each other.