Page 8 of Samhain Savior

As more and more eyes turned our way, I could understand his insistence. The demon king may look night and day different from any of the previous human visages he’d worn during his time on earth, but that didn’t stop those around us from sensing his presence.

The kind of power he emanated wasn’t easily disguised, no matter how much he may have changed his look.

I nodded, standing and sweeping my arm wide, preparing a shadow gate large enough to accommodate the five of us. Asmodeus kept his back to the wall, his shrewd gaze sweeping the room continuously, as he waited for the others to enter the gate. Once they were all through, I stepped up, placing my hand on his shoulder, letting him know the way was clear, and he stepped backward, allowing my touch to guide him.

It was the kind of trust that could only be earned through battle and sacrifice. He and I had fought side by side in more wars than the human histories could possibly record, and I had no doubt we’d fight in countless more.

A never-ending cycle of wins and losses that sometimes seemed so pointless I wanted to scream.

And yet, the wheel turned on.

Shaking off my dismal thoughts, I pulled Asmodeus out of the loud, boisterous club and through the shadow gate into the quiet living room of the home I kept in Pittsburgh, letting the gate snap shut behind us.

“Place looks nice,” he said, draping himself casually across one of the over-sized leather chairs as he stared around. “Very modern.”

“As much as I’d love to discuss interior decorating with you,” I deadpanned, moving over to take a seat of my own, my body perched right on the edge, unable to relax until I got some answers. “I believe we have more important things to focus on.”

“Yeah,” said Vine, tossing himself onto the couch and stretching across its length as though he was ready for a nap. “Like where you got that killer jacket.”

Asmodeus grinned, his new face creasing as he stroked one hand down the front of the jacket in question.

“Isn’t it sick? I’m loving this drip.”

I blinked, confused.

“Excuse me?”

“Come on, Archer,” Asmodeus went on, rolling his eyes and I nearly choked.

Who was this person with the face of a young model and an attitude like a new-age mall rat?

“Don’t be hatin’ because you don’t have my style.”

“Do you need help?” I asked, worried that our time apart had rattled his brain.

“He needs an exorcist,” Corson grumbled, and Asmodeus frowned.

“I’m just trying out some of the latest slang,” he said, shaking off the care-free persona, his face settling into something more serious. “Just because we’ve lived through the fifteen hundreds doesn’t mean we have to hold on to their speech patterns. And I’ve been...spending time with someone who wouldn’t exactly appreciate it if I spoke like a Shakespearian player.”

“Spending time? With who?” I blew out a breath, feeling frustrated.

I stared at him, my eyes narrowed suspiciously.

The mention of spending time with someone made me wary. Asmodeus had always been a pillar of control, his focus solely on our cause and the never-ending war we were embroiled in. For him to have changed everything about himself—from his looks to his speech patterns—meant that whoever it was had to be very important.

Or incredibly dangerous.

“Asmodeus, where have youbeen?”

“Modi,” he corrected, and I thought I detected a hint of embarrassment in his tone. “I go by Modi now.”

“Okay. Modi. Will you please tell us what the fuck is going on?”

He sighed, his expression falling into some semblance of the man I remembered.

“The Order of the Broken Veil has risen.”

“Motherfucker.” Mal didn’t speak much, but when he did, he was concise, and almost always accurate.