CHAPTER ONE 

ARCHER

Taking a deep draw on my cigarette, I held the smoke until my lungs burned, savoring it as much as I was savoring the sound of fists hitting flesh. Beside me, Vine stood quietly, his knife dragging long, slow lines across the brick wall he was leaning against, seemingly oblivious to the carnage happening before us.

"Please!" croaked the man Corson was currently throttling against the brick wall, a pathetic witch who had f*cked up big time tonight. The alley we were in reeked of stale beer and p!ss, the stench seeping into my clothes and making my already sh!tty mood plummet even further. "Please, I didn't mean it!"

Blowing out my chest full of smoke, I shook my head, dropping the butt to the ground and crushing it under my heel.

"You didn't mean it?" I questioned, my voice rough. "You hear that, fellas? He didn't mean it."

"Well," Vine drawled, not taking his eyes off his blade. "As long as he didn't mean it, then I guess we're done here."

The relief on the scumbag's face was laughable, but none of us laughed. Corson, however, did tighten his grip on the guy's grubby shirt, the worn fabric tearing beneath the strain and revealing the hodgepodge of runes sloppily tattooed across his pasty chest.

"You see, Hestor," I said, enjoying the way his eyes widened as I stepped close. "There's just one problem. I think you did mean it."

"No! No, I swear it."

"So, you didn't mean to hunt down that woman and carve her heart out of her chest?" Hestor began shaking, his whole body vibrating in fear, and I smiled as the scent of his terror washed over me, covering the underlying acrid stink of witch for just a moment.

Their magic always smelled off to me, like burned sugar and over-ripe flowers. Sickly sweet and nauseating. Add to that Hestor’s particularly bad body odor and what was likely the p!ss dribbling down his leg, and I was about ready to puke.

"You didn't mean to perform the ritual we found you performing, trying to summon lesser demons into my territory?" Hestor started to sob, spit running over his chin as he tried to voice more useless protests.

"I'm sorry. Please. I’m so sorry. I just—”

Corson cut off his feeble protests with another punishing hit to the mouth. I tried to ignore the way he winced every time his fist hit the witch.

Softness had no place here.

"Thank you, Corson. I was getting tired of listening to him whine."

Stepping closer to Hestor, I watched his eyes while Corson transferred his hold to Hestor’s throat, making room for me to stand before the blubbering little witch.

"I've gotta tell you, Hestor, I'm getting awfully sick and tired of this bullsh!t. So, I'm gonna ask you some questions and if I sense even one lie falling out of your sniveling little mouth, I'm gonna do some chest carving of my own, you hear me?" He nodded, his head bobbing rapidly as his eyes opened so wide, I was afraid they'd fall out on the f*cking pavement. "Now, you were found tonight in the process of creating a summoning circle. I want to know why?"

Every witch, warlock, and two-bit magic user on the East Coast knew the deal—you want to summon, you go through the Brotherhood. It was how we'd maintained control since before this country was even founded.

And this little sh!t thought he could circumvent over three hundred and fifty years of Brotherhood law? I didn’t think so. All demon activity passed through us.

Well, what little passed for activity these days, anyway.

And considering how hard the pathetic f*ck of a witch was crying, I was honestly surprised he’d had the balls to try and defy me.

"I can't. I can't, Archer. Please. I want to. F*cking hell, do I want to, but I can't!" he stressed the last word, his eyebrows going up and just as I realized what was happening, Vine let out a hiss.

"He's been bound," he muttered, standing up straight and keeping the knife handy.

Powers rivaling the highest demons in hell, and Vine still preferred to get his hands dirty.

"Motherf*cker."

It had been bad enough when witches performed illegal summonings for personal gain, trapping demon souls into mortal bodies and forcing them to bend to their will. I could understand greed as a motivator.

But a bound witch like Hestor? He was working on behalf of someone else, and that meant whoever was pulling his strings had motivations that were anything but clear.

I snarled, my anger rising inside me, and my magic began to leak out, like steam from a boiling kettle. Exhaling slowly, I watched as my shadows began to gather around my ankles, tendrils of darkness seeking sustenance.

I would feed them soon enough.

Recognizing my shadows for the threat they were, Hestor shuddered, his hands clawing frantically at Corson's wrist, but it was useless. Corson was as immovable as a mountain.

"You do remember that summonings are impossible these days, right?” I snapped, and he nodded pathetically. “So if you know that—if you knew that the gates to Hell were barred to you—then what the Hell were you trying to do?”

Hestor stuttered and stammered, his words coming out in a frantic, garbled mess that revealed nothing.

I sighed. This was getting us no where.

“If you can't tell me anything of consequence, Hestor, then you're no good to me."

Reaching into his shirt, Hestor fumbled for the hex bag he carried there. Holding it aloft, he began to mutter, his whispered words barely audible as Corson continued to hold him tight.

Laughing, I snatched the hex bag off its cord, Hestor’s chanting cutting off with a cry. “Oh, Hestor,” I chided, the contents of the bag burning lightly against my palm as I crushed it in my fist. "Your charms are as useless as you are. How disappointing." I tossed the bag to the ground where it was immediately consumed by my shadows. Letting out a satisfied groan, I cracked my neck to the side as the boost of energy flowed through me.

Hex bags were laughable as protection charms, but they made for a fairly tasty snack.

"Corson. Vine. Show Hestor what the Umbra Fratrum does to witches who disrespect our treaties." I turned away as Vine began to chuckle, the sound low and dangerous.

“It will be my pleasure,” Vine drawled, his wide smile showing off the pointed tips of his teeth as his demon form rose to the surface.

"Make sure he's found, though. I want his mangled corpse to serve as a warning to any other morons who think that our territory is a place to play fast and loose."

"No!" Hestor screeched, his knees giving out as he hung against the wall by only Corson's hand. "It's not my fault! Not my—”

His screams cut off in a wet gurgle as I stepped out of the alley and lit up another smoke.

When it was finished, Corson and Vine joined me, Vine licking the last of the witch’s blood off his fingers.

“I hate it when they’re tainted,” he muttered petulantly. “Dark magic bindings make ’em taste funny.”

“The binding is concerning,” Corson agreed, his brows drawn low. “That’s the third witch in a month we’ve found attempting to summon lesser demons under a binding spell. It’s fishy.”

“Fishy!” Vine said, snapping his fingers. “That’s the taste. Like a dirty fish tank. Ugh.” He shook his head, spitting onto the already filthy sidewalk. “No more fishy witches for me. Don’t let me eat the next one, alright?”

“As if anyone could stop you,” Corson groused, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

They carried on like that, their voices fading into the background as I ignored their antics. I had bigger things to worry about than Vine’s penchant for eating the hearts of spoiled witches.

Shit like this was happening far too often lately. For nearly four hundred years I had ruled this area. My brothers and I had kept the tenuous peace after the absolute sh!t show in Salem.

F*cking witches.

We used to be allies; for centuries, demons and witches had worked together, furthering Lucifer’s ultimate goals for humanity and standing fast against the creeping spread of evil across the world.

But no longer. Those days had long since passed.

But it wasn’t just the witches. Nests of Vampires, long dormant and relatively peaceful, were stirring. Warlocks, shifters, even lesser demons, were suddenly everywhere, having come out of hiding to cause sh!t in every corner of my territory. It was all the Brotherhood could do to keep things under wraps.

For so long we had stood sentinel over humanity, the keepers of the balance between worlds.

No one had dared to stand against us.

But the tides were turning. I could sense it.

Tilting my head back, I took a deep breath, tasting the changes in the air.

For too long we had been working without word from the top. Asmodeus had disappeared, Furcas along with him, and no one had seen or heard from the Dark Lord himself in close to twenty-five years.

With the pathways to Hell barred to all but the dead, those of us still on the surface were working blind. And somewhere out there, someone was trying to topple the entire house of cards.

Whatever was coming hadn’t arrived yet, but I knew it wouldn’t be long. The signs were there for those who knew how to read them. The air itself felt different now—thicker, charged with malevolent potential. In every scream and nightmare tearing through the night, the wickedness lurked. Hidden in every darkened corner where things skittered just out of sight, and embedded in every tortured whisper that drifted on the wind, I could feel it in my bones, watching.

Waiting.

As the old saying went, something wicked this way comes.

But I wasn't worried. Because in this town, I was the wickedest of them all.

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