A sudden urge to reach out and run his fingers over the fine lines etched into her skin was almost too hard to ignore. He clenched his fists, then picked up the spaghetti. “I doubt our stories are the same.”

She supported her chin with her folded hands. “Let me take a guess. Your mother committed suicide. You’ve never met your father. Blah…blah…blah.”

He froze, feeling the skin between his brows puckering. “Don’t go there.”

“Listen, Michael. We’ve all been there. My mother and Luke’s mother?” she said softly. “All of our mothers died by their own hand, and none of us have ever had the misfortune of meeting our fathers.”

He slammed the container of spaghetti down. The edges of the box split, spewing uncooked noodles across the counter. “My family is not something I will ever discuss with you.”

She leaned back, staring at the noodles. “I know this is hard for you. I know every rational bone in your body is telling me to screw off, but there has to be some part in you that knows what you are. You sensed I was in here, didn’t you? You knew.”

“Not a single part of me believes I’m a damn half-breed whatever! Okay?” He swiped the noodles off the counter, and they bounced off the tile. “I’m never going to believe that.”

“You just don’t want to believe it, but you know it’s true. Do you want to know why your mother killed herself? It’s the same reason for all of our mothers! Loving an angel—a Fallen angel—drives you insane. It may only take days, or it may take years, but the end is always the same!”

He came around the counter, hands balled into fists. “Get the hell out of my apartment!”

She didn’t move. “Michael, you have to listen to me!”

He stepped up to her. Damn, he was a good foot taller and probably had a hundred pounds on her, but the little thing held her ground. She had balls. He’d give her that. “Get out—” He stopped, going cold for no reason, feeling off-balance. It was the way he had felt before opening the door to his apartment, but worse. Worse than when he saw that boy and heard him scream.

“Shit.” Lily’s eyes narrowed into thin slits as she reached into her back pocket, yanking out her cell. “Luke? Where are you? I have at least three minions and, I don’t know, two or three deadheads. Yeah, gotcha.” She snapped the phone shut, brushing past him. “Do the stairs in the hallway lead to the rooftop?”

He had already drawn his gun. “Yes. Why?”

Lily glanced at the gun. “I hope that has the kind of caliber that leaves a big hole.”

His insides tightened, and he swallowed. There was…something coming. Goddamn it all, he could feel it. The sensation slithered through him, leaving behind tendrils of dread. But the gun was a reassuring weight in his hand. “Why?”

“Because that gun isn’t going to do shit for what’s coming. We need to get out of here and now.”

Chapter Eight

Color Lily surprised when Michael didn’t question her. She could feel him at her back when she went to the door. “Damn it. They’ve found you out, buddy.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I warned you. So did Remy and Luke. But we didn’t think it would happen so soon, because they hadn’t found you before.”

“If they are after anyone, it’s you,” he said. “You brought this bad shit on me.”

“Ha!” She grasped the doorknob. “I thought cops had to be smart. You, my dear, are as dumb as a deadhead.”

He tried pushing past her, but she blocked him easily. “Let me check the hallway.”

“Really?” she drawled slowly. “You want to try that one out and see what happens? Get back. Watch and learn, Mikey.”

Sparks practically flared from his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

Flipping him off, she yanked open the door. On the other side of the threshold stood a minion dressed in a business suit. He would have looked rather normal if it wasn’t for the dead eyes and twisted mouth.

Michael raised his gun, but she was faster. The daggers came out of her silver cuffs as she shoved one deep into the minion’s chest. He jerked back before he fell to the floor. He didn’t even get a chance to make a sound. That’s how she liked them, silent and dead.

“One down,” she counted airily, “two to go!” She stepped over the already dissolving body. “Maybe I underestimated the deadhead count. There’s more than three.”

Michael came up beside her. “I’m getting this weird feeling you may be enjoying this.”

Shrugging, she edged around the hallway. “What can I say? It’s the little things.”

His eyes rolled. “How many do you think there are?”

“Maybe five.” The light in the hallway flickered and then went out. She bit back a bored sigh. They always had to be dramatic, flaunting their evil bag of parlor tricks as if it would actually scare her.

“What the hell?” he muttered behind her.

“Don’t pay attention to that. Stairwell anywhere nearby?”

He gestured across from her. “Why not go downstairs?”

“You would think that.” She sighed. “All right, Mikey Mike, things are about to get a tad bit messy.”

“What?” He stopped behind her.

“Whatever you do”—she reached the stairwell—“please do not shoot me accidentally.”

He snorted. “I have better aim than that, thank you very much.”

“I hope so.” She opened the door and stepped into the stairway. Thankfully, the lights were still on there. Although she could see fine in the dark, she wasn’t sure where Michael was with that, and she didn’t want him fumbling with the gun in the dark.

They weren’t in the stairwell for five seconds before the door busted open a floor below. She glanced down. “How many floors is this?”

“Ten.”

“And we are on what floor?”

“Five,” he responded a little impatiently.

Damn it, she hated running up stairs. “Mikey, get behind me.” When he gave her a me-man-you-woman expression, she physically pushed him up a step. It was just in time, because what sounded like a herd of elephants rounded the level below them. She leaned over, peering down.

Goody gumdrops, we’re about to have a party.

Two possessed humans—deadheads—sprang around the corner, clamoring over one another. The younger one looked about twenty-five and was drooling. She grimaced. The other was fresh and frighteningly fast. Behind them was a minion calling the shots, and she knew there were at least two more deadheads and another minion somewhere.

A voice rang out, echoing through the brick stairwell. “Kill the female. Do not kill the male.”

Lily tipped her head back at the startled man behind her. “And I’m the one bringing you the bad shit?”

His eyes were wide in disbelief.

“Shoot them in the head. It will slow them down.” She turned back to the deadheads. “Don’t worry about their bodies. I’ll take care of them before anyone has a chance to call the police.”

The fresh one crested the landing, wearing gym shorts and Nike shoes. Apparently they had gotten her on an evening run. An iPod was still hooked to her arm, creating the illusion she was still human. It was all rather disturbing. Once she got a sight of Lily, she laughed hysterically. “Kill the female,” she sang. “Kill the female.”

Lily arched a brow at her. That one definitely did not have a singing career in her future. Or breathing. She leaned back just as a gun went off in her ear. She flinched as the bullet zinged past her face, smacking into the woman’s chest. Sweet baby Jesus! She patted her cheek to make sure he didn’t graze her.

The runner glanced down at her top. There was a hole in her shirt a few inches off from her heart. “Kill the female.”

“The head, Michael!” she yelled. “I said the head!”

He gaped. “Holy shit.”

Exactly. She leaned back, planting her foot right in the face of the woman. The deadhead stumbled backward, crashing into the slower one. A middle-aged man who had the appearance of a professor lifted his head, roaring a string of guttural words.

“Get up the steps, Michael.” She went down a step, kicking the runner again. This time the deadhead fell back against the wall with an enraged scream. “And don’t shoot again, okay? Just put the damn gun away!” With that, she hopped down next to the professor and slammed the dagger into his chest. He toppled over the railing and, as he fell, his skin began to flake off.

The woman struggled to her feet, and Lily whirled to face her. Instead of listening, Michael was now on the landing beside her.

Apparently, he’d decided bullets weren’t effective. He pistol-whipped the deadhead. Her head snapped to the side with a sickening crunch. Even with her neck broken, she managed to turn back to Michael and laugh.

“Screw this,” he whispered as he fired the gun at point-blank range in her forehead. She fell backward and slid to the floor, twitching and screeching.

Lily sidestepped the runner’s flailing legs, bringing the dagger down. Such a shame. The girl had been pretty.

“Stab them in the chest with this type of silver etched with holy symbols and they are done for. Anyplace else is just going to hurt like crazy and piss them off,” she informed him coolly. “Those bullets are pretty damn useless.”

Michael stared at her. “Are you trying to teach me?”

She pushed him up the steps. “Get.”

“Nephilim,” called the minion from the landing below, “wanna play?”

Taking a deep breath, Lily turned and smiled. Like the one from the previous night, this minion was young, but the similarities ended there. Instead of black hair, his hair was dyed ice blond, and he didn’t bare any of the gothic trappings. He looked rather preppy in his pressed polo and designer jeans, smiling up at her.

She positioned herself in front of Michael, hoping he didn’t bum-rush past her like an idiot. “William, how have you been? Grow back that finger?”

The grin slipped from the minion’s face. “Why don’t you come down here and find out?”

She pretended to consider his request. Most minions were all fight and no brains, but William retained his cognitive thinking skills, and he had a couple of scores to settle with her. One of them involved the four-fingered left hand.

Edging Michael back, she sensed another was coming up behind William. Stuck in a cramped landing wasn’t the ideal place to take care of business. “So who’s holding your leash, Willy?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Not convinced, she rolled her eyes. It was more likely for her to kiss William’s rosy butt cheek before one of the Fallen actually involved themselves in a fight. Her gaze darted toward the newest arrival. Practically a carbon copy of William, the other minion stepped in front of him. Ah, the pawn. Before her were the brains and then the brawn. The pawn rushed the steps.

Behind her, Michael shifted and raised his gun. Distracted, she called out a warning to him. “Don’t do that!”