Barak stood, sword pulsing in the darkness. “That is the point.”

Grimold stopped, his eyes narrowed.

Barak saw the twin railings coming from either side. His eyes met Kostas’s for a second before his son ran toward his sire.

“Father!”

“I knew you would kill me,” Barak said.

Grimold smiled.

So did Barak. “I always planned to take you with me.”

Laughing, Grimold pulled the iron railings into his hands, the metal phosphorescent with angelic power. He brought them together, tearing Barak’s head from his shoulders, and as he did, he looked down to see the guardian’s sword sunk deep and glowing in the center of his chest.

He lifted his head to scream, but Grimold’s voice was drowned by thunder as the two angels were sucked into the clouds.

JARON’S breath stopped for a moment.

Barak was gone.

He landed on the green dome of Peterskirche, but he knew it wasn’t high enough, and he was growing weaker.

Volund struggled, trying to get away, but Jaron’s grip was like iron. He had no will to fight back, so he trapped his brother to his chest and ignored the spreading burn of the sword in his gut as Volund twisted and laughed.

He closed his eyes and, with the last of his strength, imagined the blade of heaven below him.

Father, let me fall.

AVA raised her eyes when the thunder crashed. She saw the shadows of giants rolling in the clouds.

MALACHI looked up as lightning struck the spire.

“Impossible,” Rhys whispered at his side.

JARON opened his eyes to the heavens and laughed as the stars danced over Volund’s back. He felt his body falling and wondered what the humans below thought of his true form.

“No!” Volund screamed, though his blade bound them together. “NO!”

“The angel came upon them,” Jaron whispered as the ground rushed up, “and they were sore afraid.”

Then his back arched and he clutched Volund closer as the consecrated spire of the Stephansdom split them both in two.

Chapter Twenty-eight

FIFTEEN HUNDRED KILOMETERS AWAY, she screamed, beating her fists against the painted walls until her hands were bloody and broken. The humans rushed in to contain her, but she kept screaming. Then, as abruptly as it started, it stopped.

The woman known as Ava Rezai fell unconscious to the floor.

Vasu stared at her from the corner of the room as the humans raced in and tried to revive her.

Then he looked at Azril, standing by his side.

“She will live?”

Death nodded slowly and returned to Vienna.

AVA saw the shadows, then lightning touched the top of the spire, illuminating it for a fraction of a second before the vision was gone.

No thunder rolled through the air.

No rain fell.

She knew Jaron was dead.

Everything was quiet. The biting sleet that had fallen on the street below had stilled, and the air was almost balmy. Bodies, fallen bloody to the cobblestones, began to dissolve. Dust rose, so thick it resembled a golden fog rising from the street.

No bells rang. No birds flew.

Ava looked down to see Death walking among them. He stood over her mate and her heart stopped. Then Death looked up and met her eyes.

Not for many years, daughter.

Azril knelt and lifted an Irina from the ground, holding her up to heaven as her body dissolved and rose.

Another scribe. And another.

He ignored the bodies of the Grigori, except for the children. Gentle hands lifted them to the heavens, and their shadows passed by her as they rose.

So many.

Then the bodies were gone, and Death was too.

QUIET groans and sobbing rose from the street below as humans began to reappear in the plaza, walking as if nothing had happened. They ducked into brightly lit restaurants and bars, laughing with friends as street musicians played night music in the square.

Ava watched in a panic as dozens of scribes and singers scattered, whispering spells and touching talesm to hide themselves and the wounded from human eyes. The few Grigori who had survived scurried into the shadows, melting into alleys and side streets. Children woke and looked around in confusion, some of them dragged off by their brethren, others scattering to the streets to fend for themselves.

The dust of the dead still wafted on the breeze as the clouds cleared; stars shone in a pitch-black sky.

And the humans saw nothing.

“Ava, away from the window,” Leo said.

“They don’t see,” she whispered, unable to tear her eyes from the busy, unthinking populace below.

“They never see,” Kyra murmured, rubbing her temples. “My father is dead.”

Leo looked at Ava. “Jaron?”

“Yes.” She didn’t know how she knew, but it was there. An inexplicable lightness in her mind. A weight off her shoulders. “Volund too.”

“Are you sure?”

Ava looked at the street below. Scribes and singers had fallen in battle. Children of the Fallen were slain before her eyes. But the rain washed the blood away, and the bodies had dissolved into dust.

Within moments, the battle was a memory. Her own mate had disappeared.

“I’m not sure of anything anymore,” she said. “I just want to go home.”

She knew he was alive. The threads of magic connecting them had not broken. All Ava felt was an unspeakable sorrow deep in her chest.

“He’s not answering messages.” Leo was texting madly on his cell phone. “Damien and Rhys are going to the Library to check on the council. They think Sari is with Malachi, but they lost them after the battle. I’m trying to find out what happened to your brother, Kyra.”