Page 88 of Kazimir

A lesser angel broke from the fighting near the main entrance and sprinted toward the side corridor I had marked earlier on the map—my own corridor, my own warning coming true in the worst possible way. He had no real chance of escape. That should have told me enough. It should have screamed trap. But he was headed toward a service hall that led to the secured sectors where frightened humans and some noncombatants had been taken, and every instinct I possessed rose up at the thought of him reaching them.

I went after him.

“Devon, no…”

Kazimir’s warning hit a fraction too late. Or perhaps I heard it and chose badly.

I drove forward through overturned chairs and broken light, wings tight to my back to avoid clipping the walls, sword in hand. The lesser angel glanced over his shoulder once as he ran. I saw the satisfaction in that look an instant before he cut around the corner.

Not fear.

Bait.

I hit the corridor anyway.

The sounds of the main floor deadened the moment I crossed the threshold, swallowed by Obsidian’s heavy walls and the geometry of Amelia’s wards. The difference was so abrupt it felt wrong. Behind me battle still raged. Here there was only the echo of my own footfalls, the rasp of my breathing, the distant electrical hum of strained protections. The hall lights flickered between soft amber and violent purple as the club’s ward system fought celestial interference.

The lesser angel was nowhere in sight.

I slowed.

Too late.

The corridor ahead split in two. One branch led toward the rear service stairs. The other bent toward private rooms and the hidden passage back to the VIP level. I knew that. I had studied the plans. I had even warned them this exact section could be used to isolate someone.

A bitter laugh almost rose in my throat.

I had not been lured into unfamiliar ground. I had been lured into my own correct prediction, which was somehow worse.

The bond snapped taut.

Kazimir felt the separation at the same instant I did. Not distance alone. Interference. Something in the walls around me thrummed with alien force. The connection between us did not vanish—it would have taken more than architecture for that—but it blurred, as if light had been smeared across glass.

I turned back toward the main floor.

A figure stood between me and the open room.

Sariel had not entered. He had simply become present, as if space had recognized him too late and corrected itself with reluctance.

He filled the corridor without crowding it, white-gold light running over the planes of his armor. Up close he looked less beautiful than he had at a distance. Or perhaps I had simply learned to see the rot beneath the polish. Rage had tightened his mouth. His blue eyes were bright with the kind of injury men suffered when denied entitlement they considered natural law.

My sword came up.

His smile did not.

“You always did learn too slowly,” he said.

I backed one measured step, not from fear but for room to move. “You will have to be more specific.”

Chapter 25

Devon

Sariel tilted his head. For one hideous instant something like old familiarity scraped under my skin. Not affection. Conditioning. A body memory of being scrutinized by someone with rank enough to make refusal dangerous.

Then he spoke the name again.

“You should have accepted your punishment, Arielle.”