That was going to take some explaining but not to this sock worm. “Haziel is safe.” And if Ramiel had really given a crap about Haziel’s wellbeing, he should never have sent her after him.

Ramiel’s wings released in a whoosh. “Where is she?”

“I told you, she’s safe.” Wrath released his wings and let his rage bubble to the surface. Ramiel was the perfect target for his fear and frustration.

Stepping into him, almost chest to chest, Ramiel asked, his voice silky with menace, “Where is my seraph?”

“Where you sent her.” Wrath could go for a full-on battle right now. “In hell.”

Ramiel’s fist shot toward his face, and Wrath caught it and held it. Power for power, they were a match, and a fight between them would be exactly what Wrath needed.

“Stop it.” Gabriel strode out of Dee’s bedroom.

Was Dee housing the combined hosts and hordes of heaven and hell in her and Eddie’s tiny apartment?

Gabriel clapped her hands. “There will be no fighting on this plane.”

“He left Haziel in hell.” Ramiel kept up the pressure of his fist in Wrath’s palm.

“And you should never have sent a seraph to do a task that clearly fell to you.” Gabriel straightened her mauve pencil skirt over her hips. “Fighting is only a possibility because neither of you have stuck to doing what you should be doing.”

Raguel followed behind her. “Is Haziel okay?” His concern was genuine, which was why Wrath deigned to answer him.

“I left her with Ava. She’ll be fine, and Ava will keep her safe.”

“Fetch her,” Ramiel grated. “Or I will not be answerable for the consequences.”

Gabriel pushed between them with a sniff. “You really do need to fetch her, Wrath. Section fourteen, subsection twelve of the code states quite clearly that no angel can exist in hell without a valid purpose.” She tapped his chest. “And as you are currently here, Haziel has outstayed her welcome in hell.”

He wasn’t going to waste his breath telling them that retrieving Haziel was next on his to-do list, so he settled for sneering at them.

Chapter Thirteen

A bar in London

Across the crowded happy hour rush, the women clustered together giggling at some shared joke. Their cheeks were flushed with the combination of liquor, excitement, and ambient heat.

Like a miniature sun in the middle of the bar’s solar system, they drew the men around them into their orbit. They pretended not to notice, but they knew. He could see it in their smug laughter, and their self-satisfied smirks.

Whores and vicious bitches. Every last one of them. Laughing at the men around them, laughing at him.

Too tight, revealing clothing pressed their flesh and presented it for display. Their faces were painted to betray men into thinking they were prettier than they were. Deceitful, calculating liars, all of them. The dark one drew his eye the most. Her mouth was painted glossy and pink. She pouted and preened, tossed her hair, and flashed her eyes at every man here. An open invitation.

Her gaze passed over him and moved on, as if she had assessed him and found him lacking. As if she thought she was too good for him.

She would pay for that, just like the last one. Her screams had been beautiful to hear. The warm gush of her blood over his hands had been the ultimate high, and he craved another fix, but he had to go slowly. He’d already made the news. They were calling him a serial killer, but he was so much more than that. He was the equalizer, the balancing force. A hint of glee had wriggled into his chest and lodged there when he’d seen his work televised. It’s me, he had whispered at the screen. Here I am. Catch me if you can. But he couldn’t abandon caution. Others like him had been caught by giving in to the thrill of the chase and the conquest.

“Evening.” The bartender cleared away his used glass as he replaced his beer. “Nice to see you again.”

The bartender remembering him was not good, but it was a different bartender from the one who had protected the first dead bitch, so he forced a smile. “Yeah. This is my local.”

“Good to know.” The bartender lingered a moment, his eyes on the group of women. Leaning his palms on the bar, he shook his head. “I’ve never seen them in here before.”

“No?” He would need to find a new hunting ground, which was a pity. He had the routes around this pub all mapped out, the darker alleys, the shortcuts, even the abandoned row of houses he used to perform his cleansings. Of course, he moved the bodies once he’d purified them. Meticulous attention to detail kept him safe from sharp-eyed coppers and their DNA testing.

The bartender sneered. “That lot is trouble waiting to happen.”

Yes, they were, but then nobody knew how much trouble but him. He was the center of the storm, the spinner of trouble, the controller of destinies, the sword of justice.

“Somebody should deal with them,” the bartender said.

Shock held him immobile for a moment. It could be a trap. Had his arrogance tripped him up like so many before him?

The bartender’s dark eyes met his, and for a moment there was a distinctive red flash across his irises. “But not here,” he murmured. “You have been seen here once before.”

His mouth dried, and he guzzled his beer before he dared speak again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re right.” The bartender laughed. “You don’t know what I mean.” He winked. “And I’ve never seen you here.”

The brunette stood and yanked her tiny dress over her thick thighs. Before he had slit the first one’s throat, he had used her body for what she had begged him for, begged all the men here. But only he was man enough to do what she truly craved.

She passed by him on her way to the loo, close enough for him to catch a waft of her cloying, sickly perfume.

The thrill of the chase beat like a war drum inside him.

From across the bar, the bartender gave him a tiny, secretive smile.

Somewhere in Africa.

Fucking sniveling cowards, they surrounded him, hemmed him in, tried to clip his wings. They called themselves his ministers, but they were nothing more than oxpeckers feeding off his living carcass.

“Mr. President.” His minister of defense mopped his shiny bald head with a paisley handkerchief. No, not oxpeckers, more like vultures. That handkerchief was Hermès and paid for by the chances he took, the liberties he normalized for them. All around them and outside this room, people lost the struggle for survival in squalor and this coward spent enough to feed three families for a year on a rag to mop his flop sweat. “This will be seen as an act of aggression.”

“Yes.” He held the vulture’s gaze. Let them see his resolve, let them see he was like Shaka Zulu of old—relentless, determined, powerful.

The minister for internal affairs slammed his fist on the table. “This is madness.”

Madness? He’d never been saner in his life. An entire continent peopled by bottom feeders and weak, corrupt bureaucrats, and his for the taking. Where others saw misery, he saw only opportunity.

“Mr. President.” His new secretary leaned over and refilled his water glass. So quietly, he barely heard it, the woman whispered, “Slowly now.”

She had arrived a week ago, with an impressive resume, and his staff had hired her immediately. Beautiful enough to be distracting with her liquid dark eyes and her glowing, smooth skin, he had dreamed of her every night since she had taken up her position. She was like this continent: alluring, compelling, and a mystery waiting for him to unravel. Yet she focused him and grounded him. Had it been only a week?

“I understand your concerns,” he found himself saying to his ministers. “And I share them, but let me present the facts to you. The historical facts written by our people and not by the colonizers who sought to rape this land for all they could.”