“Maybe it was someone else’s blood.” She sounded flippant, but Sam saw the tremble of her hand. “I can kick ass, too, you know.”

Sam took the knife. “You ready?” She wouldn’t die. If Mateo had actually seen her death, he would have said that. Mateo wasn’t the type to sugarcoat, even for a lady.

Especially for a lady.

She might have been hurt, but in Mateo’s vision, she’d still been breathing.

I’ll make sure she stays alive.

Unlike Seline, Sam didn’t lightly cut his finger. Instead, he sliced his arm, right above the wrist, and the blood splattered onto the mirror.

Mateo took a deep breath. Sam heard him mutter, “I don’t want to see this shit.”

Too late.

Mateo’s body began to spasm. He leaned in close to the glass. Then he screamed.

An instant later, Mateo collapsed on the floor, completely unconscious.

Angels weren’t supposed to lust. They weren’t supposed to covet. They weren’t supposed to want.

They were supposed to guard. To watch. Not interfere.

So many rules.

Tomas had never been particularly good at following the rules.

Guess that’s why I fell. He stretched his shoulders and felt the burn of the scars that would never fade.

Tomas strode out of the cantina. Voices followed him, and laughter drifted in his wake. The night waited, dark and deep, with stars glistening overhead.

He didn’t look to the heavens much these days. What was the point? He knew who looked back, and those guy upstairs sure wouldn’t be granting him any favors anytime soon.

Tomas hurried down the narrow alleyway. He’d crash at his motel and hit the road come morning. Time for another town. More cantinas. More drinks. More women to try and make him forget . . . her.

The softest rustle sounded behind him. Could have been nothing. Could have been a rat. A piece of garbage rolling in the breeze.

But Tomas stopped at the sound, and an icy shiver of awareness skated over him. Since he’d fallen, he’d learned a lot about survival. Rule number one . . . never ignore your instincts. When you felt hunted, you probably were.

He glanced back and saw nothing but the shadows.

Rule number two . . . there’s always more to the night than you see.

His nostrils flared as he drank in the scents around him.

Rule number three . . . what you can’t see, you can probably smell. Everything had a scent. Right then, he smelled . . . brimstone.

Hell.

When you felt hunted, you probably were.

When the witch fell over, Seline knew that was a very, very bad sign.

But Sam grabbed the guy and hauled him to his feet and held him with a strong grip. Right then, Seline got a look at Mateo’s arms and the back of his shirt. Blood soaked the shirt, and deep claw marks ripped the material—and Mateo’s flesh.

He hadn’t been bleeding when he’d come into the room. She’d seen his back when he put down his mirror. He’d been fine then.

She inched away from them.

“Mateo.” Sam barked the witch’s name. He lifted Mateo’s drooping chin. “Mateo, wake up.”

The witch’s lashes began to flutter. Seline didn’t dare move. So much for a few hours’ rest. Her heart was pounding so fast she could barely breathe.

“What happened? Dammit, what did you see?” Sam demanded.

Seline didn’t think she wanted to know. She’d never wanted to know about her future. Why would anyone want to know if bad things were just waiting around the corner?

Mateo’s hands flew up and grabbed Sam’s wrists. “Hell . . . after you.”

So not what she’d wanted to hear.

“You can’t escape him.” Mateo’s voice grew stronger. “Not once he has your scent. You can’t run. He’ll find you. You can’t kill him . . . you aren’t strong enough.”

Um, Sam wasn’t strong enough to kill someone? Who could the Angel of Death not destroy?

He has to be strong enough to defeat Rogziel. Sam was the strongest Fallen she knew. Mateo had to be wrong. He’d better be wrong.

“Days . . . ,” Mateo said, “only days left.”

Sam didn’t look even a little bit afraid. The smile that twisted his lips was vicious. “I’ve never been afraid of hell.”

She couldn’t say the same. She was terrified—that was why she’d stayed with Rogziel. He’d told her she would burn because of what she was, unless she earned redemption.

She’d just gotten blood and death.

Sam’s shoulders rolled. “I’m not the running type.”