Grace and Glory (The Harbinger #3) - Jennifer L. Armentrout Page 0,130

the Hellion grunted out a thick, garbled laugh.

I arched a brow as Zayne muttered, “I don’t think this one is smart.”

“Smarter than you two,” the Hellion snarled.

Claws scraped over stone as a wall of dark, bulky shapes poured over the ledge of the roof. There was a glimpse of moonstone-colored skin and tusklike horns.

“Uh,” I said. “There is like a horde of Nightcrawlers on the roof.”

“How many is a horde?” Zayne asked.

“Um...” I swallowed as I scanned the line that stretched the entire length of the roof. There had to be...dozens. “A metric crap ton, to be exact.”

The Hellion laughed again.

“Shut up.” Zayne struck down the Hellion and then turned, checking out the newcomers. “I have a feeling Gabriel has learned of my upgrade.”

“You think?” I scanned the line of Nightcrawlers as my heart started thumping. None of them were on leashes this time—not like that would’ve made much difference. I liked to think both Zayne and I were badasses, but that was a whole lot of Nightcrawler.

“Kill the Fallen,” one of the Nightcrawlers said. “The nephilim must be alive.”

I sighed as I lifted my sword. “I’m so tired of pointing out that Trueborn is a more appropriate term.”

“That’s kind of sad.” Zayne’s wings rose, grace pulsing and throbbing throughout them. “I like those lectures.”

I didn’t get a chance to response. The Nightcrawlers swarmed forward, the rooftop trembling under their weight. Maybe we’d get lucky and the roof would collapse. I pulled on the grace, preparing for the possibility that we may need to cut our losses and run.

There was a sudden sound of whooshing air. A bright orangey-red burst of light shattered the moonlight-drenched rooftop. My eyes widened as flames spilled over the ledge, licking across the concrete. The fire swept forward so fast, so unexpectedly, that I didn’t even move as it swallowed the Nightcrawlers. I was frozen as their screams echoed all around us.

Zayne’s sickle blades collapsed as he whirled, snagging an arm around my waist. My sword flared intensely and then shattered into a shower of golden embers. Power coiled in Zayne as he prepared to take flight. Heat scorched my cheeks and then the wave of fire retracted, rolling backward.

“What the—?” I squinted as a shape took form in the center of the flames. A man stepped through the fire, his wavy golden hair and bare chest untouched. The fire evaporated as the man continued forward, his feet stirring the dust of the fallen Nightcrawlers.

Holy crap.

I knew my mouth was hanging open. I didn’t care. That kind of power was unimaginable.

“No need to thank me,” he drawled. “I couldn’t let any harm come to my new friends.”

“Lucifer.” Zayne’s arm around me didn’t slacken. “We’ve been looking for you.”

Stepping into the moonlight, the devil smiled. “I know.”

* * *

Lucifer sat in Roth’s living room, stretched out on the sectional, watching television. Clothed at least. Actually, partially clothed. He’d manifested a pair of black leather pants, and that was about it. We had no idea if he was successful in creating The Omen. We’d asked. He gave us a look even I could see that said mind your own business.

And at the moment, that’s what we all were doing. Minding our own business.

That and trying to get Lucifer to be somewhat useful and tell us how he could kill Gabriel.

He wasn’t being exactly helpful.

First, he was hungry. So Cayman ordered up some late-night Uber eats. While he waited for the food to arrive, he found the television, and I’d never seen someone so enthralled before. He flipped through the channels continuously and then somehow ended up on one of the streaming services. I’d gone to use the bathroom, and when I came back, someone—I was going to blame Cayman for this—had turned on Supernatural, to the Lucifer season, and the real one was invested. He’d all but forced Layla to pull up some website to give him a blow-by-blow description of season one through whatever. By the time the food arrived, he was completely caught up. Then he ate. Then he watched two more episodes, a box of Pop-Tarts appearing out of thin air it seemed. At this point, it had to be almost four in the morning. Layla had passed out on the end of the couch and woke up, and I was this close to throwing the TV through a wall.

“Lucifer,” Roth tried again, at the end of another episode. “You said that if you killed Gabriel, we would create a whole new problem. Can