Condemned as a rogue and punished by his master, Angrail, one of the Seven Paradise Walkers, has wandered mortal and immortal worlds for centuries. He's determined to find those responsible for killing an innocent woman and the child she carried, no matter the cost to himself.
Ephynia, a demoness with scars, has spent a lifetime serving Nerafail, Lord of the Dead. When she unwittingly stumbles upon the one being who can end her loneliness, the battered Angrail, her life changes forever.
Unknown to Angrail and Ephynia, evil lurks in the shadows. There are those who believe Angrail and Ephynia are the key to preventing a coming war—a war that they need to take place—and they seek to end their lives.
Can Angrail find love in the arms of a demoness at war with herself? Or will the secrets hidden within the bowels of their worlds destroy them before they can find peace?
“Please, give me pity and I swear on my lord’s head I will honor it. Do not—”
“Silence.” Ephynia lifted his head. “Else I bind your mouth shut with your own tongue!”
Shaking the head, she ignored the vibration of the soul. Instead her attention remained on her search. Something was there. Someone who called to her.
“Where or what are you?” Ephynia tensed at the suffocating feeling of power around her.
“Why do you not return him to me?” Nerafail’s voice filled her mind.
“I cannot, master.” Ephynia closed her eyes. “Something holds me to this plane.”
“I do not know. He comes even now. I shall return as soon as I have killed the one who binds me here.” Opening her eyes, she caught the gaze of another demoness of her sect.
“Ephynia, what is it?” The other demoness adjusted her bow.
“Take this bottom-feeder to Nerafail. He has been condemned.”
“What of you?”
Ephynia shrugged, she could not explain what kept her there, but she would. “I’ve a new hunt.” Ignoring the prickle of unease at Nerafail’s displeasure, she turned back to the battlefield.
* * * *
Angrail groaned, agony washing through him with the force of the tides. The mangled body next to him wheezed with his dying breath, his spirit confused. Cursing Nerafail for his binding, Angrail closed his eyes. He could do nothing to aid the warrior, to carry him to his rest. Instead he lay, trembling, freezing in the heat of the desert sun. Sweat pooled on his abdomen, blood congealed beneath him.
The tip of an arrow wiggled with each wracking cough of his body’s protest. He could feel the agony within the form he was bound to, and the gnawing pain had him wishing for death.
Gasping at the icy touch of one from his order, he opened his eyes to stare at the man above him. Compassion lay in those blue eyes as they drifted over Angrail’s body before moving onto the man next to him.
“Please.” Angrail swallowed against his swollen tongue. “Please, Thantos.”
“I cannot.” He guided the mortal’s soul to its feet. “Only Nerafail can release you from your torment.” Turning, he led the confused soldier toward the massive barge floating up to the battle.
“Your peace will come, brother.” Thantos’s words offered little comfort.
"Nay.” Angrail groaned, rolling toward his sword. His wounds would fester, the poison would consume him, but he would not die. No, his fate lay in the hands of one who had long ago forsaken him.