Down the hallway, in the room that once belonged to Tristan’s brother, Sam had scarcely closed her eyes when she sensed a presence by her bed. “Go away. I’m sleeping.”

“You’ll dream if you sleep,” said Braeden. Her lids cracked open. He was a shadowy form in the dark of the room, half his face lit by a pale moonbeam. “I can promise you a nightmare."

“What do you mean?”

Braeden shivered visibly. “Can you not feel them?”

“Stop being cryptic. D’you mean demons?”

Braeden sat on the edge of the four-poster bed, the mattress squeaking under his weight. “Aye. They’re coming, and soon. They’ll want you.”'

So it was to be a repeat of the battle in the Elurra Mountains; she would again have a target on her back. “How do you know?” she had to ask.

“I think,” said Braeden, barely above a hush, “because my demon wants you, too.”

Only now did Sam notice the tightness of his jaw, the strain in his wild eyes. His fingers dug into his hands so hard as to draw blood. “Braeden!” she exclaimed, and took his hands in hers. Gently, she uncurled his fists and soothed the crescent nail marks.

He trembled under her fingers. “You shouldn’t touch me.”

She dropped his hands, hurt. “Sorry.”

“I meant not when I’m like--” he cut off, bristling. “They’re here.” He rose to his feet, daggers sprouting between his knuckles.

Sam pushed off her covers and lit the unused candle at her bedside, and almost wished she hadn’t. A demon loomed in the doorway, a monstrous blend of horse and man. Equine from its hooves until the withers, it had a human torso and head, with a second horse’s head growing out of its back.

“It’s mine,” she and Braeden said in unison.

Sam said thoughtfully, “It has two heads, you know. Shall we share?”

Braeden’s lips curved into an unholy grin. “Gladly,” he said, and then his knives were in its human throat. Sam grabbed the sword Tristan had lent her and ran around to the demon’s back. The horse head screamed as her blade hacked through its neck from its vertebrae. Over the demon’s headless body, she and Braeden smiled grimly.

The centaur was not the last of the demons—far from it. Outside the bedroom, the hallway teemed with them, a sea of mismatched parts and clashing color. The floor beneath them quaked at the heavy tread of their feet. Braeden squeezed her shoulder, and together they walked into bedlam.

If the demons hunted her more than they did Braeden, it was impossible to say. He was at her back at all times, and their attackers had to contend with them both. Sam and Braeden whipped around each other in a deadly tornado of steel, slaying anything within their orbit.

Sam was beginning to think she wasn’t right in the head. Though she knew their lives were in peril, she felt, for whatever reason, safe. Perhaps she had improved her fighting skills, or perhaps it was the perfect synchronization of her sword with Braeden’s dagger. Or maybe, a snide voice whispered, it was simply having Braeden in close contact. She silenced the voice and let her weapon flow with his.

They gradually advanced down the long hallway, slowed by the furious onslaught of demons. At the midway point, Sam could see that that the door to Tristan’s bedroom was in shambles. A piece of door fell down, and a man walked out.

Sander.

Cold fear raced through her veins. Sander’s wrists were unbound, and in his hand he clutched a knife. The blade was crimson from tip to heel. Oh gods. Tristan.

Fear-turned-to-fury fueled her, and she broke away from Braeden, mowing down the demons in her path. When she reached Sander, she’d cut him to ribbons for what he did to Tristan. Her heart ached, but she brushed it aside. She couldn’t let emotion weaken her, not when she had the leader of the Uriel to kill.

Tristan stepped out from behind Sander, and rage was instantly replaced by relief. His tunic was torn and bloody, and a makeshift bandage peeked out from behind the ripped fabric, but he moved without noticeable pain. Her knees sagged as the fire of her fury drained out of her.

“Sam, pay attention!” Tristan snapped.

She was so happy to see him alive she didn’t even roll her eyes at his rebuke. She did, however, raise her eyebrows at Sander. “What’s he doing free?” she asked, after plowing her sword through the nearest demon’s gullet.

“I’ve been given a temporary reprieve,” said Sander. He wiped the short knife against his breeches and adjusted his thumb over the spine. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll fight.”

“Have at it,” said Tristan with a wry twist of his mouth. His sword was unsheathed, and, by the looks of it, had already been well-used this night.

Using the knife as an extension of his thumb, Sander hacked into the demons that encircled them. He swiftly dodged snapping jaws and clawed swipes, uncommonly spry for a man of his years. He made short work of them, but there was no finesse, no poetry to his movements. Sam felt foolishly disappointed.

“He’s good,” she commented, “but not as good as Braeden.”

“It’s not his weapon,” Tristan said.

“Maybe not,” said Sam. “I guess I expected more.”

“There’s only one High Commander,” said Tristan. “I don’t think Sander’s men follow him for his ability to fight.”

“Why, then?”

Tristan thwacked a demon that had drawn too near with the flat of his blade. “You and I were born to fight,” he said, decapitating the offending demon as emphatic proof. “That man was born to lead.”

“I would never follow a man weaker than I,” Sam declared.

“Nor I, but strength isn’t only physical,” said Tristan. A flush of color crept into his cheeks. “And sometimes even those of us who are strong can be weak.”

Sam didn’t know where his embarrassment came from, but Tristan quickly shrugged it off. He lifted his sword elbow to his shoulder and pointed with the blade. “Finish them.”

Sam didn’t need to be told twice. She leaped into the fray, cleaving through demon flesh. A demon butted her with fluted horns, catching her under her rib cage and knocking the breath clean out of her. Panting, she tightened her abdominal muscles against the pain and struck with her sword, separating one horn from its skull, and then the other. Her third strike separated its head from the thick trunk of its neck.

The demons kept coming, from the stairs above and below, and from the bedrooms. “Close the windows!” Tristan shouted.

Sam shifted course and ducked back into Tristan’s brother’s room. The window was open wide, letting in more than just the cold. Sam moved to shut it, but not before a winged lynx flew in, squeezing its muscular feline body through the narrow opening. It landed in the bedroom on padded paws larger than a human hand and spread its immense wings, black and webbed like a bat’s. Its gray coat was dappled with rust-colored spots, and pale fur lined its chest, belly and the inside of its long legs. Dark stripes decorated its forehead and a white ruff encircled its neck in a thick collar.

The lynx beat its wings once, twice. The hard edge of its right wing bumped the nightstand beside the bed, where Sam had earlier lit a tallow candle. The candle wobbled precariously and then toppled over onto the floor. The hardwood panel burst into flame.

The old wood burned easily, and it was a matter of seconds before the entire floor was alight. “Shite,” Sam swore, backing out of the room. The lynx demon followed her out, screeching as the fire singed its fur.

“Fire!” she yelled, though her warning was unnecessary. A smoky haze filled the hallway, thick enough to choke on. Flames spread across the ceiling and spilled over down the walls in bursts of orange and red. An oppressive heat enveloped her, and sweat drenched her clothes.

“We need to get out of here now,” came Sander’s voice, the smoke amplifying its usual rasp.

“But the demons!” Sam cried.

“Will keep. You won’t,” said Sander. “We haven’t got long until escape is no longer an option.

“Do as he says.” The order was Tristan’s, though she couldn’t see him through the fog of smoke. “Kill if you have to, but the priority is getting out.”

Sam fumbled blindly towards the stairs, the smoke so opaque she couldn’t see her own hand in front of her. Wheezing and coughing and snorting, most of it not human, accompanied her slow progress down the hall. Jagged nails scratched at her face, and she gasped at the sharp sting. Liquid rolled down her cheek. Likely blood.

Something grabbed her wrist, and she spun around, prepared to strike. “It’s me,” said Braeden. “Can you see?”

“Not a thing. Can you?”

“Well enough.” Glowing red orbs cut through the fog like beacons—his eyes, Sam realized. Braeden captured her hand, the warmth of his skin hotter than the fire. Sam said nothing, ceding to the false comfort his closeness brought her.

Braeden guided her through the hallway and down the stairs, his hand never leaving hers even as he threw his knives at their demon assailants. His words guided her, too. “Strike now, to your left.”

And then miraculously, they were outside, the cool air a heady balm. Sam peered into the night. “Where are Tristan and Sander?”

“They must still be inside.”

Sam cursed. Fire billowed out of the windows and a malevolent cloud of black smoke cloaked the upper storeys of the house. “If I could see anything in there--”

“Look!” said Braeden. A man staggered out of the flaming doorway, another man draped across the back of his shoulders. Once again, the icy fingers of fear held her heart in its grasp. As Sander approached, she could see Tristan’s arms hung limply from their sockets.

“He’s fine,” said Sander, stumbling towards them. “Too much smoke inhalation and he’s injured, but he’ll come around. Help me put him down.” Braeden jumped to Sander’s aid, transferring Tristan’s weight before setting him down on the ground.

Sander knelt beside him and gently slapped his cheeks. Tristan shuddered and his chest heaved with great racking coughs. When his coughing subsided, he groaned, and his eyes fluttered open. “Gods damn it,” he gasped, looking at Sander. “That’s twice in one night you’ve saved my life.”

“You’re welcome,” said Sander, grinning. He patted Tristan’s hand. “Now you rest easy while we take care of the remaining demons.”

Tristan scowled, and Sam had to bite back a smile. “I’ll guard him,” she offered, and he actually growled at her.

“Good idea,” Sander said approvingly. He nodded at Braeden. “After you, Master Knifesman.”

The roaring inferno served as their light until the first rays of the rising sun. Braeden slew the last of the demons, and Sam sat down beside Tristan with a tired sigh. Together, they watched the fire eat away at the house to the frame, and eventually that burned, too, until nothing was left but ashes.

“I’m sorry about your house,” said Sam.

“I hated that house,” said Tristan. “Good riddance, I say.” He turned his face away, not fully concealing the wetness of his eyes.

Sam’s hand hovered over his, and then remembering herself, she placed it instead on his shoulder. To her surprise, he leaned into it. “Good riddance,” Tristan whispered again, this time to himself.

A/N: Picture to the right is another amazing picture by H4Y13Y. Obvi it's Braeden. Next chapter will have an amazing picture of Sam from Unmasked Harlequin. Get excited!