Detective Irving Pritchard has just been cleared of all wrongdoing, but the announcement does little to allay the guilt that threatens to leave him hollow and broken. He can't forget the way the shadows writhed around the girl-the way they made her doll look like a gun. She was only seven. She would never see eight. It happened the same damned night his wife lost their baby. When Holly needed him most, he was out on a call. As usual. And now, once again, he finds himself staring down the barrel of his own sidearm. In his sights this time are three sisters of the cloth. Though he witnesses them clubbing his bartender-his best friend-into a pile of lifeless flesh, Irving becomes convinced of their innocence the moment the nuns drop their weapons and stare at their crimson-stained hands with eyes that are no longer white as milk. The vestals remember nothing-not their journey, not their grim mission, not the violence. But the entranced trio traveled all the way from Romania to kill the few people Irving has left, just when his life is already turning to shit. By weeks end, he discovers the foul force choreographing his descent into madness: Lilith, a Sumerian demon summoned by a man Irving once trusted-a fellow soldier from his old unit in Iraq. Holly's miscarriage and the shooting may not have been accidents at all, but sacrifices meant to free the child-stealing demoness from her centuries-long exile.
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