Luther Cross here. Chicago's best-dressed paranormal investigator and, as of last Christmas, a Lord of Hell. Don't bother congratulating me. I'm still not sure it counts as a promotion.
Since Purgatory, I've looked out for myself and nobody else, and I liked it that way. It's been working great. Then a sweaty Opus Dei professor sits down at my table in the Signature Lounge with demons on his tail and a message from Dakota. She's had the baby, a boy named Malcolm. The first nephilim in centuries. Raziel, the only angel who knew where to hide them, has vanished. And the child every power in creation would kill for just became my problem again.
Heaven isn't picking up, and the one angel who does answer is telling me nothing. Hell is in revolt, and the domain I barely bother to rule is the one burning. An old enemy has clawed his way out of Purgatory with a deal in his pocket and a score to settle. And the world's first killer wants a word about a promise I never meant to keep.
Even my own people have given up on me, and I can't say I blame them. The old Luther would've known who to trust. The new one knows the answer is nobody, not even himself. But the only way to protect the kid is to find the angel who fathered him. The only allies I've got left are the people I spent the last year pushing away. Plus Lucifer himself, who has his own reasons. I'll take the deal, favor to be named later. Nothing from the Morningstar comes free.
Turns out some fights you can't win alone. I just hope I live long enough to admit it.