Most minions never knew what it was like to face a Sentinel. They could never prepare for the lethality of those magnificent wings that sliced like blades and were impervious to all mortal implements of destruction. Unique to each angel, the patterns and colors said much about the angel’s soul if you knew how to read them, and their average thirty-foot span meant it was nearly impossible to get close enough to inflict any damage.

Raze took out a minion with his other knife, then crawled to the body of the prophet and took his gun. Lying on his back, he emptied the clip into the converging mass of robe-clad figures, slowing them down so that he could join the fray with his swords. Leaping to his feet, he did just that, cutting a swathe through the chaos.

Blood spurted and flowed like a river, soaking the grass and splattering Raze until he dripped with it. It was over in moments, leaving a battlefield upon which two Sentinels stood inviolate, surrounded by snarling lycans and a sea of dead bodies.

Raze pointed the tip of his blade at the two minions he’d managed to spare. “For you two,” he murmured, “the fun is just beginning.”

Raze made it back to his hotel just before dawn. He showered again, finishing the job he’d started with a hosing down at the field. Restlessness gnawed at him. The hunt wasn’t over. What troubled him was that he had no idea what it would take to end it. How many more of Grimm’s devotees were out there?

Tugging on a pair of black sweats, he propped up his iPad and placed a call to Vashti.

“Hey,” he greeted her, when her face came on screen.

“Hey yourself.” Her gaze narrowed. “You’re looking rough. What’s up?”

It was hard for a vampire to look rough. He was surprised that she said he did, but he brushed past it and caught her up on the night’s events.