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warrior Sent Ones—Sent Ones under his training and command—finally subdued a demonic minion charged with influencing a human to commit evil. The creaure had whispered in a human female’s ear, stirring her up with fear in an attempt to open a doorway to her mind so he could slip inside and live. The creature was scaled from head to hoof and little horns protruded from its shoulders and back. Its eyes were bright red, like crystallized blood.
    The fight had lasted half an hour, and both Sent Ones were now bleeding, panting. Demons were notorious for their biting and scratching.
    Lysander should have been able to critique the men and tell them what they had done wrong. That way, they would do a better job next time. But as they’d struggled with the fiend, his mind had drifted to Bianka. What was she doing? Was she resigned to her fate yet? He’d given her several days alone to calm and accept.
    “What now?” one of his trainees asked. Beacon was his name.
    “You letsss me go, you letsss me go,” the demon said pleadingly, its forked tongue giving it a lisp. “I behave. I do good. Ssswear.”
    Lies. As a minion, it was one of the weaker demons and quite low on the chain of power. Oh, yes. Even demons had a hierarchy, one they strictly followed, and a fact that never failed to baffle him. But the war between good and evil demanded no less as chaos could never win.
    “Execute it,” Lysander commanded. “No longer shall it reign in terror.”
    The minion began to struggle again. “You going to lisssten to him when you obviousssly ssstronger and better than him? He make you do all hard work. He do nothing hissself. Lazy, if you asssk me. Kill him. ”
    “We do not ask you,” Lysander said.
    Both Sent Ones raised their hands and fiery swords appeared.
    “Pleassse,” the demon screeched. “No. Don’t do thisss.”
    They didn’t hesitate. They struck.
    The scaled head rolled, yet the warriors did not dematerialize their swords. They kept the tips poised on the motionless body until it caught flame. When nothing but ash remained, they looked to Lysander for instruction.
    “Excellent job.” He nodded in satisfaction. “You have improved since your last killing, and I am proud of you. But you will train with Raphael until further notice,” he said. Raphael was strong, intelligent and one of the best trackers in the lower heavens.
    Raphael would not be distracted by a Harpy he had no hopes of possessing.
    Possessing? Lysander’s jaw clenched tightly. He was not some vile demon. He possessed nothing. Ever. And when he finished with Bianka, she would be glad of that. There would be no more games, no more racing around him, caressing him and laughing. The clenching in his jaw stopped, but his shoulders sagged. In disappointment? Couldn’t be.
    Perhaps he needed a few days to calm and accept.
    * * *
    He’d left her alone for a week, the sun rising and setting beyond the clouds. And each day, Bianka grew madder—and madder. And madder. Worse, she grew weaker. Harpies could only eat what they stole (or earned, but there was no way to earn a single morsel here). And no, that wasn’t a rule she could overlook. It was a curse. A curse her people had endured for centuries. Reviled as Harpies were, the Greeks—the former leaders of a lower realm of the skies and offspring of fallen angels and humans in a much higher concentrate than Bianka’s people—had banded together and decreed that no Harpy could enjoy a meal freely given or one the females had prepared themeselves. If they did, they sickened terribly. The Greeks’ hope? Destruction.
    Instead, they’d merely ensured Harpies learned how to steal from birth. To survive, she would do just about anything.
    Lysander would learn that firsthand. She would make sure of it.
    Had he planned this to torture her?
    In this palace, Bianka had only to speak of something and it would materialize before her. An apple—bright and red and juicy. Baked turkey—succulent and