Page 135 of Forging Darkness

The room is silent as we all watch the events in London unfold.

It happens only here or there, but dark shadows fly in and out of the cameras’ view, causing fires and smashing cars, statues, and small structures.

“What are those?” Draven, the thrones Elder asks.

“They’re Fallen,” I answer when no one speaks up.

“Dear, that’s not what the Fallen look like,” Sorcha says gently.

“That’s exactly what they look like when I half-phase into the spirit realm.”

“Not possible,” someone says, but I don’t bother answering because I’m staring after Sable as she bolts from the room, her cell phone pressed against her ear. Deacon watches her go but doesn’t follow.

The room erupts into a chorus of voices once again.

“Get as many powers gathered as possible, send them straight to the city center.”

“Check with every academy, see if they can spare any staff.”

“Find out where else this is happening, then report back.”

My head pounds. I’m not sure if the Elders believe me about the shadow beasts, but the longer I watch the screens, the more sure I am that’s what they are.

Somehow, someway, the Fallen have punched through the veil between the mortal and spectrum worlds and are staging an invasion. And I know down to the very fibers of my being, this was Thorne’s plan all along. We just weren’t fast enough to stop him.

Something drops out of the sky and lands on my head. With a squawk I bat at it, but it dissolves in a shower of sparkles before I make contact.

“Tinkle?”

“Why’d you have to swat at me?” He stands on the table in his preferred flying squirrel form, tapping his foot in annoyance. “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble for you and the thanks I get is a backhand?”

“Tinkle! Oh my gosh. Where have you been?”

“Getting help. Of course.”

“What help?”

I look around as if something magical is going to appear before my eyes.

It doesn’t.

“Not here yet. I’m faster.” He pushes his little furry chest out in pride.

Someone gasps, and my eyes snap back to the screens.

“St. Paul’s Cathedral just exploded.”

“Tinkle, do you know what’s going on?”

His nose scrunches. “Very bad things.”

Tremors begin to shake the room. Nephilim trade startled glances with each other as the vibrations intensify.

The doors to the room don’t simply fly open—they splinter as gusts of smoke-laced air swirls through. We all duck for cover.

Steel shoves me down and under the table, using his body as a barrier between me and whatever is about to come through that doorway. Several others shelter around us.

We’re under attack. What other explanation is there?

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