Logan didn’t need any of those. Well, the hospital might be a good idea, but he didn’t have time for that.

To the right of the symbols, a keypad panel glowed with Sheoulic letters and numerals. Using his good hand, he entered the code for his uncle Ares’ private Harrowgate on his Greek island.

Instantly, the gate opened onto warm, white sand in a roped-off area near Ares’ towering manor. Logan stepped out, and went down in a heap when his leg buckled.

He heard a shout from the direction of the training facility, and then his uncle Ares and one of the Memitim angels who lived on the island were jogging over, barefoot and carrying swords.

“Logan.” Ares hauled him out of the bloody sand as if he weighed nothing and braced him against his tank of a shoulder. “Why did you not go to Underworld General?”

Logan hissed in pain with every step they took toward the house. “Blade can heal me.”

“Blade isn’t here.”

“We need to get him here.” Logan’s mangled hand dripped blood onto the steps with loud little splats, and he had to fight a wave of nausea. “We need to get everyone here. We have a situation.”

Ares went taut. “Lilith again?”

He nodded as Cujo phased onto the stony ground a few yards away, clearly sensing Logan’s pain. The hellhound nosed him, assessing his injuries, which were already healing, thanks to their bond.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Logan gritted through a fresh wave of agony. “Go play with your friends.”

The beast licked his face and then bounded away to join the rest of the hellhounds that called the island home and Ares’ mate their queen.

Ares gestured to Logan’s leg. “Did she do this?”

“You could say that,” he muttered through a panting breath. “I’ll call Draven, Mace, Blade, and Scotty if you’ll get everyone else.”

“We don’t need anyone but Scotland.” Ares barked at one of his Ramreel demon servants to hold the door open for them. “Lilith is after our family, not your friends.”

Ares, a warrior to his soul, was doing what he did best in an emergency: circling the wagons and preparing for battle. In any other instance, Logan would have deferred to his uncle’s wisdom. But DART needed to be involved. The more help, the better.

“I need Blade to heal me,” Logan pointed out. “And Mace will find out through Scotty anyway.” He shifted so he could look Ares directly in the eye. “I want my people in on this.”

Ares paused at the threshold, his expression stony, his gaze calculating. No one questioned his authority or decisions except his mate.

Finally, Ares inclined his head. “They can be here on one condition. Keep Mace muzzled.” His lip twitched in what amounted to amusement in a guy whose face was stone, and Logan grinned. Well, it was more of a grimace.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Do. We don’t have much of a sense of humor when it comes to Lilith.”

Logan was beginning to understand why. “Have you told Reseph about her?”

“Not yet.” Ares guided Logan inside the opulent manor. “We were planning to meet tonight to discuss how to tell him the news.”

A wave of pain took away Logan’s breath, and he had to recover for a moment before asking the question he dreaded. Or maybe he was just stalling because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Are you worried Pestilence will return?”

“No,” Ares said quickly—too quickly.

His voice was strong and dripping with confidence.

But his eyes were shrouded in dread.

Fifteen minutes later, everyone had gathered, and Logan was no longer bleeding or in pain, thanks to Blade’s ability to heal wounds almost as well as his uncle Eidolon. Now, everyone was gathered on the patio his aunt Cara had built to accommodate their frequent large get-togethers. Ares stood next to her near the outdoor kitchen island, his intense gaze focused on Logan.

“Do you think the temple made Lilith powerful enough to escape the soul trap, or do you think she’s that powerful on her own?”