On Charleston’s King Street, Devilish Desires stood like a neon homing beacon calling all souls for a good time. Clark limped through the water-filled potholes of the parking lot, thinking Michaela’s promise of a stakeout had sounded so beguiling in the beginning. It was—for the first thirty minutes. Now, Clark’s leg was numb from pinky toe to ass cheek, and he smelled of car air freshener and boredom. He planned to get a drink first thing, and he didn’t care what Michaela said about it.

He made it in to the strip club and continued down a long corridor where thick, red velvet curtains ran along the walls and spilled onto the floor in heaps. Through an archway was the main room of the club lit only by dripping black candles and low hanging chandeliers. Musk, heavy and nearly choking, permeated the air and made Clark’s eyes water. A deep, thrumming beat vibrated from the hidden subwoofers, forcing Clark’s heart along to its tantalizing rhythm.

Clark ordered a double whiskey at the bar. He threw back the shot; it instantly cleared his head as the amber liquid seared his insides. Above the bar and throughout the club hung the heads of zebras, lions, deer, alligators, and even one elephant stared back at Clark.

“Kind of morbid don’t you think?” Clark asked the busty bartender, pointing at the taxidermy collection. She only scowled at him in response.

Surveying the club from his position at the bar, Clark settled on a section of wall behind one of the larger stages. A thin veil of dusty, black lace hung over another smaller archway leading to the back of the club. As Clark watched, two patrons slipped through the thin curtain and disappeared around the corner.

He had another drink before heading toward the curtain. The dark wood floors were slick beneath the soles of his boots except where old rugs laid in front of the Victorian-styled couches facing the stages where the strippers worked their slow, twisting magic.

The lace door parted easily around him, brushing over him like hands skimming across his skin. Beyond the material was a narrow hall of red paneled walls with doors numbered one to ten. His eyes narrowed at the only unmarked door at the end of the hall.

Clark walked slowly to let his eyes and ears adjust. As he reached for the knob of the unmarked door, he paused and looked back down the hall.

Voices approached and the curtain parted. If fallen angels came into the hall, Clark was caught and as good as dead. His knees barely had time to quake when the unmarked door in front of him opened. Someone’s hands reached from the dark room and wrapped around his upper arm. By the time he yelped, he was in the room, sprawled on the floor. The door quietly closed behind him.

Michaela stood over him, her face hidden by the shadows of the room. She reached out to pull him to his feet.

“Clearly you couldn’t just wait in the car.” Clark hiked up his pants.

Michaela flipped the lock on the door before she stepped around him and deeper into the room. In truth, she tried waiting in the car, but she quickly learned it would be impossible. Her foot had jigged incessantly, annoying even her. Her eyes darted at any movement, and she’d chewed her lip until there was a sore spot. Five minutes after Clark had left the car, she sneaked up to the back of the building, pushed an air conditioning unit out of a window, and slipped through.

“Is that whiskey I smell?” Michaela asked, looking back at Clark.

“What the hell kind of strip club is this? I’m pretty sure those numbered rooms ain’t holding law-abiding activities,” he said instead of answering her question.

“Don’t talk too much. I don’t want anyone to hear us.” Her voice was lower than a whisper. She sniffed the air.

“What are you smelling?” Clark asked in a stage whisper as he glanced around.

Michaela didn’t answer. She continued snooping around the office. There was a heavy metal desk topped with heaps of paper and empty liquor bottles. The back wall was a solid bookshelf filled to the brim. A large exotic skin from an animal Michaela didn’t recognize stretched the span of the room. Sets of short filing cabinets in matching metal were lined beneath a dark glass mirror, which Clark walked over to.

“Whoa, this is a two-way mirror. What do you think is on the other side?”

“Get over here and help me with this.” Michaela shuffled through the papers on the desk, touching and smelling everything.

“Aren’t you worried about leaving your scent behind?” Clark took position on the other side of the desk and reached for a stack of bills Michaela hadn’t looked over yet.

“No.”

A door slammed outside, making Clark jump. Michaela’s eyes darted to the light beneath the office door to watch for approaching shadows. “Keep looking here,” she said quietly when no one came in.

There was nothing meaningful on the desk. She turned toward the bookshelf behind her, walking her fingers along the rows of mismatched, haphazardly shelved books, binders, and odd trinkets. After a minute, she wheeled away, frustrated. Not knowing what to look for made it hard to find.

“What is your problem?” Clark asked finally. Michaela had paced the room twice now, leaving destruction in her wake.

Michaela looked up, glowering. “Excuse me?”

“You’re taking out way too much aggression on that chair.” Clark pointed to the leather wingback that Michaela currently shredded open with a letter opener. She held the object like a dagger, poised over her victim. “It doesn’t deserve that. Who would take the time to sew something into a seat anyway?”

“We have to figure out what Lucifer is doing here.” She stabbed the letter opener in Clark’s direction.

“Well, chill out, pop a pill, and go through those filing cabinets.”

She shot Clark a dirty glare. Apparently unscathed, he turned back to searching the desk with a steady assurance that suggested this was not his first prowling escapade. Michaela stalked past him toward the filing cabinets. She nearly knocked over a cold, half empty cup of old coffee sitting on the edge of the desk. Clark caught the cup, but the papers beneath fell to the floor. A small, worn book that had been lying beneath the pile caught his eye.

As Michaela watched, Clark set the cup aside and picked up the book. His fingers skimmed across the soft, thin leather. Deep lines formed between his brows as he traced the swirling, engraved lines on the cover. He even lifted it to his nose for a sniff.

“What is that?” she asked, interested. She hoped they had finally found something. She came to his side and reached for the book, but Clark couldn’t let it go.

“I don’t know.” His voice was low and reverential, all the usual swagger and sarcasm lost. Michaela looked from the book to Clark, watching his expression of bewilderment and wonder.

From where she stood, with her shoulder almost touching Clark’s, she saw the book was ancient, but she smelled something strange and dangerous coming from its pages. The air around them tightened, pressing in warningly. She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, to drop the book, but before she could, Clark was creaking open the binding. The book unfolded in his vulnerable, human hands.

The moment it was opened, it reacted. Clark gasped. Michaela watched with wide eyes as a warm glow washed over the opening page, revealing words that appeared then disappeared. Clark nearly dropped the book as the pages started to turn like a stiff wind was blowing across them. Michaela couldn’t keep up as the words raced across the flipping pages before disappearing.

But they weren’t disappearing. Clark and Michaela both realized what happened at the same moment. Clark dropped the book with a curse.

Michaela didn’t catch the book, or even watch it fall. Instead, her eyes stayed transfixed on Clark’s skin. The words had raced from the book’s pages, to Clark’s hands, up his fingers, and into the skin of his forearms. The ancient language, one Michaela immediately recognized once it was still, inked in tight, intricate twists and hieroglyphics up to his biceps, leaving behind scorched skin and drops of blood.

“Oh shit.” Michaela heard herself say, but she didn’t recognize her voice.

Clark whimpered, clearly in pain. The tips of his fingers trembled as he held his arms out, inspecting them with wide, unblinking eyes. Clark weaved, looking like he might faint.

“Oh shit,” Clark echoed when he could speak.

Michaela touched the twisting red dragon that wove around his wrist and onto the top of his left hand. Smoke from its silent screeching mouth wove over and under his fingers. Clark shivered. When she looked up, their eyes met.

“Do you know what this is?”Michaela asked in awe. Clark shook his head, swallowing loudly.

“This is the insignia of the Watchers.” Her finger traced farther up his arm. “Do you know what language this is?” Clark stared at her and not the red words on his arms. She continued, “It’s their language.”

“Can you read it?” Clark croaked.

“No. It was the Watchers’ secret language. We thought the book had been lost. There was no known record of it…” Her eyes skittered to where the book laid.

“What is it?” Clark asked.

Michaela bent to retrieve the empty hull. Nothing remained on its cover or pages, but Michaela wasn’t looking for any identifying marks. She knew already.

“The Apocrypha.”

Michaela had heard rumors of the Apocrypha, but no one believed the Watchers put their secrets—their very source of power—to paper. The Watchers were exalted angels, a choir unto themselves, who held incredible magic. But along with their disgrace, their magic had been lost. Many holy angels believed it was for the better. No one, even the angels, should hold the secrets to the universe. The myth that a book contained the lost answers was enough to make any holy angel more than uneasy.

Yet, Michaela held the very book in her hands. Like it had done to Clark moments before, the book seemed to send its own whispered breath up Michaela’s arms that made her arm hairs stand on end.

The humans will win the war. They will be my army.

“Is this bad?” Clark asked is a shaky, young voice.

“Don’t let anyone see those marks under any circumstance. We have to go,” Michaela said instead of answering.

The lights flipped on.