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It punches straight through my chest, and a cry tears out of me before I can swallow it back.

Shit.

I run, slamming through the back door and hit the alley at full speed.

Five collectors turn toward me, and the masks they’re wearing start to slip. The closest one’s human face betrays a hint of frustration, his skin pulling back for half a second to reveal the blackened thing underneath. Another jerks backward as those flat amber eyes flare bright enough to light his cheeks from the inside.

I haven’t done a fucking thing.

I don’t have to.

I am a lyri. One of the oldest races still walking this earth, born with the ability to sense the truth beneath whatever lies someone chooses to wear. I can’t read minds, and I sure as hell can’t force anyone to confess their sins, but I can feel what they’re hiding. And when something built on deception gets too close to me, the truth has a nasty habit of showing itself.

Their human faces start to fall apart, and the alley fills with sulfur.

Then, between them, I see him.

Black wings spread across the pavement, one dragging through the dirt as he fights to get his feet beneath him. Blood runs from his temple and down the side of his face while one collector keeps a hand locked around his throat.

Silver light flickers through his wings. It flashes beneath the black feathers, dies, then surges again as he drives his fist into the collector’s ribs hard enough to make the creature stagger. The hand around his throat tightens, forcing him back, but he twists against the grip and slams an elbow into its arm, fighting for every fucking inch.

Another burst of silver races through his wings, brighter this time, and something inside me snaps.

Get your fucking hands off him.

One of them stumbles back so hard he collides with the brick wall behind him.

“Holy fuck, she’s a Lyri!” the collector gasps. His whole face changes. The smug bastard who had the winged male by the throat seconds ago actually takes a step back.

Fear.

He’s fucking afraid of me.

The male moves. His head lifts from the pavement, his black wings dragging behind him as his gray eyes find mine.

My attention drops to those wings again. Black feathers alone don’t tell me much. Plenty of things have wings, but then his soul hits me.

Holy Grace.

Except his doesn’t reach upward the way an angel’s should. Nothing is answering it. The connection has been cut clean through, leaving the Grace inside him stained with streaks of black.

Then it fucking clicks.

Fallen.

He’s a fucking fallen angel.

And that still isn’t the strangest part, because there’s hellfire in him too. It burns right through the middle of that damaged Grace, the two powers tangled together inside the same soul when they should tear each other apart.

What the hell are you?

His brow pulls tight as he stares back at me, probably wondering the exact same thing.

Neither of us has a fucking clue who we’re looking at.

But somehow, his soul is the reason I’m standing in this alley.

The collectors don’t wait around to find their courage again. They retreat into the shadows they came from, dragging their broken forms with them, though the last one lingers just long enough to fix his flat amber eyes on the fallen angel.