The last Drakon's head hit the dirt with a wet thud.
Silence followed—thick and metallic, the kind that rang in your ears after a battlefield went still. It wasn't peace. Peace was soft, gentle. This was the quiet of things holding their breath.
My wings—charred black and lined with golden veins of fire—hung heavy at my sides, dripping black blood onto Bobby's already cursed ground. The air stank of smoke, sulfur, and scorched rubber. Somewhere behind me, something still sizzled.
I looked around.
Twisted metal, scorched earth, and a dozen torched car husks. The '67 Mustang was a mangled corpse—Dean was gonna throw a fit. The house was still standing, technically, though the front porch was doing a pretty convincing impression of Swiss cheese.
"Sorry, Bobby," I muttered, retracting my wings with a wince. My shoulders screamed, my ribs felt like they'd been rearranged by a drunk chiropractor, and the steady stream of blood down my leg suggested something important had been torn open. Again.
But gods, I felt alive.
Every time I took something down—Drakon, Frankenstein, Shadowspawn—I'd absorbed more. My veins were buzzing with it. Telekinesis stronger than ever. Strength that could bench-press a dump truck. Dragon senses, wings, and now fire that responded to my will like a loyal dog. I'd torn through Kharon's army like paper. At a cost, yeah. But it had been worth it.
Kharon was gone the second the last of his creatures died. His void presence vanished like smoke in wind.
But I knew better.
This was just round one.
I crouched, slammed both hands to the ground, and Shadow Jumped—leaving behind a burning junkyard and a prayer that the others were still breathing.
Lawrence, Kansas
I landed hard on gravel, boots crunching as I skidded in front of a rusted-out warehouse. Abandoned, half-collapsed, and crawling with bad memories. Perfect hunter hideout. Terrible vacation spot.
I didn't get two steps before the click of a shotgun echoed behind me.
"Identify yourself," Dean growled.
I sighed and turned. "Relax, Winchester. You think another monster would show up this pretty?"
Dean lowered the gun and cracked a grin. "Had to be sure. You looked like grilled chicken last time we saw you."
"Thanks. Real confidence booster." I stepped past him into the warehouse.
Inside, Lena was on me in seconds. Her hands were all over my torso, checking burns, claw marks, and the blood soaking through my shirt.
"You're bleeding," she snapped.
"Observant," I said, catching her wrists. "But I'll heal."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
She didn't laugh. Just looked at me with eyes that still hadn't quite forgotten she'd died an hour ago.
Bobby limped over, peering at me like I'd just returned from hell with a souvenir.
"Junkyard still in one piece?" he asked.
I scratched my neck. "Define 'one piece.'"
He groaned and muttered something about salt wards and idiot kids.
Sam, thank God, stayed on task. He spread a map across a folding table, covered in Enochian runes and chicken-scratch Latin. His laptop whirred beside it, grainy satellite images paused on some Middle Eastern cave system.
"We found him," Sam said. "Kharon's not hiding in America anymore. He's gone old school—Jerusalem. Cave system underneath an abandoned cathedral outside the city."
"Why there?" Lena asked, stepping beside me.
"Ancient battleground," Bobby said, tapping the map. "One of the oldest known to hunter lore. Ley line convergence. If you're planning a god-tier ritual or opening a hell gate, that's prime real estate."
"Because of course it is," I muttered, rubbing my temples. My telekinesis was still on cooldown—everything hurt. But I forced myself to focus. "So he's holed up in a natural fortress, surrounded by supernatural pressure points and probably rigged the tunnels with every trap he knows."
Dean gave me a look. "Sounds like your kinda party."
Sam nodded toward the screen. "According to Mesopotamian texts, Kharon becomes physically vulnerable during the solstice—sunrise, two days from now. We hit him then, it might stick."
Lena crossed her arms. "We hit him together."
I looked at her. Beautiful, fierce, alive. Her hand absently touched her chest—where her new heart beat, steady and strong.
"No," I said firmly.
"You don't get to decide that."
"I do when it's your life on the line. You almost died, Lena. I gave up dragon powers to bring you back. I'm not losing you again because you're feeling brave."
"You think I'm afraid?"
"I think I am."
Silence stretched. Even Dean didn't crack a joke.
Sam cleared his throat, thankfully changing the subject. "There's another problem. We're not the only ones tracking Kharon. Word's spreading. Other hunters. Cults. Maybe even demons, if they catch wind."
Bobby snorted. "Great. Just what we need—Hell getting their robes in a twist."
"Then we move fast," I said. "No delays. No backup. Just us."
Dean grinned. "Finally. The kid's learning."
We were just leaning in over the map again when the laptop screen glitched. The satellite feed twisted, warping into a mess of static and unnatural hums.
And then he appeared.
Kharon's face bled through the distortion—pale, eyeless, and somehow smiling. His voice crawled from the speakers like roaches through drywall.
"No need to come to me, little thief. I've already come to you."
The air dropped twenty degrees.
The warehouse lights flickered—
BOOM.
The front wall exploded inward.
I was moving before the smoke cleared, wings flaring out, a bone blade snapping into my hand.
Lena was behind me, Sam and Dean diving for cover. Bobby shouted something about holy water grenades, but I didn't hear it.
Because Kharon stepped through the smoke.
"Kinda dramatic for a home visit," I said, stepping forward. "What, the crypts of Jerusalem too drafty?"
"You've become a thorn, Marcus Hale," Kharon said, voice echoing in my head more than my ears. "And thorns must be plucked."
"Buddy, if I had a nickel for every god who said that to me, I'd be—"
I never finished.
Because Kharon lunged.
And round two began.