Gadriel closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath of air carrying the sweetness of pine resin and the musty smell of cave mold. When he opened them again, the exhaustion in his eyes remained, but there was now a cold edge of resolve.
"Elisa, take two people and contact the vampire family near the abandoned logging camp seventy miles east of here. Be careful. Observe first, state our purpose, and discuss only trade—not allegiance. We need food, medicine, winter clothing, and... information on every abnormal energy fluctuation in this region, especially any possible spatial anomaly points."
"Cariel," he said, looking at the older angel, "you will contact the wandering Werewolf tribes in the western hills. They must have been affected by this event too, and they need information. Trade some of the ancient records we know concerning the connection between lunar cycles and Werewolf strength for a promise of protection and shared intelligence."
"The rest of you, strengthen this place's concealment and take turns standing watch. Without my permission, no one is to make contact with any humans, especially any organized-looking demon hunters."
Once the orders had been given, the angels around the campfire silently nodded and went their separate ways.
There were no cheers, no renewed spirits—only a compromise they had no choice but to make in order to survive.
A day later, trade began through various covert channels.
In the underground wine cellar of a desolate ranch in Montana, Elisa faced three pale vampires with blood-red pupils. Their leader was an ancient one who called himself Marcus, dressed in an anachronistic formal suit, his face wearing a mocking yet curious smile.
"Angels... reduced to trading with parasites like us?" Marcus toyed with an old silver coin. "What a delightful irony."
Elisa forced herself to remain calm,