Morning made a liar of the night, but the birthday book didn't.

Sera wasn't sure if it was the lack of sleep or the book itself that buzzed ever so slightly, as if it carried its own heartbeat.

She dropped cross-legged onto her bedroom throw rug with The Book of Enoch in her lap, hair clawed into a knot at the back of her head. She dragged a crocheted blanket from the foot of her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. Between the worn fabric of her rug beneath her thighs and the heavy weight of the afghan felt like familiar armor against the unreal. She cracked the cover, telling herself it would just be print and paper. Words. Ink. Nothing more. She scrunched her nose. And perhaps a whiff of mold—ancient dust lifted into the air with each page flip.

She let the pages fall open, scanning past faded illustrations and half-legible scripture. Her eyes snagged on phrases that seemed too sharp, too bold: the fallen shall walk the earth; the Watchers are chosen. She blinked hard and turned the leaf, forcing herself to keep moving, but something caught her eye on the next margin.

One single word, written in a tight, old-fashioned hand: Seventh.

The letters were neat as stitches, every curve exact. She traced the word with one fingertip, smearing the ink. She blinked in astonishment, looking from the page to her stained finger. It was impossible that the ink could be wet. She slammed the book closed, took a few deep breaths and squeezed her eyes closed. "No, no, no, no, no," escaped her throat as a pleading cry.

After a minute of mentally affirming she was only exhausted and seeing things, she reopened the book; pages falling to the same as she had closed. But the hand-written word was not smeared. Her fingertip wasn't stained. Too tired. She grazed her fingertip over the note again. Nothing. As a matter of fact, it appeared to be well worn as if it had been there for years.

Her mother used to say something about the seventh. A half-remembered phrase itched at her memory, slipping just out of reach. Was it a blessing? A warning? Her mind was muddled, fogged from too little sleep and too much fear. She sighed and leaned back against the footboard of her bed, clutching the book as though loosening her grip would invite it to slide away.

A soft rap at her door tugged her out of her thoughts.

"Sera? You awake?" Mack's voice. She hadn't even heard him enter the apartment.

He and Tucker had refused to let her stay by herself. Mack was on first watch, seeing her through the hours when shadows were deepest, while Tucker had walked Dave home from the bar with a demon-exorcized migraine. Just as the morning sun broke through her curtains, she'd heard Tucker return—his quiet tread signaling the change of guard.

"Yeah, come on in, Mack."

He pushed the door open, holding out a paper cup with steam floating out of the lid opening, like an offering—or maybe an apology.

She reached up and took the coffee, grateful despite herself. "Thanks."

"I got some breakfast sandwiches and muffins too, if you're hungry."

She didn't move from her squatted position on the rug. Her body felt glued to the spot, as though if she stood too quickly the fragile thread holding her sanity together might snap.

Mack's gaze slid to the book in her lap. His expression hardened. "Rule one," he said.

She raised an eyebrow. "Don't be alone?"

He tilted his head. "No. Don't be alone with that."

"It's... a book, Mack. Besides, last night you said rule one was not to be alone, period."

For a hair of a second, he looked confused but shook his head free from his jumbled thoughts. "Fine. Rule two—don't be alone with that book."

Sera almost laughed. Almost. Instead, the laugh caught in her throat when the exhaust fan in the adjoining bathroom kicked on by itself, rattling to life.

"What the hell," she muttered, pushing to her feet.

"Stay put," Mack ordered, raising a hand as though she were the reckless one. His other hand slid to his knife. He moved toward the bathroom in deliberate steps, shoulders squared, knife gleaming faintly in the strip of morning light.

Before she could protest, another figure filled the bedroom doorway. Tucker.

His hand rested on the hidden weapon beneath his denim jacket, eyes already sweeping the room. He cut a quick glance at Sera, and for the first time in daylight she really saw him. Square jaw shadowed by stubble, dark thick hair mussed from lack of sleep, a quiet intensity in his gaze that tugged something low in her chest. Last night he had been just another player in the chaos, an intriguing player, yes. But now, with sunlight brushing across his cheekbones, he was disarmingly handsome.

She caught herself staring, heat rising in her face. He didn't notice—or pretended not to—circling around to cover Mack's back.

"Are you two crazy?" she snapped, forging ahead between them. She flicked the switch and shut the fan off manually, the plastic button clicking beneath her finger. Standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, she glared at both men. "I thought I had a wild imagination."

They hesitated, knives still drawn until Mack sheathed his with an audible scrape of steel. Tucker followed, though slower, a touch of guilt flickering in his eyes before he turned away. Mack, though, didn't look the least bit repentant. His face creased with something deeper—worry carved into lines at the corner of his mouth and eyes.

"Sera," he said, voice low, "I know this all seems a bit unreal, but I've been dealing with demons for decades now. They're just as real as you and I."

She wanted to press him. To demand every story, every scar that had made him so certain. Part of her burned with curiosity. But another part just wanted them out of her space, away from her book, away from the fog in her head. There was no making sense of any of this until she took a shower and started the day anew.

"I'm going to get dressed now. I'll be out in a few minutes." She stretched her arms to the doorframe as though bracing it in place.

Tucker was the first to retreat, slipping out without a word. Mack lingered, reluctant, but at last followed, closing the door behind him.

Sera stood for a beat, palms pressed to the wood, heart thudding. Then she turned slowly toward the bathroom. Was she seeing things again?

She fought the urge to run and flicked on the light before she could chicken out.

She inched her way to the mirror; her distorted reflection stared back. The glass was fogged, thick with condensation that had no business being there. She stepped closer, breath caught in her throat. In the haze, letters began to bead across the surface, forming one by one in dripping strokes:

DO NOT TRUST

The words held for a heartbeat, water droplets sliding down like tears, spilling onto the vanity top with the steady rhythm of a metronome.

Her pulse kicked up. Was it a warning about the book? Mack? Tucker? Herself?

She was half tempted to call upon Zephariel. He certainly was the message culprit. Then she had an eerie thought. If demons are real, maybe so are ghosts. Was her mother's spirit trying to reach her? Warn her? Or was she just going crazy?

She lifted a trembling hand and wiped the glass. The message smeared into nothing, vanishing under her palm. But the echo of the words burned behind her eyes, seared into her memory as though they had been carved there.