The tip from Faith was a gift. A problem they could punch. After the mind games and the debt collectors, Angel’s team was ready for a straight fight.
The docks at night were the same as always: cold, wet, and full of shadows. Warehouse 17 this time. They watched from behind a stack of cargo containers. A truck was backed up to the loading door. Workers—not humans, but short, gray-skinned demons with four arms—were unloading a large wooden crate. The crate was shaking. And from inside came a sound. Not a scream. A low, guttural *chanting* in a language that made Angel’s teeth ache.
“What is that?” Cordelia whispered, her hands over her ears.
“Demonic invocation,” Wesley said, his face pale. “It’s not a thing in the crate. It’s a *ritual*. The crate is a mobile temple. They’re speaking a
