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between the trees in the Angel City Hills, the ostentatious glass cube building was perfectly under the radar. In Pittsburgh, Plymouth, or Podunkville, USA, it would have stuck out like a sore thumb. But here up off Mulholland it was just another display of Angel taste, wealth, exclusiveness, and prestige. The front entrance was the site of what would likely be the last public Angel televised appearance for some time. Archangel William Holyoake had stepped out with Jackson and other Guardians at his side to state that the Guardians would not be taking part in the demon war. And all just before the first demon scouts had been sent into the Immortal City.
    As Jackson dropped down from the sky, he entered the glass doorway and retracted his glowing wings, all in one smooth motion. The security guards positioned inside the cube saluted him, but Jacks didn’t pay any attention to them as he walked—stomped, really—to the large elevator, which was housed in a marble column in the rear center of the cube. The gleaming doors opened smoothly, and Jackson stepped into the plush car. Soothing music played from sleek speakers, and an enormous TV embedded in the back wall displayed footage of underwater tropical fish swimming calmly along a coral reef.
    He didn’t have to push a button. There was only one way the elevator could go. And that was down.
    It took some time for the elevator to reach its destination. Not too long ago, Jacks had idly wondered how deep down the sanctuary actually was. Now he couldn’t have cared less, and he didn’t even notice the ride. After what Maddy had done to him on the pier, his mind—his whole body—had become a tempest of rage, sadness, and confusion.
    The elevator dinged, the doors opened to reveal another world, and Jackson began walking, his footsteps echoing along the Italian marble floor. The secure Angel complex had been prepared as a haven for just the kind of emergency the demon attack posed. It had been dreamed up during the Cold War, when the threat of nuclear annihilation was a real concern, but this was no bare-bones underground bunker. Far from it. In true Angel fashion, no creature comfort was left uncared for.
    Long, elegant passageways extended underground, illuminated by soft light coming from frosted windows along the way, which simulated sunlight filtering through to the lush plants. Jackson’s footsteps echoed as they stepped along the marble floors. The Immortals’ living quarters were furnished with huge flat-screen TVs, enormous claw-foot bathtubs, king-sized beds with feather pillows, and balconies that looked out over artificial lakes. All the interior windows were outfitted with electric bulbs timed to simulate natural light from dawn through sunset, and the air was pure and fresh from outside. They had everything they needed for quite some time. Everything had been planned out immaculately.
    It was called the sanctuary.
    The complex was known only to a handful of non-Angels who had been forced to sign threatening-looking, ironclad agreements promising they would never say anything about it. Any slip of a word and an army of Angel lawyers would be suing the pants off them. Back when the sanctuary was being built, a construction worker blabbed his story, and the
National Enquirer
ran a story with the headline, “HOLE-Y COW! SECRET ANGEL UNDERGROUND LAIR!” The construction worker was sued into the next century, and the next week the tabloid took the very unorthodox step of totally taking back every part of the story, saying: “How sad we are to admit we had been fooled so easily.” And so the legend of the sanctuary died.
    But the legend was real. The sanctuary was quietly refurbished every few years so it remained up-to-date for the finicky Angels. There were the living quarters, which were lavish and suitable for those Angels who were only accustomed to the finer things in life. Along the passageways were rows of boutiques displaying the latest trends, fine