Tori wakes after Rise of the Blood to two very shocking realizations: one, she's in bed with a very naked Apollo, having lost the fight to resist their attraction. Two, she still has her wings. Not dinky little fairy wings. Full-scale, cover-'em-with-a-trench-coat bat wings.

Apollo suggests consulting the Grey Sisters on the wings. Those cannibalistic, psychopathic oracles who, even with only one tooth and one eye among them, manage to see too much. As in a Rapture, zombie-apocalypse, biblical-plague, hellgates-busted-open the end of the world.

While the Sisters are perfectly on board with death and destruction, the thinning of the human herd doesn't sit well with them at all. They'll help her. All she has to do is save the world.

Tori and her team trace the origin of the plagues to New York City, which is under quarantine and martial law-as if that's enough to stop the influx of gods and gorgons, dragons and demons. But as death threatens from without, betrayal lurks within Tori's ranks. And nobody is safe. Nobody.