Demon Forged

by Meljean Brook

  With long strides, Wren led them across a red-tiled floor to a large, open living area. Sofas and chairs the color of sand sat in the middle of the room. Irena walked to the enormous windows looking out over the water, then circled around to the fireplace. On the mantel, more flowers crowded a wedding picture of Rael and his wife. They both looked happy, their faces bright, eyes shining with love.

  Taylor offered condolences, which Wren heard without a change of expression. Her eyes did not miss anything. Irena did not move without Wren noting it.

  And despite Taylor’s prediction, Wren wasn’t defensive. She simply stood with her hands clasped behind her back, delivering her answers like she was reading from a report.

  “How long have you been working for Representative Stafford, Ms. Wren?”

  “Eighteen months.”

  “How were you made aware of the position?”

  “Through the academy where I received my training.”

  “And your duties are . . . ?”

  “I manage the household, including the daytime staff, and provide security.”

  “What form of security?”

  “If someone threatened either of them, I would neutralize the threat.”

  “Has it ever happened?”

  Failure weighted Wren’s psychic scent. Her face was unmoved. “They were threatened yesterday. I did not neutralize it.”

  Taylor considered that. The detective seemed the more impatient of the two women. She doesn’t like going over old ground, Irena thought. Wren didn’t either, but she gave no indication of it.

  “You drove them to the protest yesterday. Is that typically part of your duties?”

  “Only when Mrs. Stafford accompanies him.”

  “Do you think he loved her?”

  A jolt of surprise went through Wren’s psychic scent, but she didn’t hesitate to answer. “It is not my place to judge that. I can tell you she was my priority. He made that clear from the first.”

  “You didn’t remain in the car yesterday after delivering them to the courthouse?”

  “The crowd was large, and Stafford asked me to join them.”

  “Did he relay to you any specific concern?”

  “Only that the crowd might be unruly, given the controversial nature of the protest.”

  Controversial? Would that fit in with Rael’s politics? She would have to ask Olek.

  And, she thought, it was time to find out if Wren knew what Rael was.

  Irena waited for Wren to blink. When she opened her eyes, Irena stood at the opposite end of the window.

  Though Wren had been still, only her gaze moving, now even that froze. After a long second, she looked at the spot Irena had been standing, then over at Irena again. Doubt and confusion swirled in her psychic scent.

  “Where were you standing when the Staffords were shot?”

  Wren didn’t look away from Irena. “At the south end of the steps, where I had a view of the crowd. When I heard the rifle fire, I went up to attend to Mrs. Stafford and provide cover if it was needed.”

  As she spoke, the confusion slowly ebbed. In its place was humor. Either Wren was calling herself silly for imagining Irena’s impossibly quick movement—or she had realized what Irena was, and thought it funny.

  The humor vanished when Taylor asked, “How do you know it was a rifle?”

  Wren’s gaze snapped back to the detective. Her voice cooled. “Trajectory and damage. For the bullet to hit both the congressman and Mrs. Stafford, the sniper must have been on the roof of one of the buildings six hundred or six-fifty meters north. A bolt-action, probably similar to a FN SPR or an M40. They’re the most accurate from that distance.”

  “Why bolt-action?”

  “Because he missed, but didn’t fire again. A semiauto allows for marginally faster repeat fire. If he’d had one, he’d have gotten off a second shot before the congressman collapsed.”

  Taylor pursed her lips. “What exactly did you do for the CIA, Miss Wren?”

  “I worked for them.”

  “As what?”

  Wren blinked; Irena moved again. This time, the doubt was stronger and tinged with worry. A tiny line formed between Wren’s pale brows.

  “Miss Wren?” Taylor prompted. “You worked for them as what?”

  “As . . . an employee.”

  “Are you avoiding the question because you can, or because your work was classified?”

  “You need to ask them, detective.”

  Taylor nodded. “We will. Do you live here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does the rest of the staff?”

  “No.”

  “Are they here today?”

  “I have given them the day off to grieve.”

  “But you’re not?” When Wren didn’t answer, Taylor let it go. “Have the Staffords ever argued in front of you, Miss Wren?”

  “No.”

  Taylor let her doubt show. “You’ve lived with them for eighteen months, and they’ve never argued in that time?”

  “Not that I have seen or heard, detective.”

  Taylor paused, looked her up and down. “You’re an attractive woman, Miss Wren. Has Stafford ever made advances?”

  “No.”

  “Have you made advances on him?”

  “No.” Humor shook through Wren’s psychic scent.

  Taylor couldn’t sense it, so Irena asked, “You find that funny?”

  Unease immediately replaced Wren’s humor, as if she were surprised that her response had been read. “Only because I know myself.”

  “You prefer women?”

  “I prefer nothing at this point in my life.”

  “That’s a preference I should have had at every point in my life,” Taylor said dryly, drawing a slight smile from Wren. “So you haven’t even thought about it?”

  “He’s my employer, detective.”

  Annoyance colored Wren’s voice—which, Irena thought, meant that she’d warmed to Taylor. Wren hadn’t shown any emotion up to that point.

  “And you are loyal to him?”

  “I take pride in doing my job well.”

  Irena narrowed her eyes. Pride wasn’t the same as loyalty.

  Taylor mulled over Wren’s response, before she finally asked, “Have you witnessed unusual behavior?”

  Wren’s eyebrows lifted. “Such as?”

  “Odd waking hours, meetings with shadowy figures.”

  There was a flash of recognition in Wren—and humor again as she said, “He is a politician, detective.”

  “Yes, an up-and-coming one. Did he have any affairs?”

  “I am not aware of infidelity. On either side.”

  “Would you cover for him if your job demanded it?”

  Speculation tugged at Wren’s psyche. She’d realized that they suspected her employer, but again there was no apprehension or smugness. Irena would have expected those emotions if Wren knew of her employer’s involvement.

  If he was involved, she reminded herself.

  “I would cover for many things,” Wren admitted. “My contract requires me to maintain my employers’ confidence except in the event that I witness him breaking the law. I am not in conflict at this time, detective.” Wren checked her watch. “And I must leave in five minutes to pick up my employer.”

  Taylor pulled a card from inside her jacket. “If a conflict ever comes up, I’d appreciate a call.”

  Irena waited until they were back in the car. “She doesn’t know what he is.”

  “Are you positive?”

  Despite Taylor’s question, Irena thought the detective had already come to the same conclusion. “It’s difficult to be sure. I feel her emotions, but don’t know her thoughts.”

  “And her emotions were . . . ?”

  “Each time I moved quickly, there was no comprehension in her. She doubted, and she worried.”

  “Why would she worry if she didn’t have something to hide? Did she recognize you as a Guardian?”

  “The w
orry felt more self-directed. Perhaps she thought she was imagining things, and unable to perform her duty.” Wren’s dedication to her job had been genuine. Irena frowned. “When you told her that I was with Special Investigations, she was suspicious. I wondered if she knew Guardians worked with SI, but her later response suggests that it was SI itself. Perhaps she was not familiar with the division.” Special Investigations had been established after Wren had left the CIA. “Or perhaps she could see that I am not a federal agent.”

  “No offense—but no one with Wren’s history would ever make you for one,” Taylor agreed. “So do we tell her the truth about Rael?” When Irena didn’t respond, she went on. “Someone like that—someone with the kind of training I suspect she has—if Rael gets his claws in her, traps her in a bargain . . . she could do some damage, all in attempt to save herself.”

  “Yes. But that will be her choice.”

  The detective’s jaw set in a stubborn line. “She’d make a better choice if she had more information.”

  Not always. Some humans would take the easiest route, no matter who it hurt; others would do what they felt was right, no matter how it hurt them. Some humans, upon discovering demons, had tried to turn that knowledge to their own advantage. Not everyone hated evil.

  And guessing what Wren would do was impossible. “Perhaps we should wait until Savi gives us more information about her.”

  Taylor pushed her key into the ignition. “It’s your call.”

  “No. It is not. If you choose to tell her, I won’t try to stop you.”

  Taylor’s hands clenched. She looked toward the house, and Irena felt the detective’s need to head back, to tell Wren everything.

  Perhaps because she recognized something of herself in Wren. Perhaps because Wren was in a delicate position. Or perhaps just because Wren was human.

  How difficult had it been for Taylor to maintain this secret for two years?

  “Telling her now will make her vulnerable,” Irena said. “She has no shields. Rael will know she knows. Her ignorance might be her protection.”

  “Or maybe she’d wish that she’d never found out.” Taylor stared at the house with such intensity and warring emotions that Irena wouldn’t have been surprised if the detective was making a deal with herself: that if Wren appeared within a certain amount of time, Taylor would get out of the car and tell her everything. “How old are you, Irena?”

  Old enough to know that trusting fate rarely worked out for the best. Free will meant little if it wasn’t exercised.

  “More than sixteen centuries.”

  The detective made a soft, breathy sound, somewhere between a laugh of disbelief and a gasp of pain. “So you’ve been at this a while.”

  “Yes.”

  Taylor’s lips thinned into a pale line. She shook her head, turned the key. And muttered “goddammit” as they pulled away from the house.

  The press of people in the elevator of the federal building eased as they moved up. Alejandro kept his back to the corner, and swept the psyche of each passenger: all humans. The stairs would have been preferable to being crowded in this small box, but thirteen flights was a hardship on Preston. The detective had already been teleported twice—once to Ohio, and once back to San Francisco—dizzied and weaving each time.

  As they passed the seventh floor, Alejandro’s cell phone vibrated in his coat pocket. His lips thinned in irritation. Lilith had never kept tabs on him during an assignment before; he didn’t want to set a precedent now.

  But Irena was out there, preparing to question Rael. Perhaps she and Taylor had learned something from the Wren woman—although Alejandro suspected that Taylor would have called Preston if that had been the case.

  His irritation became surprise, and then a low, heavy thump in his chest when he looked at the display. Not Lilith.

  Irena.

  He answered quickly. “Cordoba.”

  There was a pause, filled only with the pounding of his blood in his ears. “Olek. We have finished with Wren. What have you learned from Brandt?”

  He closed his eyes, fighting a laugh. Irena spoke in an over-loud voice, and he realized it was possible that she hadn’t talked over a phone before. Like every Guardian, she had been issued one, but she might only use hers to receive messages.

  And he told himself that he only felt so unbalanced by her call because it had been unexpected. It wasn’t the hope that went along with the realization that, no matter how stubborn she was, Irena could change. A phone wasn’t a compromise, just an adaptation—yet perhaps she wasn’t impossibly set in her ways.

  But now was not the time to wonder if she would—if she could—adapt to other circumstances. He concentrated on the question. Mark Brandt.

  The young man had been just as helpful as when he’d assisted Alejandro during the weeks he’d pretended to be Mark’s father. But this time, Brandt did not have any useful information.

  “Nothing.” Mindful of the others in the elevator car, he said carefully, “And on your end?”

  “We do not believe she knew he was—Is anyone there who will overhear me?”

  “No.”

  “Margaret Wren did not know Rael was a demon. Now we wait for his return. Our appointment is in two hours. We are driving now to speak with one of Julia Stafford’s friends.” He heard Detective Taylor’s voice in the background, and Irena repeated, “And then grab lunch.”

  Alejandro glanced at Preston. He’d forgotten about the necessity of food. “We are proceeding as planned and will meet you afterward.”

  “Very well. Be safe.”

  Be safe. It wasn’t personal; Irena said it to everyone. Still, his voice lowered as he said, “Be safe,” in return.

  He’d never been affected by a phone call before. He avoided Preston’s eyes as he pocketed the cell, uncertain he concealed his response.

  “No new information,” he told Preston, and left the elevator on the thirteenth floor.

  Special Agent Bradshaw, whose voice carried a faint memory of the Deep South, met them at the front desk and said they’d arrived in time to sit in on the debriefing with the agents who were leading the investigation. Bradshaw’s medium build, short black hair, walnut brown eyes and skin, and unremarkable features shouldn’t have made Alejandro immediately wary. Demons chose flashier forms to wear. Yet Alejandro still tensed, uncertain why the agent had tripped his instincts—until the agent moved.

  His walk was not flashy either, but like the dark roll of a seal underwater. Though athletic, Bradshaw’s form didn’t reflect the discipline and training that Alejandro associated with humans who moved with such fluidity.

  But there was more to it. A niggling familiarity seemed to tug on the back of his mind. Softly, he reached out with his senses, brushed against Bradshaw’s psyche. Human, with light mental shields. Frowning, Alejandro stabbed deeper, piercing Bradshaw’s shields.

  Human.

  At that psychic level, neither a demon nor Guardian could disguise himself. One of the nephilim could. When in human form, the nephilim matched their psychic scent to the scent of the humans they’d possessed.

  Alejandro had difficulty believing, however, that if Bradshaw was a nephil he would have been able to fool Michael, Lilith, and Castleford.

  Bradshaw led them through a maze of cubicles and into a small room occupied by a table topped with pictures, laptops, papers. Four agents—three men, one woman—sat at the table, two on each side. Though Alejandro preferred not to sit when he was anywhere but his own home, he took the chair Bradshaw offered at the end of the table. Preston settled in next to him, and Bradshaw sat at the opposite end.

  Bradshaw picked up a pen, and Alejandro’s vague feeling of recognition solidified into a name: Luther. Though Alejandro had taught him how to hold a sword rather than a pen, he would have recognized the shape and tension of the Guardian’s grip anywhere.

  What had Luther’s Gift been? Alejandro couldn’t recall, but it must have been a psychic mask, or Alejandro would have
identified him before now.

  As Bradshaw, he must have to live deeply in his role. Luther hadn’t been completely inactive, however; Alejandro knew of several kills—demon and nosferatu—that had been attributed to Luther in the past several years. Now, Alejandro would wager that each of those could be traced to investigations that the Bureau had been handling.

  Did Lilith know what he was? While the agents suggested different political and fundamentalist groups who might have had reason to kill Congressman Stafford—all of which Alejandro and Preston had already discussed—he sent a text message.

  Luther?

  A single name that gave nothing away if she didn’t know; if she did, Lilith would realize exactly why he was asking.

  Her reply came quickly. You don’t know that.

  Or, Alejandro guessed, he wasn’t supposed to know. Rael worked in this building; he probably encountered Bradshaw often. If the demon knew the agent in charge of this office was a Guardian, Bradshaw’s life would be in danger. With his Gift, he could hide—but if another Guardian knew his identity and gave it away, the psychic mask wouldn’t be worth much.

  Bradshaw had been with the Bureau more than twenty years, and at the San Francisco office for fourteen. He’d been Lilith’s superior before she’d become SI’s director; she’d worked beneath him for a decade. Had she known Bradshaw was a Guardian during that time?

  He glanced down as another message from Lilith came through.

  How did you know?

  I looked at him.

  You fucking Guardians.

  Which told him that she hadn’t known until a Guardian had told her. Castleford, most likely, when they’d gotten together two years ago. Alejandro had recognized Luther because he’d known him, but Castleford could determine demon from human from Guardian, just by observing body language.

  Before that, probably only Michael had known; anything else would have been too dangerous for Bradshaw—the previous agent in charge had been one of Lucifer’s lieutenants. And although Special Investigations performed a similar function to what Bradshaw did here, the Doyen hadn’t changed Bradshaw’s assignment after SI had been established and Lucifer’s lieutenant had been slain.