Demon Forged

around the warehouse. Demon, with a murdered wife.
    Irena had been involved in that investigation, too.
    “Mr. Deacon, please get in. You are done here. I am taking you home.”
    “I’ve got friends who can fly.” Not many would be left. But it was much better than what a demon might offer him.
    “And I am an associate of Mr. Caym’s. I only have to make one phone call to him, Mr. Deacon, and tell him that I am displeased—and you will have a few less friends.”
    God damn them. Deacon stopped.
    “Get in.”
    He got in.
    A dark partition divided the front and back seats. He couldn’t see the driver, only an outline.
    “That’s Maggie,” the demon said. “She can’t hear us back here, and she won’t help you. She’s very loyal. And she has a contract.”
    Maggie, whoever she was, might be loyal—but she was clearly broadcasting worry, and a distinct sense of uncertainty. But maybe the demon liked that, too. Maybe, he’d get her to a point where she wasn’t sure what was going on, but she felt scared and trapped—then he’d offer her an out.
    And she wouldn’t know until too late that the out he offered was worse that being in.
    He eyed the glass. Was she watching them? Could she see anything other than shadows?
    When the demon smiled at him, Deacon grinned back, showing every inch of his fangs. Surprise and doubt dropped into the mix of Loyal Maggie’s swirling emotions. Doubt, then rejection.
    The demon laughed. “No humans believe what they see anymore, Mr. Deacon.”
    “Fuck you.”
    “That is what you have left?” The demon smiled at him again, but Deacon sensed a little disappointment. Or maybe he was supposed to sense disappointment, and react to it. He remained silent.
    “All right, Mr. Deacon. I understand—you must be at the end of your rope. Perhaps you’ve just discovered how some of the information you’ve given us has been used.” He sighed. “It’s so difficult to lose a friend.”
    A friend . . . Irena ? The demon thought Irena was dead?
    She should be. It’d been close. She’d gotten lucky.
    But Deacon wasn’t going tell this demon differently.
    “Fuck off,” he said.
    And he realized the demon was right—that pretty much was all he had left.
    The demon sighed again. “You are almost done, Mr. Deacon. You have just one more task. You’ll spend the day in my home, and we’ll fly to Prague tonight. And you will be on your best behavior around my employee, Mr. Deacon, or I will make that call. Just do as you’re told, and everything will end well.”
    Deacon closed his eyes. What had Rosalia said? “It never ends well.”
    It especially never ends well for vampires.
    “Mr. Deacon, that is disappointing,” the demon said. “You should have a little more faith.”

CHAPTER 16
    Irena had known weeks and months—even years—when she’d done little but wander her territory, searching for demons and nosferatu. And then came days like this, when she wondered how she would complete everything she needed to—particularly when her duties sat on opposite sides of the world, and the window of time to meet with vampires lasted from sundown to sunrise. When the day began in San Francisco, night would not fall for three more hours in her territory.
    Thanks to Selah, she could start at SI and not lose too many hours flying to and from the Gates.
    Before she and Alejandro left the forge, she quickly made him four swords with her Gift. She would craft others later, better suited to his growth in speed and strength these past four centuries.
    Every moment in the forge with him had been perfect—almost unreal, as if in a dream. She did not mind. Irena hadn’t slept in sixteen centuries, had not dreamt. It was time for one: a waking dream.
    And she was trying to remind herself of that when she stood in the conference room with Taylor, Preston, and Lilith, looking down at the files Michael had brought regarding Margaret Wren. Irena barely listened as Michael told them he’d teleported into a secured CIA facility to obtain them; she only felt the conflict in Taylor’s psychic scent. Irena wasn’t sure if the conflict stemmed from Michael’s method of retrieving the files, or the information within.
    Irena looked up at Olek, who’d read through the reports within a few seconds. “What are we looking at?”
    “An assassin.”
    What did that matter? “She wasn’t the shooter.”
    “No.” He flipped through another folder. “But she was issued and used the rifle.