Demon Forged

safe.”

    Taylor supposed that she couldn’t complain about the Guardians’ secret sign language anymore. She knew a word now: truth .
    Chances were, Rael had positioned himself within the federal building so that he’d be able to hear Bradshaw’s questions for Wren. This wasn’t about Wren at all, Taylor had realized—but leading Rael to think the investigation was headed in the direction he wanted them to go.
    And the Guardians didn’t intend to let the demon know that Castleford watched the interview from the back of the darkened observation room, reading the truth and lies in Wren’s answers.
    He stood to the left of her, with Cordoba on the other side of him. In between them and the one-way mirror, two FBI agents watched Bradshaw thank Wren for coming in for a follow-up. Michael stood on her right. The Doyen had shape-shifted into a sixty-year-old black man—an identity he’d apparently used before, because he had a Special Investigations badge to go along with his appearance, and the agents had greeted him by name. A different name. Until Cordoba had whispered his real identity to her, Taylor hadn’t known who’d been standing so uncomfortably close.
    When she’d woken up that morning, Michael had been standing at the foot of her bed, arms crossed over his wide chest. The arch of his black wings had almost brushed the ceiling. Even in the predawn darkness, she’d seen that his eyes were fully obsidian, and she hadn’t known if he’d been watching the door, the window, or her.
    And she wasn’t sure if the tremor that had raced down her spine meant that she’d been freaked out or a little thrilled.
    It hadn’t mattered. Either reaction was a reason to grab her weapon from her nightstand and order him the hell out of her room.
    She had; he’d gone.
    Bradshaw settled into his chair. Joe sat at the end of the small table, looking over at Wren with his careworn, I’m-your-favorite-uncle face on, which had guilted more than one person sitting across from him to break down and confess their sins.
    Margaret Wren didn’t. She sat rigid in her chair, speaking only when spoken to.
    Bradshaw laid a picture of the rifle on the table. “Do you recognize this weapon, Miss Wren?”
    Her gaze flicked down and back up. “Yes. It’s a Heckler & Koch PSG1 semiautomatic rifle.”
    “A sniper rifle.”
    “Yes.”
    “According to CIA records, you were the last person to have this particular rifle in your possession.”
    Wren’s face didn’t betray any emotion. “I could not say whether I was.”
    Truth, Castleford signed.
    “You won’t tell us where you last had the weapon?”
    “That, too. But I also do not memorize serial numbers.”
    “Perhaps you’ll be more familiar with other numbers, Miss Wren.”
    Bradshaw read off two bank account numbers, then a list of transactions. At the one-way, the agents frowned and shifted their weight. Taylor had difficulty holding back her own protest, reminding herself that Bradshaw wasn’t trying to go hard on Wren. He was just laying out what he had for Rael to hear.
    Cordoba and Michael exchanged a glance and rapid-fire sign language.
    Taylor frowned at them. Michael bent low and murmured into her ear so quietly she had to strain to hear—and then forced herself not to shiver as his breath warmed her skin.
    “Her heart races. She’s frightened and angry.”
    Surprised, she shot a glance through the window. Wren appeared ice cool.
    Bradshaw finished his recitation and leaned back. “These are your accounts.”
    “Yes.”
    “Have you allowed anyone else access to them, Miss Wren?”
    “No.”
    Truth.
    “Do you know who might have obtained access?”
    “No.”
    Truth.
    “Did you make these transfers?”
    “No. I wouldn’t be that stupid.”
    Even before Castleford signed Truth , Taylor knew that it would be. Wren wasn’t that stupid. And Taylor would bet that if Wren had been behind Julia Stafford’s murder, she wouldn’t have left a trace of it.
    Wren glanced at the one-way mirror, then at Bradshaw. “I won’t take any more questions without my lawyer present,” she said flatly.
    “Very well. Thank you for your help so far, Miss Wren.”
    Michael bent toward her again. “Her anger is cold now. Her fear is gone.”
    Taylor gave a nod of satisfaction. Wren had figured out she was being set up. She might open her mouth a little more once she realized her employer was behind it.
    The agents grumbled; Taylor tuned them out. Michael and