Demon Forged

wailed in the distance. Cameramen moved closer to the stage. Detective Preston climbed up the stairs, huffing and flushed. Alejandro glanced back once; Irena and Preston’s partner were gone.
    Rael rolled over, holding his neck as he crawled toward his wife. He still bled; crimson dripped in a long trail beneath him. “Julia?”
    Alejandro didn’t suppress his disgust. “You must remain still, congressman.”
    The demon looked up at him. And quickly—a human couldn’t have detected it—used a talon to dig another furrow in his neck.
    God damn him. Alejandro had to help. The demon’s life wasn’t in danger, but if his quick healing was discovered, too much could be revealed. Alejandro created a length of cloth, pretended to pull it from inside his jacket, and gave it to the demon.
    Rael pressed the cloth against his neck, gathered up his wife, and began to sob.

    Taylor ran flat-out to keep up with the Guardian’s trot. What was this one’s name? She couldn’t remember, only that she carried two wicked huge knives and dressed like a blacksmith stripper with a fur fetish and a deep appreciation for Daniel Day-Lewis’s leather stockings in The Last of the Mohicans.
    Her sprint had just begun to rake at her lungs when the Guardian stopped to study the buildings rising around them. Her head tilted back, the white hood falling away from auburn hair that looked as if she’d hacked at it with a dull ax.
    “That building,” she said, her voice thick with some eastern European accent. Russian, Czech. Taylor didn’t know. “The roof.”
    Jesus. Taylor turned and eyed the distance back to the courthouse. Six or seven hundred yards. That meant a sniper with a long-range rifle.
    “Come with me,” the Guardian said. “We will have to do this quickly to avoid being seen.”
    Do what quickly? Taylor ran after her into a recessed loading ramp at the side of the building. When they were out of easy view of the street, the Guardian stopped and held out her hand.
    When Taylor looked at it blankly, the Guardian sighed. “Unless you wish to stay on the ground, I need to hold you against my chest.”
    Oh. Oh, God. They were going to fly up to the roof. Taylor’s stomach dropped to her knees. She could almost see the nail in the coffin that held her career. She was going to have a great time explaining this in her report to Captain Jorgenson. Yes, sir, after failing to recognize the threat to a demon congressman, I flew up the side of the building. Yeah. Bye-bye, badge. But what the hell. She moved in closer to the Guardian, and once Taylor realized they were almost exactly the same height, her debate between facing the woman or turning around became a quick one. She backed up, let the Guardian wrap an arm around her waist.
    “The speed will affect you. You might pass out.”
    Great. “Just get on with it.”
    Taylor thought the Guardian might have laughed, but in the next second white flashed in her peripheral vision— holy shit those were wings —and then her head dragged down to her chest and enormous pressure squeezed her lungs. Bright spots burst behind her eyes, and darker spots swam through her vision. Her stomach ached and roiled.
    Oh, God. She was going to puke.
    She stumbled, and the Guardian steadied her. Solid concrete lay beneath her feet. Taylor looked up. The Guardian had vanished her wings.
    “We’re here?” Already? And, what—a second had passed?
    “Yes. I smell burnt gunpowder.”
    Taylor couldn’t. She could hear pigeons, the rattle and blow of air ducts—and didn’t see anyone. Just the flat, gray expanse of the roof, broken by vents and a stairwell block. From the street, police sirens wailed past the building.
    The Guardian took off across the roof. Taylor swore, then went after her toward the south end of the building, where a low wall provided a minimal safety barrier.
    A rifle lay in front of it. Semiautomatic, some serious hardware. The scope alone probably cost more than all of Taylor’s weapons combined.
    “I’ve got to call this in.” Get a forensics team here, call the building management and have security shut the place down. “And for God’s sake, don’t touch anything,” Taylor protested when the Guardian fell to her knees beside the rifle and sniffed. “I . . . you’re going to track him?”
    “Yes.”
    Wasn’t that handy? “Let’s go, then.”
    She radioed dispatch as she followed the Guardian toward the stairwell block. Jesus, maybe it would be this easy.