Demon Forged

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.
    Because Rael worked only one floor above?
    How many know? he asked her.
    You , H & M. Hugh and Michael. Keep it that way.
    He’d undoubtedly add an I to that list, but he needn’t tell Lilith that. He put away the phone, drawing a quick, inquiring glance from Preston. Alejandro shook his head.
    “No new information,” he said softly.

    After the debriefing—in which they learned no new helpful information—Alejandro and Preston climbed one flight of stairs, where the congressman’s offices took up one corner of the fourteenth floor. A garden of cut flowers overflowed the receptionist’s desk and