“It was all I could find,” I replied simply.
“Sir.”
My nose scrunched. “What?”
“You need to call me Sir.” Warren's dark eyes flicked from the road. “Or Commander Davenport.”
I snorted. Fuck that.
“Dermot Dirk told me that you would be able to perfectly mimic Francesca Gardiner so that we can lure her killer out.” Warren quirked a brow. “Is that not the case?”
I shrugged.
“What's your name?” He asked.
“Frankie Gardiner.” I bit out.
Warren Davenport rubbed his stubble. His jaw clenched.
“I'll try my best to be the perfect soldier.” I continued in a bright tone.
“I don’t need you to be perfect. I just need you to look the part.”
I rolled my eyes and bit my tongue. Make up your mind, dickweed.
“Where’s the Hunter's compound?” I asked, glancing out the window at the sea of yellow cabs.
Instead of answering my question, Davenport reached over and slapped the glove compartment until it opened. He fished out a black face mask and handed it to me.
“Kinky,” I said, rubbing my thumb over the fabric. “What’s it for?”
“Put it on.” His tone brokered no argument. “You’re not allowed to know where we're based.”
“It'll look weird,” I argued. “What if someone sees?”
“Tinted windows.” He said shortly. “Do you always talk back?”
“Only on Tuesdays.”
“It’s Friday.”
“Oh.” I nodded sagely. “Then, yes. I always talk back.”
Davenport's knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel.
“Frankie Gardiner was the last survivor of Team C. Seven people are dead. She lived long enough to get to a hospital, but she never woke up.” Davenport spoke slowly. “You’re here to find out who did this and why. To help us find the demonic son of a bitch that did this to our Hunters and to help us put them down.”
I squirmed in my seat, uncomfortable. I said nothing as Davenport continued.
“You need to tell me now if you can’t do this.” He glanced once at me. His voice was hard. “I don't like putting civilians in the field, but Dermot Dirk recommended you.”
I licked my bottom lip. “I can do it.” I was proud of the fact my voice didn’t crack.
I sat one foot away from a man that commanded a group of people that were specially trained to kill me and my kin. He could end my life with the grip of his hand and a few choice magic words.
Drudes were almost impossible to kill in their incorporeal form, but I wasn't so indestructible while wearing a meat suit.
I stretched out the elastic of the face mask and settled it over my eyes. Tilting my head back against the headrest.
“Wake me up when we get there,” I told Davenport, closing my eyes.
He tsked but did not protest.
I used the journey to delve deep into Frankie's mind and read her. Find out her likes. Her dislikes. I watched her last moments, as her legs collapsed under her.
I inhaled sharply.
“Are you alright?” Davenport's voice drifted through the darkness.
“Never better,” I said through tight lips.
He smelt like lemon body wash and something sweet that I couldn’t put my finger on until I heard a wrapper. Gum. Somehow I couldn’t imagine the dark leader of the Demon Hunters snapping away at a stick of Big Red.
I bit back a snort and focused on my task.
Frankie Gardiner. Skilled sniper. Almost unnaturally good. Fourteen confirmed kills. All Demons. I shivered and bypassed the memories of their deaths.
Frankie always wore gloves. I tried to locate the schema that told me why but couldn’t find it. She didn’t like touching certain materials. It must have been a sensory thing.
She had an older brother. Daniel. He was a medic at the compound. I wondered why he hadn’t been at the hospital to see her last moments—until I remembered that Frankie's death was classified.
Her parents lived in Queens. Frankie lived at the compound. I didn’t have the heart to tell Davenport that his blindfold was less than useless. I had Frankie's memories. I knew where it was.
A secret military base in New Jersey. Three hours drive from Manhattan.
Despite being alive, the owner of my body was surprisingly silent.
“Are we there yet?” I asked.
Davenport exhaled sharply. Irritated. “Are you five?”
I shrugged. “Bored.”
“Please try and be professional.” He warned. “Or I will turn this car around and tell Dirk that the deal is off.”
“What deal?”
“Please just keep your mouth shut.” Davenport snarled in his husky voice.
“You’re the only person that knows my true identity.” I reminded him. “Excuse me for sliding in a few jokes before I have to pretend to have a stick up my ass.”
“Don’t.” His word was a slap. A harsh full stop. I'd insulted a dead woman and gone too far.
I opened my mouth to apologize, but closed it again before the words came out.
Being around Humans was terrible for my health. I was a Demon for Hell’s sake. I didn’t say sorry.
The rest of the car journey was spent in silence.
Demons, as a rule, didn’t require sleep.
Somehow, despite this, I drifted off in the front seat of Davenport's armored SUV with my face pressed against the glass and drool over my chin.
Frankie's body was heavily damaged, and while I could control it, my possession wouldn't last if her body failed. The trauma would kick me out of my shell. My presence was healing her. Not that I could determine what had put the woman in a coma in the first place.
I could inhabit the living almost indefinitely. It depended on their will and my strength. Frankie had left the building. Her body was vacant and hollow. Perfect for me to control.
One of the reasons that dead bodies were easier to slide into than the living was because the deceased had no will. They were empty. Despite that, bodies carried residual memories and feelings.
Watching Frankie's life depressed me.
She was good at her job. Which was basically sitting still and shooting people.
There were no memories of friends. Birthday parties. Her relationship with her brother was stilted at best. Though her parents loved her, due to work, Frankie rarely saw them.
I thought about my own family. About the red sands of Wrath, the sprawling desert, and the eagle winged Valkyries. The swampy forested Envy and the Leviathan King, as tall as a skyscraper. All teeth and golden scales. My family. My 'Cluster.' Hundreds of Drudes, spanning the Seven Circles like an undulating blanket of shadows.
I thought about their screams. Ripping from incorporeal mouths turned solid in their last moments.
I was the last one left.
My ass had gone numb despite Davenport's heated seats. I shifted my weight from one butt cheek to the next, wishing that we could have just taken the train. I took off my mask, but Davenport did not notice—his eyes were fixed on the road.
I understood that he felt that he needed all of that cloak and dagger bullshit to protect his Hunters—but if anything, I would never willingly walk into the compound. Demons would use the knowledge of its location to stay away, or at least, that was my plan once Dermot Dirk's thinly veiled plot to kill me played out.
“Your room is a single, and you'll have your own bathroom.” Davenport broke the silence as we pulled up to a red light. “You can beg off most of Frankie's duties and obligations by stating that you are on leave for your recovery. However, I would like you to spend some time with the people on the base to try and be seen.”