“The question remains. A war between the Hunters and the Demons, or the Hunters and the Fae?” Davenport added as he paced the line of my circle.
I gave him a bright disarming smile and a shrug. “Above my paygrade.” The commander scowled but ignored me as if I hadn’t spoken.
The salt ring began to glow, infused with magic that smelt like burning plastic. I winced, even though the magic didn’t seem to be affecting me. If Witchling magic was the result of a Devil's bargain, it made sense that it couldn't harm me.
Drudes were so low on the totem pole of power that most magic did not recognize our existence, so we were immune.
“That body belongs to Frankie Gardiner,” Davenport said.
“I'm just borrowing it.”
“So, she's still alive.” He narrowed his eyes.
“Not really,” I admitted.
He was silent as he contemplated my words with a heavy frown.
“Why would a Demon be working for a Fae Lord?” The commander's voice held no emotion.
I looked like my hand had been caught in the cookie jar. The magic whipping around the trapping circle grew heavier.
While Davenport's demeanor hadn’t outwardly changed all that much—he was still the same no-nonsense man with an inherent quality that made you want to roll your belly and obey him—Remi's disposition was very jarring. Seeing the typically jovial prankster as a stern and unforgiving Hunter was a sight I should have been prepared for, but wasn't.
“I'm a mercenary,” I explained. “Dirk asked me to help solve the murder because he owed you a favor for London.”
“True.” Remi sniffed and wiped his nose discretely against his sleeve. It came away stained with blood. Worry nestled into my chest like a burrowing insect.
“You’ve seen our compound,” Davenport noted gently. “What should I do with you?”
I licked my bottom lip. “You could let me go?”
“Ask her what kind of Demon she is.” Remi piped up.
“I can hear you.”
“Answer him,” Davenport demanded.
“A Drude.” I shrugged.
“Never heard of it.” The commander glanced at Remi, who shook his head.
Damn. That was embarrassing.
“Show us your true form,” Remi demanded, his typically relaxed face was carved from ice.
“No, thanks.” I rolled my eyes, remembered Davenport’s previous look of disgust at my incorporeal self.
“Make her.” Davenport turned to Remi and stepped away from the edge of the circle. I made a move to follow him but stopped when my toes hit the salt line.
“Wait, what?” I asked, panicking. I reached inside of myself and fastened my darkness to my Host's skin like a sea urchin to a rock. My eyes darted wildly as I stepped away from the edge of the circle like a cornered animal.
Remi closed his eyes and waved his hands, the taste of burning plastic dominated all my other senses. I gagged.
But his magic did nothing to me.
Blood began to ooze from Remi's nose, and even though his face creased in pain, he continued to chant. Davenport's previous words echoed in my ears like an airplane taking off. A dull roar that grew louder and louder. Remi could die if he used too much magic.
I might have been a Demon, but I loved Remi in my own twisted unrequited way. He had been the first person to treat me with kindness when I had gotten to the compound. To joke with me and make me feel seen. I didn’t want him to get hurt because of my stubborn magic immunity.
I hunched over and pretended to wheeze. I held my hand up. “Uncle!” I cried, hiding my face behind a curtain of frizzy hair. I exploded out of Frankie's body, letting her dead form drop to the ground with a harsh whack. Both men winced.
My smoke spindled to form a human shape, the whorls of curling shadows rose from my silhouette like steam. I hovered, a mermaid made of the night sky, underwater.
Remi stepped forward, reaching Davenport's side, they both looked up at me.
“That’s a goddamn nightmare Demon,” Remi whispered, in awe. Warren spared him a glance.
“What Circle do they reside in?” The commander asked, unconcerned as he turned his back to me.
Remi shook his head at a loss.
“What is your Sin, Demon?” Davenport asked.
I floated there. My mouth opened to speak, but only a rustling sound came out—brittle fall leaves skittering across the concrete. I had no voice as a Drude.
Warren gave me a look that could kill.
“I don't think she can speak.” Remi offered, his demeanor had softened since seeing my true form, which I had not expected.
“No red eyes.” Davenport finally turned to study for my form, he stepped around the circle. His gaze never leaving mine. “Call for Sinclair. He knows more about Demons.”
My form struck out in all directions, bouncing off the salt barrier as I tried to escape. I didn’t want Hugo to see me. He'd know.
I did not have a plan, besides getting out of the circle. Proving my innocence would have been nice, but I was realistic. Once Davenport had done his 'due diligence,' I fully expected to be banished back to Hell at best or shot with a Devil's Silver bullet at worst.
Davenport and Remi turned to the door to wait.
I spread myself thin until I was invisible to the naked eye. Nothing but a shadow. If I had a human skin, it would have been the equivalent of curling up on the floor to hide. I had no shame when it came to survival.
Remi's magic couldn’t touch me, but whatever Davenport had done in the office could.
What the Hell was Davenport anyway?
Behind the lines of the circle, I was safe but trapped.
A few minutes passed, but they seemed like seconds, as the seamless concrete slipped down to reveal the entrance. Hugo Sinclair strode through, the hunched over and tentative set to his shoulders was gone and in his place was an eagle-eyed Hunter. He looked competent. Dangerous.
“You called, Sir?” Hugo asked, eyes straight on Davenport.
The commander finally looked back to my circle in the center of the room. Only to find I was no longer visible.
He swore. His dark eyes flashed, and he turned to Remi.
“Where did the Demon go?” He enunciated each word through his clenched jaw.
“She’s still in there.” Remi glanced at the salt circle. Hugo's eyes followed his. The incubus stepped back, he touched the mark on his chest without conscious thought.
Davenport rubbed his hand over his eyes. The first crack in his armor since he had walked into Dirk's office.
“Frankie Gardiner is dead.” Davenport's statement was said without emotion. “She did not make it back from the coma. That—” he waved his hand in my direction, “—is the Nightmare Demon that Dirk masqueraded as a Mimic Sidhe. The slippery Fae bastard put a Pureblooded Demon in my compound, and I didn’t even know!”
The dam had broken on Davenport's reserved manner, he began to swear again. He pushed his fingers into his dark wavy locks and tugged the strands.
Hugo turned slowly. His expression was unreadable. “Why did you require a Mimic Sidhe?”
Davenport explained his plan to lure out the summoner.
Hugo's face grew harder and harder. The incubus looked down at Frankie's immobile form, sprawled out across the jagged lines of the circle, then to the space above. I hovered, invisible to the naked eye.
“Frankie Gardiner didn’t come back from her last mission.” Hugo echoed back. He stepped up to the edge of the circle. His steel-toed boots hovered on the line that separated my invisible form from his.
I was in a vacuum, without sensation. But somehow, I could feel Hugo. His thoughts, his emotions, and the undulating dark chocolate of his magic. Bitter, but still smooth and sweet. The connection lived inside of me, a bond that I had denied and tried to escape, pulled taut without Frankie's body to act as a buffer.