“I know what you are,” I said. “What you really are.”
The tiny flames in his eyes flickered a bit brighter. Warning or surprise? With demons, it was hard to read expressions or scent intent.
Still, accusing him of being a demon—with no proof, in front of people who probable didn’t believe in demons—would be a mistake.
“And what am I, really?” he asked. The fire in his eyes danced with amusement. “And how would you know?”
“It’s the name,” I said. “All you would-be spies do the same trick with your fake names.” At a round of puzzled looks, I elaborated. “You choose names that can be either a first or last name. Maybe because you’re not smart enough to remember your own fake names?”
I pointed a finger, a rude gesture almost anywhere. “You’re a slimy CIA asset.”
He breathed a tiny sigh of relief. “I work at the cultural attache’s office. I don’t know what you’re talking about. What makes you think I could be with the CIA?”
I pushed down the urge to attack him here. Our last encounter with demons had resulted in hundreds of deaths and millions in property damage, and had put my husband in a long-term coma. Not an encounter I would like to repeat.
“Besides the stench? I saw you ordering the Marines to stand down when we were trying to reach safety.”
Mr. Jonathan steepled his fingers together and said, “Unfortunately, we deemed you too great a risk to our diplomatic efforts.”
Prince Abdul snapped off a string of sentences in Arabic while pointing an accusing finger at me. Mr. Jonathan nodded along with his comments, while Lady Birdsong and the ambassador maintained their blank diplomatic looks.
I looked at Mike, who was listening intently. That’s when I realized I was the only one in the room that didn’t speak Arabic.
Two can play that game. I crossed my arms and turned my head away from the diatribe to face Bradley. “Tell your pet human to put that finger away or I’ll bite it off,” I said. I spoke in Fae, using the mode reserved for lovers or mortal enemies.
A quick evaluating look as he decided whether to pretend he didn’t understand, then he growled, “And you’d do well to keep your pet priest under control.” He made a calming gesture to Prince Abdul.
“Maybe we should ask him to bless this meeting,” I responded. “This time you don’t have any place to run to. I’ve cornered demons in the past.”
“You know what I am?”
“Most humans can’t sniff you bastards out,” I said. “But werewolves and men of faith don’t have that problem.”
I examined him with both werewolf and magician senses. Corpulent face, blues eyes tinged with hellfire, pudgy body, normal human teeth, and well-manicured hands with the standard number of fingers. I breathed an internal sigh of relief at that. His demon brother Marcus had modified the human body he inhabited to give himself six fingers on each hand, making him capable of very complicated spells.
“That’s a man of faith?” he snorted with contempt. “The slightest spell can end his life.” Then he laughed. “I’m minded to cast that spell. Maybe your pet priest can find his way to heaven.”
I looked away, as if in contemplation. “I’ve always wondered if you monsters felt the pain your host feels. Would it hurt to eviscerate you?” He tensed when I asked about pain. Good info to have. “The slightest slice of my claws and you can find your way back to hell.”
He froze for a second, then plowed on. “And risk an international incident? A crazed woman kills the CIA station chief in the UK Embassy. That would cause all kinds of headlines and ruin you and your company.”
“You really think I care about my reputation?” I took a long, deep breath through my nose, imprinting his scent in memory. “Anyway, it doesn’t have to be here and now. I can find you anywhere on Earth.”
I took another breath as his heart rate spiked and fear surged. I gave him my most toothsome smile.
“And we will find you. You should tuck your pointed tail under and haul ass back to hell.”
Time to change tactics. I switched to English. “My apologies. It’s incredibly rude to speak in a language that excludes others.” I gave a pointed glare at Prince Abdul.
His nose wrinkled as if at a bad smell, but he nodded and said, in English, “I can speak English. I demand the return of the djinni you stole from my home!”
25
“You lost a genie?” I gave him a puzzled look.
“You stole the vessel for my djinni,” said Prince Abdul.
“Vessel? You mean like a magic lamp?” I asked. “I haven’t seen any lamps around here. Maybe you could try to find another in the souk?”
Mike interrupted. “What makes you think we took anything from your home?” He furrowed his brow and said, “Come to think of it, I don’t believe I’ve ever been in your home. Isn’t theft a serious accusation in your country? Shouldn’t you have some kind of proof?”
“Yeah,” added Manny, “do you have any video?”
“All the cameras in my residence failed to capture the assailants. But we have multiple witnesses who saw two American men and a fur-covered female demon invade my home, steal the vessel, and kidnap two of my guests. The team killed many, many guards.”
“‘A fur-covered female demon,’” scoffed Mike. “Are you sure your witnesses weren’t hitting the hookah?”
“And we stole a fucking genie?” said Manny. “You mean a ‘three wishes’ real live genie? That’s the craziest thing I ever heard of.”
“The fur-covered demon was you!” snapped Prince Abdul, once again pointing his finger at me.
I ran a palm down my bare arm. “I’m hardly fur-covered,” I said, “and I don’t like waxing. As for being a demon, I think others here would make better candidates.” I stared at Mr. Jonathan.
“So, you’re saying we broke into a heavily defended compound,” said Mike, “killed or disabled dozens of armed guards, stole this ‘genie’ of yours, rescued two
