Yeah. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

Harrison glanced around the packed room taking in each of the humans scattered throughout. With so many bodies, the room should be stuffy, but it wasn’t. Most of the bodies in the room weren’t even warm. He grinned. But then, most of the bodies in the room were his.

No one looked at him as he made his way to the front of the room where Mason waited to start his presentation. Harrison wore his DDC blacks—a uniform of black pants, a black polo with DDC printed in white on the back, and a black utility belt complete with a Glock that would be completely useless against Nephilim. He’d kept his Guardian blades and had one strapped to each thigh. They could kiss his ass if they thought he’d take the fucking things off.

George rode his shoulder, growling softly.

Harrison took his seat to Mason’s right in a chair facing the audience. Suddenly, forty sets of eyes, everyone except his copies, landed on him. Took his measure. Assumed his race and found him lacking.

Not one set of eyes widened in surprise. Interesting. No one had noticed his clones. They’d taken care, dressing each one slightly different—still, he’d expected someone in the room to have noticed how many of the men looked the same.

The DDC had put out the call to all U.S. law enforcement agencies—police, fire, and military units to send their best and brightest to work on the front lines with the daemons.

They’d gotten forty.

Forty men who either looked so young their mommas must still wipe their asses or so old they should be thinking of retiring from active duty. Four marines sat together in the back row. Harrison wasn’t quite sure what to think of their presence. They didn’t have the aura of men who’d volunteered for this job. All forty were either too damned jaded to be bothered to look around the room at their classmates, or too scared. Hell, the asshole in the front row was pressing his legs together like he needed to pee.

This was what they were getting to work with? The quality of employees was on par with the quality of the equipment they’d been issued—more to look impressive than to be of any use.

Harrison leaned back in his chair and raised his brow at his new boss.

Mason gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

Agent William Wear sat on the other side of Scott, a young guy, no more than twenty-five with dark skin and neat bundles of dreadlocks hanging around his face. He kept his goatee trimmed tight to his skin and the suit he wore looked expensive, but he kept his expression void and said little. He must be an all right guy; Lilith’s mate, James Pasquino had vouched for him. He and Will were to be daemon kind’s eyes and ears in the newly-minted Department of Daemonic Control. The name sent a shiver up his spine.

Scott’s voice jerked him away from his thoughts. “We’ve used infrared technology since WWII, but it was too cumbersome and awkward for practical use in the field. When the monocular came out during the Kuwait War, infrared came to more standard use. That’s why we didn’t know about them. We didn’t have the technology.”

Them. These humans, even Mason, had no idea who they were. Not all daemons lacked a human-like heat signature. Considering the video had been filmed in the ’nineties, there was only one type of daemon on Earth at that time who lacked a heat signature: vampires.

The older man paced as he spoke, his gaze scanning the rows of cubicles outside the conference room where teams of workers were revamping the place for a whole new type of employee.

“In two thousand-five, we gathered intelligence suggesting the location of a potential terrorist cell. Army Rangers went in on a black ops mission to locate, extract, and take any prisoners to Guantanamo Bay for interrogation.

“The compound lay on the outskirts of town, and the unit identified several targets inside. They appeared to be asleep. When they went in, they found something unlike anything they’d seen before.”

Hell, it sounded like the lead-in to a bad episode of Mystery Science Theater.

Mason thumbed the play button and Will dimmed the lights.

The image on the screen bounced as the team trotted toward a house. A green haze covered half the screen, the other half remained dark, aside from the bright orange-and-yellow human-shaped blurbs indicating heat sources.

“You’re seeing two separate images simultaneously. On the left is night vision recorded by Banks. On the right, infrared, recorded by Zimmerman. Both recorded audio.”

Interesting. They must want to show the trainees how daemons didn’t show up on video, but still had a heat signature that showed on infrared.

On the screen, a soldier kicked the front door in. The night vision camera entered first, the picture jiggling and bouncing as Banks panned from side to side, halting when he found the first of the inhabitants.

She wasn’t sleeping.

She’d been mutilated.

“Holy shit,” came from the audio stream.

The camera panned across several other bodies in the same grisly condition.

This was bullshit. Harrison slanted his gaze at Will, who turned his gaze skyward and shook his head. This little video would not endear these humans to the daemons they’d be working with.

He turned his attention back to the screens.

A soldier passed in front of the camera, moving into another room, and Banks followed.

On the infrared, Zimmerman inspected a different area of the house. As Zimmerman padded through the compound, everything looked the same on his camera. The fresh bodies possessed enough heat to give the soldiers the impression they slept.

“Watch out, Aguilera!”

Zimmerman’s camera swung around as he ran back to Banks and Aguilera.

On Banks’ recording, nothing showed on the screen, though Banks tracked something around the room. “Aguilera, behind you!”

A soldier, Aguilera, spun on his heel. He engaged in a physical altercation with . . . nothing. He fought. His punches found resistance, but only Aguilera showed on the hazy green screen.

Banks raised his gun, the barrel appearing on the screen. He fired. “I hit him.”

Aguilera flew back against the wall and his helmet fell off. He screamed. Blood spurted as some invisible force ripped away a large chunk from his neck.

“Shoot the fucker,” Banks yelled.

“Can’t see him anymore. Where’d he go?”

“Banks? Banks? Do you see him?”

Both screens lit up as weapons fired. Zimmerman had joined the others with his infrared camera. “Don’t see him.” Zimmerman panned in wide sweeps from side to side. “Wait.”

In the corner of the room a faint heat source emerged in the shape of a man. He didn’t hold the yellows and oranges of the bodies, nor the brilliant reds of the soldiers. His heat signature appeared mainly black—the edges of his body a lighter blue.

Vampire daemons showed up on infrared the same as a cold-blooded reptile. Lycan, though . . . . He glanced at Will. Lycan were hot-blooded creatures.

On the screen, the vampire vanished.

Another soldier screamed. Zimmerman charged into the next room where the black image was biting another soldier, tearing him apart as he bore him aloft. The dying soldier’s gun fired, hitting nothing.

Harrison snorted. A vampire with a phantom-type talent. The military must’ve shit their pants when they’d seen this.

The soldier’s body fell to the ground in a lifeless heap and the black image disappeared again.

Zimmerman swung around with the infrared camera, through a hallway and into another room, and the black image came back into view. “Here! Here! He’s going through the damn walls!” Zimmerman fired his weapon and the image vanished, then reappeared.

Closer. To the left.

Gone again.

Then, right in front of him.

Zimmerman’s weapon jerked up into his face. They scuffled as the target wrested Zimmerman’s weapon from him. Another round of shots lit up the screen.

Zimmerman slid to the floor.

One by one, the soldiers fell. Harrison clenched his jaw tight at the sounds of their dehumanizing screams.

Banks, with the night-vision recorder, was the only one left.

The vampire didn’t show on Banks’ camera. Not a shadow, not a blur, nothing. But Banks saw something. The camera darted from left to right. Banks fired at each stop. Cursed in frustration. His labored breathing came through as harsh static on the audio feed. “Hold still, you silver-eyed bastard.”

Banks screamed. The camera fell to the floor at a sideways angle, jerking with the motions of his convulsing body until finally going still.

Mason nodded to Will who leaned over and flipped on the lights.

A young guy, sitting up front, swallowed hard. “What was he?”

Harrison folded his arms over his chest. “A vampire with a phantom talent. They can turn to ether for brief periods. A defensive talent.”

One of the guys in back snorted. “Tell you the truth, I’m half expecting someone to jump up and yell ‘Punked you!’ any minute now.”

They all stared at the guy.

He quit grinning.

Mason cleared his throat. “This is an absolute cluster fuck.”

Harrison’s gaze shot to his.

All the men in the room perked up.

“What the hell was that?” He motioned to the video.

Harrison shrugged. “The Guardian used to hunt and ash rogue daemons who did shit like that.”

Mason’s gaze raked over the men. “See, this is the bullshit we’re up against. The fuckers in Washington sent that to me as a ‘training video.’ Bullshit. It’s anti-daemon propaganda. Right? If I took a video of Manson or Dahmer committing their crimes to the daemons to use as a training video on humans, it’d be the same damn thing. So, I guess I’m wondering if you’re all the type to buy into this sort of shit.” He folded his arms over his chest. “If you are, get out.”

Maybe Mason wasn’t too bad after all. Harrison glanced at Will, who was nodding in approval. Problem was, if Mason wasn’t careful, he could get himself killed for trying to give daemon kind a fair shake.

Harrison let his gaze travel the room. No one got up. The scared ones looked a little braver now that they had someone to look up to. The jaded ones actually appeared a bit interested.

“All right. In lieu of a training video, why don’t we have a real live demo? Can anyone here point out the daemons in the room?”

All hands pointed to Harrison. Guess the minion gave me away.

Scott smiled. “On my mark, you have ten seconds to capture them.”

No one moved, but all twelve of the men tensed, their gazes locked on Harrison.

Dumbasses.

“Three. Two. One. Go!”

Will stood and began his transformation. The whole shift between human and wolf took 3.5 seconds. They’d timed it before class.

Harrison didn’t bother to move.

As chairs toppled in the men’s haste to get to the front of the room, Will’s bones cracked and snapped as they elongated and reshaped. His muscles thickened, ripping through clothing. Fur covered his swarthy skin.

At the same time, Harrison’s clones each stood and engaged the closest human. They had the humans pinned and subdued before any of them got close.

Will finished his shift and let out an ear-piercing howl.

Harrison stood and walked to the center of the room. “When dealing with daemons, it’s best to be alert. You focused on the most obvious targets in the room. That’s always a mistake. A good training video would’ve shown you that there are many races of daemons and each race has its own special abilities. Mr. Wear is a lycan. I’m a vampire. Within the vampire race there are two-hundred talents—one for each angel we’re descended from. I’m a splitter. That means I can make copies of myself. I can let them fight for me. I can use them as decoys.”

Harrison recalled his copies. They faded, the energy he’d used to create them returning to his body.

One of the Marines eyed him with a bit more respect as he got to his feet. “What about the lycan?”

“In full transformation, Will can run seventy-five miles an hour. He can jump to a second-story window without any effort. He can rip a full-grown man in half.”

“Jesus.” The kid from the front row stared up at Will from his place on the ground. “What’s Crowley?”

“He’s a vampire with a mesmerist talent.” Scott cleared his throat. “A very good one.” He motioned to the chairs. “Everybody take a seat and we’ll talk more about the types of daemons you’ll be working with. Then we’ll talk about why they are such a goddamned necessity in our fight against the Nephilim.”

One of the marines snorted. “While you’re at it, maybe you can explain where the fucking things came from in the first place.”

Julius Crowley this. Julius Crowley that. His host’s name was everywhere. On everyone’s lips. In the news. On TV. He couldn’t escape the name. It had become a living thing, carrying the weight of all the fear that should’ve been reserved for him.

They should fear his name. Not Julius Crowley. He should be notorious, not Julius Crowley.

The daemons had promised to give him to the humans. His host must be in Kat’s house. The little hovel in the woods by the river. He must be there. Must still be alive.

Why had his curse not taken effect? How had he survived? He was getting all the glory when he should be dead!

And here Azazel was stuck in a tower. Alone. Bored. Ignored.

They were hiding things from him. Whispering. Talking in riddles and knowing glances.

Azazel rammed his shoulder against the tower wall, making the whole structure shake.

Daemons gathered below, looking at one another with fear in their eyes.

They should be scared. He’d be free soon.

He backed up and rammed the wall again. The stone cracked and the sound reverberated through the tower. The crack lit up, bright with the light of Machon’s moon before sealing closed again.