being the Director of Special Forces meant that Adam occasionally made the local news—and that could make him cautious anyway.

We waited breathlessly to see what Foreman would do—assuming he was even home. He could even now be out hunting the city streets for another “expendable” human being who could be coerced into hosting a demon.

I didn’t hear any sound of movement from behind the door, but Adam must have heard something, because his posture stiffened ever so slightly. I expected someone to open the door, or tell us to go away, but nothing happened.

Raphael climbed the last step, I guess in case Adam needed help breaking down the door. Whatever the reason, it was a damn good thing he did, because the next thing I heard was a loud bang, like the sound of a car backfiring. Raphael apparently heard something before that, because he shoved Adam out of the way just in time to avoid the bullet that punched a hole in the door.

Raphael cried out in pain and doubled over, clutching his gut. Adam did an involuntary backflip over the railing that bordered the landing. He went down hard on the pavement below, but it was no doubt better than being shot.

Without needing anyone to tell me, I vaulted over the railing myself and pressed my back against the stoop, which gave me some semblance of cover. The door to the house burst open, and a fist smashed into Raphael’s face, sending him tumbling to the bottom of the steps. He left a brilliant trail of blood in his wake.

Compared to demons, I move practically in slow motion. I was fumbling through my purse, trying to find my Taser, as someone—Foreman, I presumed—barreled down the steps, gun in hand, and took off running down the street. Adam, apparently not hurt by his fall, drew his gun and dashed off in pursuit. They were both out of range before my hand closed on the Taser.

People around us had noticed the commotion—and the guns—but no one seemed to be panicking. I could see the people driving down the street glancing out the window at the action, but they kept driving, and the pedestrians—most of them, anyway—just changed directions and walked hurriedly the other way. And they call Philadelphia the “City of Brotherly Love.” Yeah, right.

A gum-cracking teenaged girl called 911 on her cell phone while she stared, wide-eyed, at the trail of blood Raphael had left on the steps. I was way too shaken up to walk, so I crawled over to where he lay on the sidewalk, his arms wrapped around his belly, his body curled around itself. He was making little moaning sounds as if he were in dire pain, but when I got close enough, he made eye contact and I could see he was fine.

You see, Tommy Brewster isn’t just any old demon host. He was a product of Raphael and Dougal’s genetic experiments, and he healed even more quickly than normal demons. In fact, I’d seen Dick—

Saul’s current host, who was from the same “batch” as Tommy—get shot in the head twice and barely pause long enough to blink. Of course, the general population doesn’t know about the experiments, or the superhosts those experiments produced. And it’s probably better that way.

The teenaged girl was the only pedestrian to make any move to help us in the heat of the moment, but now that it seemed like the shooting was over, we were beginning to draw a crowd. No one seemed to want to get too close—like they were afraid getting shot was contagious—but it was far more attention than I was comfortable with. I don’t know if the bullet Raphael had taken would have killed a normal host, but it certainly would have hurt one very badly.

The teenager closed her phone, though not before surreptitiously snapping a photo. Camera phones have to be the devil’s own invention.

“An ambulance is coming,” she said, leaning over Raphael to get a better look. “Is he gonna die?”

I wanted to tell her to back off, but she had called an ambulance, which made her into something like a Good Samaritan. I try not to bite the heads off Good Samaritans even when my head hurts like a son of a bitch and I have problems up the wazoo.

“He’ll be all right,” I said. “He’s a demon.”

The girl’s eyes widened. She made the sign of the cross, then backed away hastily. I think she was regretting calling the ambulance. I guess when you’re in a heavily Italian neighborhood, you have to expect a lot of Catholics, and the Catholic church would never accept demons as the good guys.

Raphael started sitting up, and now it wasn’t only the girl taking a step back. I bit my lip, wondering where Adam was. I couldn’t figure out whether I hoped he’d caught Foreman or not. At least I hadn’t heard any more gunshots.

“Should you be sitting up yet?” I asked Raphael. It was just beginning to dawn on me that Raphael had maybe saved Adam’s life and had taken a bullet for his efforts. I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around the concept.

“I’m fine,” he said, one arm still pressed tightly to his abdomen. “It’s just a flesh wound.” He managed something that passed for a sickly grin, but I suspect the wound had healed completely already.

I looked at the blood that soaked his shirt and that trailed down the steps. The evidence pointed to far more than a flesh wound. And in broad daylight, with witnesses surrounding us and an ambulance and police on the way, there was no way we could hide anything.

Sirens wailed in the distance, and I would have loved to flee. The police had seen far too much of me since Lugh had come into my life, and my being at the site of yet another violent crime was not going to help my less-than-squeaky-clean image. Where the hell was Adam? I wasn’t doing his reputation much good, either, since he’d been forced to extricate me from a number of delicate situations, but I really hated the idea of talking to the police without him present.

My silent prayers went unanswered, and the emergency vehicles converged before Adam put in an appearance.

I DIDN’T MAKE ANY NEW FRIENDS IN THE POLICE department that night.

Despite his showy wound, Raphael managed to avoid being shuffled off to the hospital. He wouldn’t even let the EMTs take a quick look—probably because the wound was already gone, and even a demon should still have some sign of injury left. I have no idea what they would have made of the nonexistent wound, and I was just as happy not to find out.

While Raphael was arguing with the EMTs, one of the officers who’d arrived on the scene took me aside to get my statement. That’s when I started making a nuisance of myself.

Obviously, I couldn’t explain to the police exactly what I was doing here, nor could I offer any theories on why Jonathan Foreman had shot at us. But I’m a lousy liar in the best of times, and with that blacksmith still hammering away at my skull, I just didn’t have the … creativity to come up with a plausible explanation. Just as well, because Raphael’s story and mine wouldn’t gel, seeing as we hadn’t had a chance to consult with each other. So I decided to tell the nice policeman the facts, and only the facts. Adam knocked on the door. Raphael pushed him out of the way, getting shot in the process. And someone, presumably Foreman, had taken off with Adam in hot pursuit.

I refused to say what the three of us were doing on Foreman’s doorstep. I can’t imagine how many red flags my refusal set to waving, but I figured if I couldn’t come up with a plausible story, I was better off saying nothing. I hoped Raphael was doing the same, even though he could probably come up with three plausible-sounding stories without breaking a sweat.

Things were getting pretty tense, and I was afraid they were about to arrest me—for what, I’m not sure—when Adam finally sauntered back onto the scene. Okay, he wasn’t really sauntering, but he couldn’t possibly move fast enough to satisfy me. I hadn’t exactly been watching the time, but it felt like approximately forever since he’d run off after Jonathan Foreman, and I couldn’t imagine what had taken so long. With their demon-enhanced endurance, the two of them could have run to New Jersey and back in the time Adam had been gone!