faces. Their mouths were drawn back in snarls. Every drop of blood on their bodies was perfectly defined.
That sculpture sure was ominous.
Damiel looked around the sparse office. His gaze fell upon the sculpture, considering it like a true art connoisseur.
Sharply, he turned on his heel to face me. “Bind Major Grant to that chair. You will find ropes in the lower desk drawer.”
I slid the lowest drawer open and, sure enough, I found a bundle of rope inside.
Were the contents of the angel commander’s desk drawers also in the profile Damiel had memorized, or did he just understand Colonel Spellstorm that well? Neither possibility was particularly appealing.
I bound Major Grant to Colonel Spellstorm’s chair, using the angel’s own rope to tie up his faithful second-in-second. There was a kind of dark irony to that, something it took an angel to appreciate.
Major Grant didn’t move as I tied him up, even though he must have know this was going to be unpleasant. He simply looked resigned. Standing by without a hint of protest took far greater courage than fighting us tooth and nail—and I respected Major Grant for it. I also felt a twinge of guilt about what Damiel was about to do to him.
Damiel stared into Major Grant’s eyes. The soldier’s body shook under the strain of Damiel’s siren magic. I knew it the moment Damiel usurped his will because Major Grant suddenly went completely still.
“What is your name?” Damiel asked him.
“Major Edwin Grant,” he replied, his voice monotone.
“How long have you been stationed in Florence?”
“Five years.”
Nothing remained of the Major’s sophisticated enunciation and intonation. It had been silenced by Damiel’s spell.
Damiel considered him closely. “What are your magical strengths?”
“Psychic’s Spell and Dragon’s Storm.”
“And your weaknesses?”
“Siren’s Song and Witch’s Cauldron,” he replied immediately.
Damiel nodded.
I knew what he was doing. He was trying to test the completeness of his mental lock on Major Grant. He’d started with easy questions, then moved on to a tough question that had nothing to do with this investigation, but that no Legion soldier would volunteer willingly. We didn’t like talking about our weaknesses.
If Major Grant hadn’t been completely under Damiel’s control, he would have hesitated before answering the question. He did not.
So Damiel went straight to the point. “Is Colonel Spellstorm working for the demons?”
“No.”
“Has Colonel Spellstorm betrayed the Legion of Angels?”
“No.”
“Has Colonel Spellstorm betrayed the gods?”
“No.”
“Has Colonel Spellstorm betrayed the Earth in any way, shape, or form?”
“No.” Blood dripped from Major Grant’s nose.
“Damiel,” I said.
“That happens sometimes,” he replied, his stare never wavering from the man under his spell. “He’ll be fine.” Gold magic sparked in his blue eyes. “Are you working for the demons?” he asked Major Grant.
“No.”
“Have you betrayed the Legion of Angels?”
“No.”
“Have you betrayed the gods?”
“No.”
“Have you betrayed the Earth in any way, shape, or form?”
“No.”
Blood was dripping from Major Grant’s fingers now too.
“Is that normal?” I asked Damiel.
He glanced at the Major’s bleeding fingers. “No. He’s fighting my compulsion spell.” He met Major Grant’s eyes and demanded, “What are you hiding from me?”
“Nothing.” Blood dripped out of Major Grant’s mouth.
“Damiel, you’re killing him,” I told him.
“He will recover.” Damiel pressed on. “Major, do you know of any Legion soldier currently stationed in this office, or any other office, who is working for the demons, or has betrayed the Legion of Angels, the gods, or the Earth in any way, shape, or form?”
“No.”
Damiel continued to stare into his eyes for a few moments. Major Grant’s body rattled from head to toe. He was shaking so hard that he’d cut himself on the ropes I’d used to restrain him.
Damiel waved his hand. Major Grant slouched forward, released from his spell.
“He knows nothing,” Damiel told me.
He didn’t look at all conflicted about torturing someone innocent of treachery.
But I was conflicted. Damiel hadn’t laid a hand on the man, but the brutality of his interrogation was horrifying. He’d broken his will and enslaved his mind. That was a far greater violation than cutting him up with a knife.
That is what Damiel Dragonsire does, said my inner voice that sounded like my father. He breaks people. He bends them to his will.
The doubts I’d been having about Damiel—about my feelings for him—were blaring loudly in my head now.
“What now?” I asked Damiel, trying to keep my voice level.
“Release him.”
I untied Major Grant.
“You are dismissed,” Damiel told him.
Major Grant rose slowly from the chair. He didn’t shake, but I could see the intense concentration burning in his eyes. He was trying to keep his body still,