Chapter Four “Ah, there’s nothing quite like the smell of fire-roasted demon.” Gabriel took a deep breath and grinned. “Reminds me of that time in Paris. Do you remember, brother?” “Summer, 1941?” Dorian laughed, adjusting the flame on the blowtorch to its highest level. “Goodness, I haven’t thought of that trip in an age.” “Father always said French demons burned the hottest.” “And we certainly proved that, didn’t we?” “Several times, as I recall.” “Are you two f*****g crazy?” The roasted demon in question—a vile, sniveling knob called Jordan, according to the embroidered patch on his mechanic’s uniform—squirmed in his chair. He was already nursing third-degree burns on both arms, and blood leaked from a gash on his head, courtesy of his own tire iron. To be fair, he’d swung first.