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.
