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an angel with a flaming sword, and as angels hadn’t been too enthusiastic about getting their hands dirty for quite some time now, heavy firepower it was.
    Shotguns were the usual weapon of choice for the coup de grace, slugs the ammunition. Even demons needed their brains. Knives, smaller guns—smaller than a shotgun anyway—were good for slowing them down, but for taking them out, a shotgun was the best. Unless you were into axes or swords for whacking off the head. My boys used them all, but the shotgun was their favorite.
    “Hand grenades,” Zeke said complacently. “They fit in the bag with the knives, guns, etcetera.”
    “Hand grenades.” Griffin said it as calmly as he would’ve said, Watch out for that gum on the sidewalk . “The ones we keep locked up in the weapons arsenal and have to have Mr. Trinity’s permission to use. Those grenades?”
    Mr. Trinity was head of Vegas Eden House. He did not have a nickname. He might not even have had a first or middle name. Mr. Trinity could make Jackie boy pee his pants with the rise of one iron gray eyebrow.
    “Yep.” Zeke waved for a beer, the pretzels apparently having made him thirsty, before wiping the salt on his jeans with combat-scarred hands just like Griff’s.
    “Did you get permission?”
    The green eyes slid uncertainly toward Griffin. “No.”
    “Did you break the lock or kick down the door?” Griffin was now pinching the bridge of his nose before slipping on his sunglasses and threading an agitated hand through his hair.
    “Kicked down the door. Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to do?” From Zeke’s tone he’d figured out just now that, no, it wasn’t the right thing to do. It was the expedient thing to do, the black and white thing, but perhaps not the correct thing.
    “Never mind. They needed a metal door anyway.” Griffin dropped his hand and dismissed it as if it were nothing, just that quickly, and slung an arm over Zeke’s shoulder. “Let’s go kill ourselves a demon, assuming it’s not just a pissed-off gecko.” Zeke looked mildly relieved and they sauntered out with their duffel bag.
    Zeke was going to be in big shit and Griffin was going to get him out of it. Bottom line, Eden House couldn’t afford to lose a telepath. They might only be able to sense surface thoughts, but it was enough to spot a demon—or a robber, but that’s something we found out later.
    Regardless, the House knew if they tossed Zeke, Griffin, their empath, was gone too. They couldn’t afford to lose two of their best. They did have a few more telepaths and empaths, but humans with talents were few and far between, at least until evolution picked up a little speed, and Griffin and Zeke were their strongest by far.
    Griffin looked back at me, his expression both desperate and fierce. I put a finger to my lips. Their bosses would hear nothing from me. If he thought he could hide the fact that Zeke had done it, more power to him. I wouldn’t give him away.
    “Those two,” Leo grunted as he refilled the pretzel bowl with a rustle of a bag a few weeks past expiration.
    “They have a long way to go,” I admitted as I watched them pass the window to turn the corner that led to the alley where Griffin parked his car—the same alley where we’d destroyed the demon last night, “but I think they just might get there. As long as they learn Eden House isn’t the be-all and end-all of existence.”
    “So it’s not the shit?” he said solemnly, and shoved the pretzels my way—already knowing the answer.
    “No, not nearly the shit it thinks it is,” I said absently as I crunched some stale bread and salt, but he already knew that. “Has Robin called back yet?” He’d called last night when I was out. He said he’d call back today. Robin Goodfellow was one of the many contacts I’d made throughout my life. If I didn’t know something, which was rare, he was likely to.
    “No, but he’s not exactly punctual. The orgies tend to slow him