“The kidnapped Agents? What would they have that ordinary humans wouldn’t?”

“Agents’ magic is tied to the dead, right? And vampires are essentially dead,” I said, warming to my theory. “So an Agent’s blood might be better tolerated by a vampire, especially when something that would normally kill the vamp is running in the blood.”

“And once vampires had built up an immunity to sunlight, then what?” J.B. said.

“I think the massacre that we saw today was just a little taste,” I said.

“Vampires roaming free during the day, terrorizing the city?” Jude asked.

I nodded. “And since it’s Azazel, you know that’s only the smallest part of the plan. The vampires would probably be a distraction for some bigger splash he’d intended.”

“If you’re right, then the kidnapped Agents are probably being drained by vampires as we speak,” J.B. said.

“More importantly, if it works, then Azazel will want more Agents,” I said.

J.B. stared at me, his green eyes filled with horror. “The whole Agency is at risk.”

“I told you that the upper management was being shortsighted,” I said. “They need to put some resources into this.”

J.B. shook his head. “I’ll never convince them.”

“You have to,” I said. “They don’t want a repeat of what happened with Ramuell and Antares, right? So why would they tolerate their Agents being picked off one by one?”

“From their point of view, it’s not a problem. If an Agent dies, then the next person in their bloodline will be activated. Dead Agents are less troublesome than missing ones,” he said.

“They’re going to start having morale issues if they think like that,” I said. “And they won’t be able to threaten every Agent with Bryson or the Retrievers.”

“The problem is that we have no proof of this,” J.B. said.

“Sixteen missing Agents at the site of a vampire attack isn’t proof?”

J.B. shook his head. “You don’t know how stubborn upper management can be.”

“I’ve got some idea,” I said. “Well, the good news is we know what Azazel’s intentions are.”

“You think,” Jude said.

“Let’s just assume I’m right. The bad news is that we still don’t know where he is.”

“Try Lucifer again?” J.B. asked.

“I’ve got a feeling he’s not answering his phone for a reason,” I said, but I tried anyway. And got nothing.

“So it’s the Forbidden Lands, then,” Jude said.

“Yeah, but not for you,” I said, and pointed to J.B.

“Why the hell not?” he asked.

“You’ve got to stay here and try to convince the Agency that other Agents are at risk,” I said. “No matter how unlikely the outcome may be. If we can get the Agency to come around to our side, then we’ll be better prepared for whatever Azazel’s planning.”

“We can hardly take on an army of vampires with just the five of us,” Jude said.

“Six, if you count Beezle. And he usually doesn’t show up for the combat situations,” I said pointedly.

“So the four of you can manage Antares and whatever he’s got hidden in the Forbidden Lands?” J.B. asked.

“Our options are limited,” I said. “I think it would be better if you were here trying to work on the Agency. Start with Bryson.”

“Bryson’s been listening to Beezle for the last couple of hours and he hasn’t broke,” J.B. said.

“Don’t try to break him. Try to reason with him. You’re management. He’s got to respect you.”

“As a midlevel supervisor, my status is roughly on par with his.”

“What do you want to do, then? Give up? Watch our colleagues get taken by Azazel and used for vampire food?”

“No. It’s just…”

“All the alternatives suck, no matter how we try to play this. If you hang around me long enough, you get used to stuff like that.”

J.B. smiled briefly. “Let’s go get Bryson, then.”

We agreed that J.B. would hold Bryson here until the rest of us had safely departed for the Forbidden Lands. After that he could release Bryson or take him elsewhere to try to convince him to help.

As we went down the stairs I heard Beezle holding forth on the merits of cheese popcorn versus caramel popcorn.

“Of course, you can always blend the two, à la the famous Chicago mix, but I prefer not to mix my salty and sweet together. You wouldn’t put a doughnut in a bowl of potato chips, would you?”

Bryson was gagged and tied to an old metal chair that must have been found in the piles of junk. His eyes were glazed over and his jaw set. He looked like a man who’d had a tiny drop of water falling on his forehead continuously for the last couple of hours. Beezle hovered in front of his face, talking endlessly.

Samiel had dealt with Beezle simply—by not facing him. I’d often thought that the reason he tolerated Beezle so well was because he couldn’t hear. He stood behind the gargoyle, arms crossed, staring at Bryson.

Nathaniel leaned against the wall to Bryson’s left, and he appeared to be at the end of his rope. He seemed to be contemplating Beezle’s slow demise.

“That’s enough, Beezle,” I said, and Nathaniel shot me a grateful look.