"It doesn't look like it's going to be a good one," Bradford said, chuckling.

"I think you're right," Cortin agreed. Her subject was showing signs of fear, small as yet but promising. "And it looks like I ought to get back to him. If you have any suggestions, I'll be glad to hear them."

"I don't expect to, but if I do, I'll let you know."

Cortin returned to her subject, pleased to see his fear become more open when she entered the room. She wondered what he was seeing; he hadn't been visibly afraid of her only minutes ago, so it had to be something more than a woman in gray coveralls. As she approached him, he started to sweat, trembling, his eyes bulging as he fought to escape whatever he saw. "No--go away, please--leave me alone--don't touch me!"

She must be something impressive, Cortin thought. A demon such as the one the drug was named for, perhaps, to get such a strong reaction.

"Why not?" she asked. "What do you think I am?"

"Lord Azrael," the man sobbed. "Go away--send the Inquisitor back!

I'll tell her everything--just leave me alone!"

So he'd taken her code name and clothed her in that persona, Cortin thought. Fitting, that he should think he was dying at the hands of the real Angel of Death. "Tell me, mortal. Thy life is forfeit, but if thou shouldst speak quickly and truthfully, I will make thy pa.s.sing easy. She will not be so merciful."

"You're burning me . . . not so close . . ."

True enough, his skin was reddening as if from sunburn. Cortin had read that something believed strongly enough could affect the body, but this was the first time she'd seen it. She wanted to go closer, test the phenomenon further, but getting information was more important than indulging her curiosity; she stepped back instead. "Speak to me, mortal. Quickly, before the Inquisitor returns and I must leave thee to the slow, terrible death she intends for thee." Cortin had used the "good cop/bad cop" tactic before, many times--it was, for all its age, astonishingly reliable--though this was the first time she'd played both parts for one prisoner.

The man sagged in his chains. "Better you than her, I guess . . . what do you want to know?"

His fear was still there; Cortin read the signs easily. But she could also see defeat, almost resignation. He believed the Angel of Death, where he'd had some hope, however small, under the Inquisitor. "Tell me first of the attack planned on the holy Sisters of Succor."

He confirmed what Powell had told her, adding that the time was set for the High Ma.s.s celebrating the Order's founding, and the force involved would be about fifty men. Yes, it was to be a ma.s.sacre like the one at the convalescent hospital the previous year, but he didn't know why such attacks were carried out or what the Brotherhood's purpose was; he had joined because farm life was boring and he wanted adventure. He'd tried for Enforcement, but been refused because they thought him unstable. He was quite bitter about being called unstable by a bunch of overs.e.xed killers in uniform, and liked taking part in raids just to get back at them for the insult.

No, he didn't know how many Lawrence Shannons there were; no one did, except the Raidmaster himself and maybe the Brotherhood's High Council.

Ten or fifteen, he thought, but that was only a guess. He wasn't sure whether or not the real Shannon would lead the convent raid, but he didn't think so; he'd heard rumors of a major raid around Christmas in one of the other Systems, and the Raidmaster was supposed to be working on that one. No, he didn't know any more about it; it had been only a rumor. The lesser Raidmaster on the convent job might know, yes, though he didn't think it likely. No, he didn't know who'd been Raidmaster on the hospital job; he thought probably the real one, though. That was all he knew, honestly; now he would be grateful if Lord Azrael would let him see a priest before killing him.

Cortin swore silently. She wanted to send his soul to h.e.l.l, where she was sure it belonged--but it looked like his hallucination had thrown the fear of G.o.d into him, and he was about to make a deathbed repentance. At least she wouldn't have to officiate this time, she told herself; she couldn't be Azrael and Reverend Mother Cortin at the same time. "Thou hast that right," she conceded, beckoning Bradford to join them. Blast it, from now on she'd simply have to make it a point to have Mike or Dave nearby, in case it happened again!

When Bradford entered, Cortin left the room. She didn't care to even witness a Brother's repentance and forgiveness, though she admitted unhappily to herself that she would carry them out again if she had to; she simply wouldn't like doing it, any more than she had the first time.

She took advantage of the break to use the red phone and pa.s.s along the additional information she'd gotten--not to His Majesty directly this time; the one who answered didn't sound at all familiar, and promised to pa.s.s it along as soon as His Majesty was free. Then she waited, with growing impatience, for Bradford to finish with her subject.

What, in G.o.d's Most Holy Name, was going on in there? Surely it couldn't take this long to confess even a Brother's obviously-lengthy list of sins, then receive absolution and Extreme Unction!

When Bradford finally emerged, he was smiling. "He's all yours, Joan.

Nice job you did, getting the information and saving a soul--that doesn't happen often. Of course, not many Inquisitors have the help of a blazing Angel of Death, either."

"Mike told him my code name; the demon drops and his own imagination did the rest." Cortin's mouth quirked. "I would've preferred a more conventional interrogation, but I have to admit he had good reason to be afraid of drugs. And I'll keep 'Azrael's' promise; he'll die as quickly and easily as I can manage, even though by rights he ought to suffer as much as his victims did."

"I think you can safely trust G.o.d to take care of that," Bradford said drily. "I can't tell you what he confessed, of course, but I can tell you I'm positive he'll be spending a long time in Purgatory."

Cortin grinned. "I'm sure he deserves every year of it." All that was left was killing him, so she got out of her coveralls, put her tunic back on, settled her gunbelt into place, and re-entered the third-stage room. Bradford had freed the prisoner; he was kneeling facing away from her, toward the room's crucifix, his att.i.tude making it obvious he was praying. Cortin frowned, then nodded to herself, silently drawing her pistol. There were far worse ways to die than quickly, while speaking to G.o.d, and while he deserved one of those, she had promised otherwise. She took careful aim and shot him in the back of the head.

That, she thought immediately, had been far kinder to him than it had to her! She'd forgotten just how loud a heavy-caliber handgun could be in a confined area, and her ears were ringing painfully. It also made quite a mess at this close a range; blood and brains splattered most of the wall he'd been facing, including the crucifix. The clean-up crew could handle the wall and body, but she felt like taking care of the crucifix herself; careful to avoid getting the mess on her uniform, she took it into the bathroom to clean it.

As she did, she found herself thinking about the man the crucifix represented. Jeshua had become incarnate and sacrificed Himself to protect humanity from the results of sin, though protection from sin itself would have to wait for the promised Protector. In the meantime, Jeshua's sacrifice was on behalf of anyone willing to take advantage of it--and Ivan had told her often enough it was as much an Inquisitor's job to correct as to punish. Maybe, she thought, she was starting to get that through her thick head, because despite her personal distaste for the idea of a Brother's repenting, there was a sense of accomplishment at this one's. It also helped, of course, that Brad had complimented her on being able to manage both information and repentance!

She grinned at herself as she dried the crucifix and put it on the desk in the suite's office. If Shannon was Shayan, which since her vision looked more likely than not, turning Brothers from him to G.o.d would be an even better revenge on him than the traditional version would be on them . . . even though she still intended to take that kind on the ones who'd helped rape and maim her.

There was a message on her ground-floor office desk: His Majesty wanted to see her at her earliest convenience between interrogations. It didn't specify dress uniform, and this close to the Palace she didn't need bodyguards, so less than fifteen minutes later she found herself sitting--sitting!--beside His Majesty's desk, sipping a cup of the best ginger tea she could remember tasting and still shocked by the warmth of His Majesty's welcome. It was awesome enough meeting him, though really it was no odder than paying a routine courtesy call on one's new commanding officer; it just felt that way, having the High King himself as your direct superior. His Majesty was clearly familiar with such a reaction, because he was carrying the burden of the conversation until she had a chance to recover. When she began to settle down, he smiled.

"Reports of your ability weren't exaggerated, Colonel. I'm quite pleased with the results you've gotten so far."

"Thank you, Your Majesty. I'll keep doing my best."

"I'm certain you will. Is Harmony Lodge to your liking and adequately equipped?"

"More than adequately, Sire. I'm still overwhelmed by all of it."

"You are to let me know immediately if there's anything you need or want. We can't take major action against the Brotherhood without the information you provide, which makes you the most important single person in this operation."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Cortin took a sip of her tea, savoring the ginger tang. It was hard to believe she was all that important--she certainly didn't feel it--but her truthsense said His Majesty did believe it, so she had to. "If I may make a suggestion?"

"As one of my Household, that's both your privilege and your duty; go ahead."

"Then I'd say the attack on the convent would be a good time to activate the Strike Force. And with Your Majesty's permission, my men and I would like to partic.i.p.ate in the convent's defense."

"That's three things," King Mark said. "Activating the strike force at the next terror attack is something I had already intended; it will be done. Your men may partic.i.p.ate in the convent's defense if they wish and Colonel Bradford permits." He paused. "I am afraid, though, that I must forbid your partic.i.p.ation in action against anyone except those you have a personal interest in. You're far too valuable to risk that way, and if I weren't afraid of losing you, I'd forbid you partic.i.p.ating in action against even personal enemies. It would be best for the kingdom if you could resist doing so, but--" he paused, giving her a rueful smile, "while I pray for miracles for my people, I've learned not to expect them."

Cortin wanted to object, but reminded herself that she'd known about the restriction when she'd taken the job. "As Your Majesty commands--but it was worth a try."

The King chuckled. "And I can't fault you for making the effort; you wouldn't have joined the Strike Force if you hadn't wanted to see action. I'm afraid you'll see more than I want you to, at that. Now, if I may change the subject, the Royal Press Office has received a number of requests for interviews with you. Whether you give them or not is your choice."

"In that case, Sire, I'd rather not, at least until I finish settling in." She'd rather not do it even then; she'd given more than enough interviews at the Academy and after graduation. One reason she'd done so much field work was to get away from reporters. But she needed publicity--favorable publicity--to get support for her family changes, so she'd have to at least pretend to overcome that dislike.

"They'll have to content themselves with the official biography for the present, then," the King said. "The Press Office will need a current photo, though; you can go by sometime this week and provide it. You'll be safe from reporters as long as you're in the Palace compound or Harmony Lodge, but I can't guarantee the same outside; that will be up to your team."

"I don't really see any need to leave, except on missions," Cortin said. "Harmony Lodge alone has everything I need."

"As you wish," the King said. "I certainly won't insist on you being exposed to any unnecessary danger. But there will be an official reception tomorrow in your honor; you should come, unless you're in the middle of an interrogation."

Cortin was tempted to arrange it so she was, but as far as she was concerned, His Majesty saying she should come made it an order. "I'll do my best to be there, Sire. Full dress uniform?"

"Or formal civilan wear. Though that would mean being unarmed, so I don't expect it." The King raised an eyebrow. "You do realize you are the only person other than members of my personal guard who is allowed in the Royal Presence with a firearm?"

"What?" Cortin stared at him for an instant, then glanced at the pistol on her hip. "No, Sire--I hadn't even thought about it."

The King smiled, then stood. "We have no doubt of Your Excellency's loyalty, and We wish you a long and healthy life as Our Inquisitor."

The audience was over, obviously; Cortin rose and bowed, then began backing out of the office.

"Those who carry firearms in Our presence," the King said drily, "also have leave to turn their backs on Us."

Cortin bowed again, then turned. As she left, the King allowed himself a brief frown. He was certain of his Inquisitor's loyalty, or she wouldn't have the position--but he couldn't deny that she made him uncomfortable. Male Inquisitors were disturbing enough to be around; a woman who enjoyed the deliberate infliction of pain seemed worse, somehow. And one with Colonel Cortin's incredible talent at it was decidedly unnerving.