“We are even, demon,” Hugh muttered; no one but she and Michael could have heard it.
Lilith’s mouth fell open. “He has defeated me.” She began shaking with laughter. “And he has fulfilled his bargain in the doing: a lie for a lie.”
Perfectly equal lies, spun of half-truths that held no advantage in the telling. Unable to stop her grin, her expression a reflection of disbelief and admiration, she hid her face so Michael would not see it and triumph.
“Nay, do not look away.” Michael’s voice was sharp in her ear. Searing pain tore through her scalp as he jerked her head up by her hair. “Witness the results.”
Furious, she transformed, her horns sprouting from her temples and stabbing through his wrist.
He did not make a sound, but encircled her with his arms and drew her hard against him. It was like being crushed by a boulder. “Open your eyes and witness!”
Unable to move, she stopped struggling. What did he speak of—what was left to observe? It was over, she had failed. On the wall walk, Robert tucked Isabel close and led her toward the stairs as Mandeville roughly stripped Hugh of his hauberk.
The baron descended the steps, and said over his shoulder, “Put down the faithless dog, William. Now, and quietly: the heart as he tried to take mine, then the head for his traitorous thoughts.”
There was no pleasure, only grim duty in Mandeville’s expression. “Aye, my lord.”
Isabel made a sound of protest, cut off as Robert shook her with barely restrained violence. “Had he gone further, I would do it myself. Be grateful your youth and inexperience does not put his blood on my hands, and that he didn’t get far enough to put a babe in your belly.”
Michael’s arms tightened, though Lilith hadn’t struggled. “Watch.”
She tried to sound as if it did not matter. “Hugh has beaten Mandeville before.”
“Do you think Hugh means to fight?” His laugh was cold.
She hated martyrs. “Foolish. How can he be so foolish?” If he ran, he might escape. He was young, strong—much faster than Mandeville.
Michael clapped a hand over her mouth. “Do not interfere.”
Her heart pounded and she began fighting in earnest against Michael’s hold as Hugh rose to his feet. His chest was bare, and despite the lean strength of him, to Lilith he seemed utterly defenseless.
Why were men built so weakly? What chance did they have against steel or fangs?
She heard Isabel’s weeping as the lady walked across the bailey under the protection of her husband’s arm. Did the sound of her tears reach Hugh’s ears? Was he glad for them, that the woman he’d sacrificed himself for wept for him? Was it any comfort?
“I am sorry, pup.” Mandeville’s voice shook. “I cannot think what evil took you.”
Michael said into her ear, “Look; though he had no love for Hugh, it is not easy to execute a man.”
Hugh raised his head. He must see the burning of her eyes. Could he see that she was held back, that her feet scrabbled for purchase on the roof as she tried to escape Michael—or did he only see that demonic glow?
“Was a woman.”
“Always is.” Mandeville’s short laugh held a note of hysteria. “I cannot do this if you do not close your eyes, pup.”
“Perhaps you can still win,” Michael said. “Will surely be a mortal wound, but if Mandeville does not have the stomach to take his head, you’ll have time to transform him. If you gather the blood, perform the ritual, and call for Lucifer to make his bargain.”
Lilith froze.
Hugh bowed his head, closed his eyes: a kindness for the man who would kill him.
A scream of denial built in her throat. Mandeville whispered a prayer for forgiveness, and his blade struck true, slicing into Hugh’s heart.
Michael released her.
She dove, arrowing toward the allure as Hugh fell to his knees, clutching his chest. Mandeville raised his sword over Hugh’s exposed neck.
The blade cut deep into her shoulder, but she scooped Hugh into her arms with nary a break in movement. With a terrified shout, Mandeville pulled his sword from her flesh. Lilith hissed and lashed out with her foot, hard enough to numb his hand, knocking the weapon from his fingers.
“He’s mine,” she growled. Nodding frantically, emitting a stream of high-pitched whimpers, he scrambled toward the stairs; she was airborne again before he reached them.
Hugh’s skin was cool and slick with sweat, his muscles bunching as he convulsed with silent, heaving coughs. Blood pumped from his wound and streamed in pulsing rivulets over his chest, pooling on his abdomen. With a small, sobbing breath, she lifted his knees higher, cradling him tight against her so as not to lose any of the precious fluid.
Imbecile. But she couldn’t say it aloud, not when her throat burned with acrid fear. What was she doing? Even if the transformation was successful, even if Hugh agreed to his terms, Lucifer would not forgive her part in this. Would not forget that’twas not cruelty that drove her, but something . . . human.
His back arched violently; she fought to regain her balance, angling her wings as he nearly broke from her embrace. Head thrown back, cords on his neck straining, he began shuddering; there was nothing beautiful in it, and she should have gloried in the ugliness that death ravaged upon him, but she could not.
“He’s mine,” she said again, but instead of anger, desperation laced her voice.
And she knew death would not cower before anger or care for desperation.
It was only seconds until they reached the temple ruins. She landed amongst the fallen stones, holding him against her. His shudders began to weaken, and for a terrible moment, she couldn’t remember the markings needed for the ritual. She had not thought of it in so long, had made herself avoid the memory.
But ’twas not something she could truly forget.
She shifted into the body that had been forbidden her, and a single glance at the designs on her skin brought it back. The one between her breasts—her name—would be different than his, but she could use her body as a guide to creating Hugh’s new life.
She laid him on the ground, reforming her wings and sliding the membranous tissue beneath him to catch the blood. They’d removed his sword, but his dagger was still in its sheath; she pulled it out.
The convulsions had ceased, and she could not hear the beating of his torn heart.
Her mind blanked. The point of the blade hovered over his chest as she tried to think of a name—any name would do, any name, but it had to be quick. The name did not matter: she could be Marie or Lilith or Isabel and . . .
Her vision blurred.
He would not be the same. How could he not lose his humanity if he became what she was? Even if his beauty remained, would there be anything left of him? Did anything remain of her?
The knife trembled in her hand.
“Hugh,” she whispered.
And then spoke another name, knowing that it sealed her fate.
He heard a voice, though it seemed far away. His chest burned, but the pain was easing to numbness. He was colder than he could ever remember being.
Seemed the greatest effort he’d ever made, to open his eyes.
Though darkness edged his vision, he did not mistake the loveliness of the face staring down into his, the outline of wings behind her. The realization of what she was took his last breath.
“Angel.” His hand lifted, and he touched her face. It was oddly familiar, yet he was certain he’d not known her. Surely he could not have forgotten this beauty.
Her skin was warm, so warm.
Her eyes widened, and he tried to memorize the display of emotions sweeping across her exquisite features. Sadness . . . grim amusement . . . regret.
“Nay,” she said softly, “not me.”
She caught his hand, clasped his palm to her cheek when his strength failed. Her touch, her warmth, her face slowly faded.
When she spoke again, her voice surprised him. “Will you take him? Is it not wh
at you planned?”
Hugh tried to answer, was relieved when he was saved the effort by another. Georges? “You could not have done what was required, Lilith. It is not a failure that you tried but you could not carry it through.” He paused. “He will punish you for this.”
She laughed bitterly. “Do you invite me to Caelum then and give me asylum? Do you transform me to Guardian?”
Hugh knew the silence she received in response was telling, but could not remember why it meant something.
“I do not have that power,” Georges said finally. “I am sorry, Lilith.”
Her fingers clenched on his; Hugh tried to squeeze back reassuringly, but he couldn’t offer even that small comfort. Her voice softened, but lost none of its bitter edge. “What did you think would happen when you manipulated me to this point? Are you satisfied upon proving that I can be—” She broke off, and her tone was devoid of emotion when she continued. “Don’t pretend to concern yourself about my welfare, Michael. You must be glad to be rid of me.”
“Not in this manner.”
What manner? Hugh wanted to ask, but the darkness was closing in. Beneath him, the ground began to rumble; the air reeked of sulphur. Fear crashed through him as he realized the demons of Hell were coming to collect him. He braced himself against the inevitable pain.
He felt the faint touch of the angel’s lips to his—then she was gone, leaving him bereft, seeing and feeling nothing.
And then all he could see was light.
CHAPTER 6
Caelum
1217
Hugh looked around him with perfect vision. Caelum, a city of marble, with spires that streaked into a brilliant sky, must be as Heaven itself. And it was more than Hugh could have dreamed. Even the Crusaders, with tales of temples and ruins, of societies great—without corruption—could not have imagined such beauty.
The stories of the holy wars, of knights who had brought glory to His throne, had fueled his dreams as a boy; here, in Caelum, surely only the angels were closer to His purpose. This must be what he’d been born for—and what was worth dying for. He would serve for eternity and could think of no better fate.
His blood still sang from the transformation. Beside him, Georges . . . no, Michael—waited silently. He must be accustomed to this awesome display; Hugh was certain he never could be.
Guardians milled about—men and women, some with wings, some in human garb, some nude—and he searched the faces for the one who had come to him, saved him.
And did not see her.
“Where is she?” He blushed as Michael raised his brows. Would the Doyen think his intentions toward the woman were impure? But still, he asked, “My angel.”
Michael did not reply.
Hugh swallowed, looked at the ground. Pure, clean—no dirt nor rot. “ ’Twas Lilith?”
“Aye.”
How could it be? Except that there must be good in her, must be something within her that resisted the demon. “Can she be saved?” Did he not owe it to her to try?
Michael studied him with obsidian eyes. “I cannot save her.”
Hugh nodded. If a place such as Caelum could exist, then it was surely possible to save a demon. “Then I will.”
The Pit
The floor was wet, but Lilith did not let herself think of what she might be lying upon. So long as she could remain still, she was content.
But as with all things Below, contentment was denied. Tremors rocked her surroundings at regular intervals, and she was tossed against items solid and soft, alive and . . . not alive.
It was some time before she heard the whimpering, before she recognized what the warm, squirmy thing that huddled next to her must be. Her fingers explored the coarse fur, scratched the pointed ears; she laughed as its tongues licked her hand eagerly in response.
She could not see it. Though a demon’s eyes made darkness visible, they had been taken; she would need time to regenerate them. And as she tried to pet it with her other hand and could not, when the tremors jarred her and phantom pains tingled in her limbs, she was glad she couldn’t see what had been done to her.
They had left her tongue—not out of kindness, but because they knew she would still taste the metallic liquid slide of blood, though none remained in her mouth. Clever of them, to return her sense of taste for the Punishment. Would a symbol be missing from her skin, or a new one added?
But it mattered little when she could not see them. “And what could you have done, pup, that would bring you here?”
Chuffing softly, it nudged her hand, neck and shoulder with its cold noses.
“I see,” she said. “You are far too friendly for a hellhound. They will try to take that out of you.”
It broke into a chorus of frightened barks as the room shook; something crashed against the wall and shattered, raining debris.
She pulled it against her, protecting the small body with hers. “Might take them a while to return to our Punishments.’Tis war out there, and they have no time to concern themselves with torturing the likes of us. I did not think Belial had it in him to challenge Lucifer, but it seems he did. Which outcome shall we hope for?”
One of its heads whined and another growled; she nodded her agreement. “No good for us, either way.” She sucked in a lungful of the foul, sulphuric air. No need for her to breathe except to provide a medium for speech, but she liked the rhythm of it, the push and pull—and stinking air was better than drowning in blood. She measured time in those breaths.
No surprise she’d lost track of it years—decades—ago.
“Perhaps you’ll be full grown before they return for us,” she mused. “If so, you’ll not have much to fear from them. Your bite is death for a demon, and they’d likely not risk it just to teach you a lesson.” She felt it startle and back away from her and laughed. “You are not a threat to me: I’m but a halfling. Only those of the original orders—demons, angels, nosferatu—have aught to fear from you; and if you did not have power over them, they would not need to subdue you. If they come—”
Another tremor; she buried her face in his fur and waited for it to pass. Pain streaked through her as the room shifted. Its whimpers matched hers.
It was nearly two hours before she roused herself, remembered what she had been going to tell him. “If they come, there are ways to endure. Aye, you might be slightly mad by the end, but it is much easier to endure without full sanity.”
His sharp, pointed bark made her laugh again. “Not revenge, though I do dream of that. Revenge is not enough to sustain yourself. You must look forward to something.” She stroked his coat, and it grew silky under her touch. Pleasure rushed through her; most often, hellhounds protected themselves with barbed, poisonous hairs or venom-tipped spikes. “You might imagine a field of werehares, I suppose, or pettings without cease.” Two of his heads were snuggling into the crook of her neck, but he lifted the other and studied her.
Realizing she could see him—not well, but it was vision—she grinned. “You’re as ugly as your father. I often take his name in vain . . . or, rather, his male bits. I suppose you come from those bits.”
He panted, tongue lolling, and seemed to return her grin as his lips drew back against sharp, gleaming teeth.
“Aye, I heal quickly. Though they’ll take it all again soon, I suppose.” She sighed, and he gave a questioning whimper and a doubled growl. “How do I endure? I anticipate the end, of course. When I can return to Earth and resume my duties. Though I doubt it will be the same role; I failed spectacularly. Lucifer was . . . displeased with my performance.” The pup might have laughed at such an understatement; Lilith wasn’t certain. Her voice softened as she admitted, “I look forward to seeing him again. His eyes are the same color as I’ve always imagined Caelum’s sky. He must still be training there; he will train for one hundred years. There are endless Scrolls to read, did you know? There is naught like that here; Lucifer adores ignorance.” She frowned. “But perhaps the century has passed? Perhaps he has a
lready returned to Earth and is slaying demons and quietly dispensing moral advice to humans.”
She lay still for a moment. A scrabbling on the floor next to them was followed by a squeak. Calling in her sword, she twisted and stabbed, and the wyrmrat squealed and wriggled at the blade’s end. She tossed it to the pup.
“I would very much like to see what I’ve made; he will be entertaining. And that is all he will be. Whatever Punishment the victor in this war comes up with will surely rid me of any of those human emotions that got me into this mess,” she said, and tried to persuade herself that she spoke true. The pup’s three heads stopped tearing into the rat, and in unison gave her a doubtful look. She laughed, rolled over, and stood up. “Oh, I’ll make his life a living hell, of course. What do you take me for?”
Lille, France
August 1389
The scent of the nosferatu was strong; it nearly overwhelmed Hugh’s senses. Though his Enthrallment upon first returning to Earth had not lasted for long, still there were moments when the sights and sounds of Earth overtook him, made him doubt he was seeing and hearing aright.
Such it was for a man who’d been given the ability of an angel; it did not rest easy.
There—a furtive movement. The nosferatu’s pale skin glowed bright beneath the moonlight, and its psychic reek permeated the village. How many had it murdered? The odor of blood was thick in the night air.
However many it had killed, it would not take another.
Hugh made the vow, then cursed when a woman came out from one of the small dwellings at the edge of the village. Her gray hair and sagging form revealed her age, her slow walk her frailty. But blood was blood to the nosferatu; did not matter the source, old or young.
And she was a temptation the nosferatu couldn’t resist.
It darted from behind a tree, soundless over the ground. Hugh called in his sword, created a suit of armor over his body and moved to intercept him. He barely had time to shove the woman out of the creature’s path before engaging him.
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