Demon Angel

by Meljean Brook

  “So many?”

  Michael glanced at him. “You were an inspiration; they agreed that this is an age that does not need the influence of Above and Below.”

  A hard laugh escaped him. “Did they misunderstand me so badly? A fine teacher I was.” Better for humans to make their own way—and better were there no demons to tempt them; but as long as there were demons, there had to be Guardians to check them. If one Fell after losing faith, or five hundred Ascended to show theirs—it mattered little. But to destroy the corps when Lucifer still held power?

  “If it is any consolation, the majority of those who stayed were your students. And there were a few others who were on assignment on Earth.” Michael shook his head. “It was inevitable; there were too many, and not enough were active. Lucifer’s methods had changed, made him less visible—the danger was not so apparent or immediate.” A wry smile pulled at his mouth. “I knew it was coming, though I’ll admit I did not think it would be so many.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Fight. There is little else to be done.”

  There was no blame in Michael’s tone, nor disapproval, but Hugh felt the cold, heavy weight of his Fall settle in his stomach, banking the fury that had burned there.

  But Michael was shaking his head. “It is better that you are human. If it ends, if they destroy the corps and slaughter the vampires, there will be no one who knows the truth—except for you.”

  A burden Hugh would rather not bear.

  He rubbed his forehead with his free hand and thought of the other responsibilities he’d shunned. One, at least, he could make amends for immediately. Michael could offer protection that Hugh could not.

  “The vampire Colin Ames-Beaumont could assist your cause.”

  The table trembled under the force of Michael’s silent laughter. Hugh grinned a little as well, and added, “He is proficient with his sword.”

  After another bout of laughter, Michael managed to say, “Selah is on her way to his residence. When you spoke with her, Lilith indicated her intention to see him.”

  Hugh’s humor vanished. He let the blanket fall from his shoulders, stood, and began pacing in long angry strides away from the table. Finally he turned and faced the Guardian. “You’ll not kill her.”

  Michael regarded him carefully. “A strange command, given the source.”

  “Perhaps,” Hugh said, his throat rough. “But you’ll not kill her.”

  “No,” Michael said, and gracefully rose from his seat. “I won’t. If I didn’t in the thousand years after her transformation and before yours, I see no reason to do so now.”

  Her transformation? Hugh frowned, but had no time to question the Guardian. Michael abruptly turned and walked toward one of the waiting ambulances and disappeared into the back of the vehicle.

  “Dr. Castleford?”

  Hugh turned. Detective Taylor had spoken his name, but her gaze slid past him. Toward the ambulance, Hugh realized. After a moment, her attention returned to him. “Did he speak to you?”

  “He brought me a blanket,” Hugh said.

  He could see she wasn’t satisfied, but she didn’t pursue a more direct answer. Instead, she held out a small, clear evidence bag. “We found an identification card from San Francisco State. We cannot determine if it belongs to the body, of course, until forensics identifies the remains. Do you recognize this student?”

  Hugh knew it was the victim’s; Michael had told him. He looked blindly at the small rectangle of plastic, letting the picture and letters blur. Cowardly not to focus, but he didn’t want to know.

  “Dr. Castleford?”

  He blinked, and drew in a ragged breath. “Ian is one of my students.”

  Taylor’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Rafferty?”

  “A month ago,” he said, and forced the next words out. “At Auntie’s.”

  “Playing DemonSlayer,” she said, her voice flat. “A game based on your book.”

  “Yes.”

  She lowered the evidence bag. “I’d like you to come to the station for an interview, Dr. Castleford. If it’s convenient.”

  “It is,” he lied, and knew it was the first of many.

  CHAPTER 14

  Night had fallen by the time Lilith got off the train in Richmond. Slipping into an alley, she stripped off her shirt and jacket and vanished them. The skin on her back rippled as her wings materialized; she sighed in pleasure and took to the sky.

  A three-quarter moon rose behind her, slinging a dancing path of silver light across the bay. Each powerful beat of her wings made her feel strong, invincible. She gained altitude and speed, her hair tangling behind her. The wind stung tears from her eyes—the only kind of tears she’d shed in two thousand years.

  How could Hugh have traded this kind of freedom for a life on the ground? He could have given hers without losing his own.

  Using Alcatraz to orient her approach to the city, she flew into Golden Gate Park and found a secluded area in which to dress. If the Guardians had managed to follow her from the federal building, and during her underground trip around the Bay Area, they would attack her now.

  Minutes passed without her sensing anything out of the ordinary. Torn between relief and disappointment—she didn’t want to die, but a fight would have been enjoyable—she walked out of the park, and caught the first bus that would take her south. She’d run enough for the day.

  The bus was almost empty. She chose a seat in the back and growled softly until the only nearby passenger, a teenager strung out on meth, freaked out. The driver kicked him off at the next stop, and Lilith was able to call Colin in relative privacy.

  He answered on the first ring. The loud, jingly tones of a TV game show played in the background as he said, “Agent Milton, my dear, I’m going to murder you.”

  She grinned. He’d been a member of the British aristocracy as a human and hadn’t let go of his accent; every threat of violence that rolled off his tongue sounded like an invitation to tea. “How’s my puppy?”

  “He . . . they . . . it is fantastic. Eating everything in sight. And last week, it killed and ate two nosferatu who were intent upon ruining my rather spectacular visage. Which, I confess, makes up for the outrageous expense of feeding it for the last six months.” His voice lowered. “And I believe it is keeping my new visitors away as well.”

  Lilith sank back into her seat and closed her eyes in relief. She’d deliberately left the Guardians with the impression that she’d go to Colin’s house that night. The vampire’s cryptic response confirmed that at least one waited outside—combined with Sir Pup’s protection, Colin would probably be safe. “The nosferatu won’t risk coming after you with hellhound and Guardian stench everywhere. Especially if it’s Michael’s stench.”

  They fell silent, and she heard a car salesman screaming about finance charges. The high volume on the television wouldn’t keep the Guardians from hearing his part of the conversation, but it might mask hers.

  She waited until the game show resumed before speaking again. “Do you have your weapon?”

  “Next to me.”

  “If anyone but me knocks at your door, use it.” Pausing, she reconsidered. After their confrontation in the park, Hugh might seek out the vampire. “Unless it is He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.”

  “Voldemort?”

  She envisioned his smirk, and wondered how he’d managed to make it through two centuries on a steady diet of pop culture and little else. “The other one.”

  “Does this mean the ban is lifted, and I can finally talk about him?”

  Oh, how she’d love smacking him around for the amusement in that question. “Yes.”

  “Why now?”

  Lowering her voice to a whisper, she admitted, “I need you to tell me his name.” She could use her computer to look up Hugh’s address, but she didn’t know his surname, or even if he still used “Hugh.”

  She had to yank the phone away from her ear when he
shouted with laughter. What had ever possessed her to become friends with a vampire? Particularly this one. “I swear, Colin, the only reason I only tolerate you is because you’re extremely handsome.”

  That quieted him. “Oh?”

  Ah, Vanity. Thy name is Colin Ames-Beaumont. “That’s all you’re going to get until you give me what I want.”

  She easily imagined his grin as he said, “Christian name is the same. Family name is a stony demesne, often of the motte and bailey variety, and a dead automobile manufacturer with a first name not unlike an English king who liked to behead his wives.”

  Hugh Castleford. “Thank you, Colin.”

  “I’m glad you’ve returned.”

  She stared up at the bus’s ceiling, trying not to feel uncomfortable. They’d been friends for a decade, but she still wasn’t accustomed to someone caring about her. “I’ll see you later this evening,” she managed. “Don’t die between now and then. Unless my dog is hurt or unhappy—then you’d better wish for death before I get there, because I’ll kill you slowly and painfully.”

  “Don’t ring off,” he said quickly. “You promised more. Give me a lot more and I’ll tell you the name of the woman not-Voldemort is living with.”

  Her gut twisted. “I could strangle it out of you.”

  “Through the cell phone?”

  Rolling her eyes, she quoted, “ ‘The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history. . . .’ ”

  And decided to strangle him later.

  The windshield wipers swished out a soothing rhythm, and unintelligible codes crackled from the police radio at regular intervals.

  Hugh scrubbed his hand over his face as they neared his house, trying to fight the queasiness that riding in a moving vehicle always gave him. He didn’t have a watch, but he thought it must have been nearing midnight—the interview had not been long, but the waiting had been. Taylor and Preston had not wanted to let him go, but had no reason to keep him—sending him home with the uniformed officers had not been an act of kindness, however. Hugh was certain that they’d be watching his house after they’d dropped him off.

  A few minutes later, he stood at his front door and smiled grimly as the cruiser pulled out of his driveway and parked next to the curb. They were in for a long, boring night—but they were welcome to try to follow him when he went for his morning run.

  Inside, he toed off his shoes and shrugged out of his damp T-shirt, balling it up and tossing it in the direction of the door to the garage and the laundry. The upstairs windows had been dark; Savi was either asleep or out. Considering the hours she and her friends kept, probably out. She was going to be upset that he hadn’t called her from the station, but she would likely be involved soon enough, as the detectives verified the story he’d given them.

  And Hugh hadn’t wanted to give her news of Ian’s death in those surroundings.

  Anger and grief welled up again, but he tamped them down. They served no purpose; better that he channel them into action. And for once, the gym he kept had no appeal.

  He’d thrown Colin’s number and address into the garbage by his bed. He strode soundlessly through the darkened house, shaking off the last of his nausea. Once he’d met with Lilith, had seen the body, his decision to avoid the vampire had seemed ridiculous. If not for the trip to the police station, Hugh’d have met with him. And now, it did not seem so terrible to ally himself with someone who might know something about the nosferatu, and why they had begun ritualistically killing humans.

  He sat on his bed, and reached down to pick up the slip of paper from the bin. Lilith would have known more, but he didn’t trust himself around her. Not that he knew where to find her. Michael had said FBI; perhaps Savi could—

  His skin prickled. His hand stilled, and he looked up, into the opposite corner of the room.

  Clinging to the ceiling, Lilith stared back at him, her eyes glowing in the darkness.

  “Should I get my sword?” he asked softly and switched on the lamp.

  “That depends on what you plan to do with it. I prefer my heart intact.”

  She dropped to the floor. Her human form had vanished beneath the crimson skin and black wings, claws and fangs. He studied her, wondering how much of this was truly her, and how much of her was the form she’d worn earlier.

  She had clothes on—not the suit from earlier, but an updated version of the tight leather breeches and corset she’d begun wearing in the mid-eighteenth century. Black boots ended at her knee. She did not wear the clothing out of modesty; they molded to her curves so well they left little to the imagination. Nor did she seem to intend them to titillate. Her heels were low, and her shoulders squared in a strong, rather than seductive, posture.

  Perhaps she wore them as a defense? Suddenly aware of his own half-dressed state, he had the urge to find a shirt, to put even a flimsy barrier between them.

  But she would take advantage of such a telling gesture, and so he remained where he was.

  His gaze lit on her bare arms, the upper slope of her breasts. “Vanish your clothing.”

  Her eyes widened. He’d surprised her, but only for a moment. She quickly recovered and said, laughing, “Oh, I do like you better when you are human.” She leaned against his teak dresser, and with an easy push from the heels of her hands, lifted herself onto the dark surface. “I’m surprised they took you down for questioning. It should have been a simple matter of taking your information down and conducting a preliminary interview, then calling on you later to follow up.”

  “I knew him.”

  Her smile faded at his quiet announcement. The red glow left her eyes.

  Standing, he said, “He was my student.” Her fingers clenched on the dresser’s edge, but she didn’t move as he approached. “His name was Ian, and he was nineteen years old. I saw his best friend this morning; tomorrow, I’ll be telling another group of his friends that he’s dead. But I won’t be able to tell them how or why. Do you know?”

  She shook her head, her bottom lip pressed between her teeth.

  Disappointment twisted in his stomach. Why had he thought she’d tell him the truth? “I’m not as adverse to lying as I once was, which is for the best. For I won’t be able to tell my students or the detectives that I have seen something like what had been done to him before. Not the ritual, but the script that was used. But it wasn’t in Caelum, where I might have expected to see it. The Scrolls there are in a human language. Latin,” he added when curiosity flared across her expression.

  Then she stiffened, as if in realization. “Where?”

  “Here.” With the pad of his thumb, he traced a curling pattern on her right shoulder. Her skin was red, without blemish, but he could easily recall how pale it had been, washed clean by the rain. His hands had left bloody prints; he’d wiped them away with his robe, but he hadn’t been able to erase the markings that had patterned her torso like vermillion tattoos—they’d remained indelible on his memory, as well. “And here.” A series of chevrons and dashes, from the hollow of her throat to the edge of the corset. He pressed his palm between her breasts, felt the heat of her body through the tight bodice. “And here, though different from Ian’s, a design that—”

  She caught his wrist. “Stop.”

  For a moment, he could scarcely breathe. There had been more—many more. Carved into Ian’s body, and, sixteen years ago, echoed in her lifeless one.

  “I should thank you for killing them,” he said hoarsely. “But I’d rather have them alive to answer the questions I cannot.”

  Her eyes searched his. “And once they gave answers? What could you do then?”

  “Then I’d kill them.” He pulled away from her grip; she opened her mouth and then closed it, her lips curving slightly. Releasing a long breath, he walked to the window and pulled the drapes back. The cruiser still waited by the curb. “I didn’t misunderstand you; I know what you meant. Even if I received answers, I’m the only one who could believe
them. And giving the truth to the detectives would only increase their suspicions.”

  The pane was cool against his forehead. Foolish of him to turn his back on her, but he needed a moment to gather his thoughts, to push aside the emotions that threatened to overcome reason.

  She didn’t give him the opportunity.

  “And this is why you want to get me out of my clothes? To see if you can find answers beneath the glamours? Will you parade me naked through the police station as your defense?”

  “Perhaps.” He smiled, and turned to find her standing beside him, her hip against the sill, arms crossed beneath her breasts. “Though I’m less concerned with defense than protecting those connected to me. You may have slain two, but there are more—and I want to know: Why Ian? Coincidence? I have difficulty believing that.”

  “That has always been one of your greatest faults: your difficulty believing anything,” she replied evenly.

  “Yours is accepting too readily, because it is easier to live with than the alternative.”

  Grinning, she said, “And will you destroy me for it this time?”

  He couldn’t bring himself to see humor in it. “No.”

  She tilted her head, studying his face. Could she read him? Psychic blocks took practice and concentration—and though it was uncommon for humans, who didn’t recognize the need to have strong mental defenses, it wasn’t impossible.

  Her brows arched, her eyes glittered with amusement. “Ah, yes; it’s no longer your job to kill me.”

  If she thought that was his reason, she could not read him at all.

  Leaving her by the window, he gathered a shirt and jeans from the walk-in closet and used the relative privacy to strip off his sweats. Was Savi upstairs? If she heard them talking, she wouldn’t interrupt; but if she thought he’d returned alone she might come down.