Demon Angel

by Meljean Brook

  “If you knew, why not earlier?”

  “I was too greedy. Too weak. And for centuries, I had searched for another way to save you, yet never found one.” He gave a half-laugh and scrubbed his hand over his face. “Allow me some defense, Lilith.”

  No. “Would you have slain me if you had known I was a halfling?”

  He stilled. “I don’t know. Could you have Fallen?”

  “You mean Ascend?” Her mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. “No. Lucifer has never reversed the transformation.” And if she had asked for it, he would have called it a betrayal of their bargain, a renunciation of her service to him. Hugh had been right in that.

  He closed his eyes, and his chest rose and fell on a heavy sigh. “Yes. I would have.”

  It was not the answer she’d expected. She felt him watch her as she walked to the door. Her hand on the knob, she turned—and gave him a little bit of what he’d given her. “It worked. Those two hours, before Lucifer found me—I don’t know if it was Heaven, or Oblivion, or something else . . . but it was two hours of freedom. Two hours without Hell clawing at my back.” And reason enough to risk Lucifer’s anger now; she owed Hugh freedom, even if it was only an earthly freedom that kept him from being imprisoned on false charges.

  His eyes glistened, and she had to look away.

  “Is this why bargains no longer have any allure? Why you’ve changed?”

  “Have I?” A smile pulled at her mouth. “If I have, it might just be when I’m around you. You are a corrupting influence, to be certain. Soon I’ll be good.” She shuddered facetiously.

  He gave a choked laugh. “Perhaps you should be with me more often. Complete your bargain, Lilith—only spend a hundred years in the doing. Torment me for decades. After all that time, old and decrepit, I will finally give in to you, and in the interim you will discover how corrupting I can be.”

  “Don’t tempt me, Hugh.” Her eyes glowed in warning. “It would take very little persuasion for me to do just that—and it would be a torment.”

  “For me?” He shook his head.

  Her smile was pure bravado. She opened the door and paused. Looked at the desk. “How many?”

  His cheeks colored slightly, and he ran his fingers through his hair. “None.” Her brows rose, and their gazes locked. “Ever.”

  The air left her lungs in a rush, and she sagged against the doorframe. “Why?” She stared at him; what was wrong with women, that they hadn’t taken him? Or had they tried and been rebuffed?

  His eyes were shadowed. “When I first Fell, I was too . . .”

  “Fucked up?” she offered.

  “Yes.” His voice was grim. “An eight-hundred-year-old Guardian transformed back into a human teenager. And later, it seemed dishonest to be with a woman—truly be with her—when I couldn’t divulge my history, and any developing love would be based on lies. I’m not designed for casual sex simply to relieve my frustration; I don’t think there is any sin in it, I just cannot do it.”

  “And when you were a Guardian? I thought it was a love-fest in Caelum.” So different from Hell, where lust and physical pleasure were forbidden to halflings—and impossible for demons to feel.

  His mouth quirked into a smile. “For many. But I served, at first, with religious—and celibate—fervor. Later, many of the Guardians were those I’d mentored. They were students, and it was . . . awkward.”

  “But there were those you hadn’t mentored, and after a while those you trained would be—” She broke off as she realized the truth. “And there was me.”

  “Aye.” He didn’t look away. “I spent so much time resisting you, I could not be certain that I would not think of you when I was with another. So I was not with any others.”

  Crazy chivalrous martyr. She ignored the melting warmth that stole through her. “Are you offering yourself up as a virgin sacrifice then? You think that will be enough, that you’ll have the skill to tempt me? You don’t have a prayer.”

  His gaze raked over her form, heated and intense. “I don’t need prayer—I have eight hundred years of imagining what I would do to you.”

  “I will use that against you as well,” she said, breathless.

  He grinned suddenly. “And that is something worth praying for.”

  Lilith heard ASAC Bradshaw coming, but had nowhere to hide. She’d claimed desk space in one of the empty cubicles in the guts of the department office, and she was hemmed in by a wall and the gaze of the rookie in the cube across the aisle who hadn’t taken his eyes from her since she’d returned from San Francisco State. For a moment, she considered going through the rookie to make her escape; he’d been stuck with background checks for the past couple of days, droning away on the telephone. He was probably ready to put a gun to his head. A visit to the hospital and an exciting tale of a crazy demon would have been doing him a favor.

  She looked up and sighed. No escape there, either. The ceiling panels would never hold her weight.

  “Agent Milton.” He held a package in his hands, his dark skin in sharp contrast to the thick white envelope.

  The SFPD shield decorated the upper left corner. Preston had been quick; too bad Bradshaw had intercepted it. She hoped she wouldn’t have to go through him.

  “Sir.”

  “Since your return, I’ve asked that all your correspondence come through me first.” He paused, as if expecting her to object. When she said nothing, he continued, “This arrived by courier not ten minutes ago. I don’t remember a request for assistance from the Ingleside station, Agent Milton. And I’m certain I would have heard of it, as Captain Jorgenson is a particular friend of mine.”

  “I approached them, sir.”

  “What did you approach them with, Agent Milton?”

  “Expertise, sir. They have a recent murder in which the ritualistic nature resembled one of my previous cases. I delivered files which I thought might help their investigation, and the detectives asked for my assistance in preparing a profile.”

  “This may come as a surprise to you, agent, but we do have standard procedures, particularly when dealing with other agencies. I expect you to follow them.”

  “Are you forbidding me from assisting the SFPD on this case?” Lilith asked, her voice cooling to match his. “Sir.”

  “No.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the package onto her desk. It landed with a solid thump. “But as you represent this agency, I do expect you to act with a measure of decorum.”

  Her eyes widened. “When have I not, sir?”

  A muscle in his cheek flexed. “I hear one thing about you ruffling feathers, and I pull you. One misstep, one bit of questionable evidence, and I pull you.”

  She barely held her wince in check. Hopefully, Taylor wouldn’t complain about her earlier conduct. “Yes, sir,” she said meekly.

  If he was suspicious at her sudden compliance, he gave no indication of it. With a final, hard stare, he turned and left.

  The rookie had his nose practically pressed to his desk, determinedly looking as if he hadn’t heard or seen a thing. She waited until he glanced up, gave him a conspiratorial wink. “I slept with his girlfriend. He didn’t take it very well.”

  He blushed to the roots of his prematurely-receding hair. Sweet boy. Hugh used to blush as easily. With a grin, she swiveled her chair around and ripped open the envelope.

  She’d only read through half of the reports when the thick reek of nosferatu penetrated the air. Several nosferatu. Her psychic shield snapped up, but she rose to her feet unhurriedly, and looked over the tops of the cubes. Any nosferatu would be tall enough to be visible, but no bloodsuckers were in sight.

  Uncertain if she’d be back to collect the reports, she vanished them into her cache. There were weapons there, too, swords and guns; she let her mental touch linger over each one in turn, but she fought the urge to arm herself. She could do so quickly enough, if she had to.

  Though instinct demanded she protect her back, she walked boldly through the of
fice, following the scent trail to the primary conference room. She picked up the physical odor of nosferatu there—along with a demon’s, just as recent: SAC Smith.

  Beelzebub.

  She wavered, disinclined to face the other demon, but she needed to know if he was with the nosferatu.

  Out, past the front desk, and they stood in the hallway near the elevators. Four nosferatu, hulking in black suits, bowler hats covering their pointed ears and bald heads. Smith glanced at her with a smile that seemed to fill her blood with ice crystals—even in his tall, bulky human form, he stood inches shorter than the nosferatu. And another human, whose scent was disturbingly familiar, almost like—

  Her heart thudded sickly, as if unwilling to accept what she was seeing, feeling; her expression remained impassive, disinterested.

  He smelled like a combination of Ian Rafferty and nosferatu.

  And he was in the shape of a man.

  “Lilith,” Smith said. Like Congressman Stafford, he’d adopted a handsome blond visage; unlike Thomas, there was nothing friendly or open in his features, and his body was ridiculously muscle-bound, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of being perceived as weak. “Let me introduce you to our guests.”

  The elevator dinged, opened. No one moved. The nosferatu stared at her with hooded, expressionless eyes, but she felt the malevolence that emanated from them. The thick carpet muffled the sound of her steps, and she fought to control the racing of her pulse that would give her away.

  No fear, she told herself. But it was difficult, given the combined power before her, and the implication of the man-nosferatu.

  She drew to a halt a respectable, but not cowardly, distance from the group. “Sir.”

  Chuckling, Smith held out his hand. She had to unclench her fist to place her palm against his. His skin burned hers, a thin trail of smoke rising from their clasped hands; she smiled, as if the stink of burning flesh were sweet.

  Beelzebub had his petty pleasures, too.

  “These gentlemen,” he said as he pulled her toward the nosferatu, “were dismayed to learn that you had slain two of their brethren.”

  She looked at each one in turn, spoke deliberately. “And I was dismayed that I received notice regarding our new alliance after I killed them.” Nodding at the creature that smelled like Rafferty, she added, “I’m pleased to see that Moloch’s ritual was successful.”

  Surprise flared from the nosferatu, distrust. Apparently, she wasn’t supposed to know either his name, or that the ritual had taken place. Smith’s grip tightened on her hand, grinding bone.

  “Leave us, Agent Milton,” he said through clenched teeth. “Await me in my office.”

  She gladly began to turn away, but a rough voice stopped her.

  “One moment, halfling.” Moloch laid his hand on her arm, each of his teeth shifting to points, his tongue and the inside of his mouth turning black. “I require a taste, to test your trustworthiness.”

  Disgust spread from the surface of her skin, deep into her stomach, followed by a rising panic. He wanted her blood. And with a taste of her blood, her psychic blocks would be useless; nosferatu could open the strongest mind with a simple nick of a vein.

  A secretive smile curved her lips. “Trustworthy? Lucifer would not be pleased if I were such.”

  Moloch’s face contorted, but Smith snatched her hand from the nosferatu before he could bite. It had been a risk, but the demon warlord was uncertain of the extent of her knowledge, and her trustworthiness . . . or of Lucifer’s. Probably all three.

  “Leave us, Lilith.” His anger was palpable.

  She grinned, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and strode away on trembling legs.

  CHAPTER 19

  After the soundless cocoon of Beelzebub’s office, the noises surrounding her cube seemed loud, frenetic. Or perhaps it was the pounding in her head. She’d expected a punishment from Beelzebub, but it had been something more frightening: an instruction to traverse the Gate by midnight.

  Summoned by Lucifer.

  She didn’t glance at the rookie, but sat, holding her burning palm against the cool desktop. The phone was in front of her. So easy to lift the receiver, to call him and hear his voice. Would he still be at the university? Home?

  She had an excuse: he’d want to know what she’d read in the files Preston had sent. He needed to know about the nosferatu and his student. But she couldn’t risk being overheard. She’d be lucky if Lucifer didn’t destroy her; she shouldn’t give him additional reason.

  The pain in her hand faded to a mild sting. Her laptop was in her cache; she called it in. Her mouth twisted in self-derision, but she still went to the university website, looked up his e-mail address. Was she so desperate for contact with him? Even in this cold, distant way—

  She didn’t have to send anything; it was waiting for her in her inbox. A simple message, with a document attached.

  Spend the night with me.

  The document was several hundred pages, all in Latin. She read through the first pages, her eyes blurring. This had been written with care, reverence. And her fingers shook as she typed out her reply:

  I can’t.

  Hugh hadn’t walked more than two steps into Auntie’s before she had his left cheek in a fond, if uncomfortably tight, pinch. She gave a half-indignant laugh as he swept her forward and hugged her tiny frame—partially to break that hold on his cheek, and partially because he needed to. Her bangles clicked and sang, and her bright turquoise sari held the thick, warm scent of garlic and onion that permeated the restaurant.

  “You treat me very poorly,” she said when he let her go, smoothing her hair as if to make certain every strand remained tight within the long black braid. “An old woman doesn’t deserve your attention?” She harrumphed, though her eyes were bright with amusement. “No gratitude, no respect.”

  Even after forty years in San Francisco, her accent was heavy; but as she spoke in English he answered in kind. “I owe you everything, Auntie,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “Where would I be today if you hadn’t given me a job and a bed to sleep in?”

  “A doctor.” Her lips pursed, as if she were trying to be stern rather than smile. The red bindi she’d painted between her brows wrinkled. “You wasted your time serving here. If you had spent more time on study, you could have been a fine surgeon, married a physician.”

  The bell atop the door jingled. “Dr. C!”

  Hugh lifted a brow. “Doctor C, Auntie,” he emphasized, and grinned when she pursed her lips again in disapproval. Then he turned to greet the three who’d come in. All former students, they had been coming regularly on Fridays for almost two years. They’d heard about Ian—probably through Savi—and there was a lot of head shaking and disbelief before Auntie urged them to get something to eat.

  Hugh and Auntie watched them as they walked toward the buffet. “It’s a terrible business, what happened to that boy,” she said. Then she looked him sharply up and down. “Come into the back.”

  Knowing he was in for the feeding of his life, Hugh followed her. According to Auntie, all things were made better with food. A lot of food.

  The restaurant was small, and, as it was known better for its lunches and takeout, not very busy in the main dining area in the evening. The tables near the back, where the gaming group usually congregated, had already been pushed together in preparation. He had always loved the atmosphere, the bright silks on the walls, the worn but comfortable benches lining the walls, the cane chairs, the air redolent with spice. He nodded toward a silk painting of Kali on the far wall, the material a soft cream, allowing the blues and reds of the goddess’s skin and tongue to stand out.

  “Did Ranjit bring that back from his last trip?”

  “He’s a good boy, thinking of me.” She slanted Hugh a look from under her lashes before pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen, and he laughed as he followed her through.

  Heat and humidity hit him instantly, throwing him back to the yea
rs he used to wait tables, running back and forth between the kitchen and dining room. Keeping occupied, earning his way through college—cleaving to the grandmother and granddaughter. And it had been in these kitchens that he’d slowly, slowly healed.

  But not completely.

  A small office, not much larger than a closet, sat to the left of the kitchen entrance. Savi sat at the desk, entering in the day’s receipts into the computer. He paused, and she looked up.

  “Are you well?” he said.

  She shrugged, dragged her fingers through her short hair. “Okay, I guess. Considering.” Her gaze sharpened. “I brought the swords, as you requested in that e-mail.”

  She waved her hand toward a duffle bag on the floor. The canvas bag hadn’t been long enough; the hilt of the katana protruded from between the zipper teeth. “Thank you. Brandon, Matt, and Zack are here.”

  “I’ll go out to see them in a minute.” She looked at him, unsmiling. “And this is the second time in a week you’ve asked me for an address—and the second time I had to break a few laws to get it. Are you going to tell me what’s going on? You’re in real trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” He could give her the partial truth, at least. “And I will tell you, but I’m about to be stuffed.”

  The humor in her eyes eased the heaviness that had sat with him since receiving Lilith’s reply. “She got me when I came in, too. I don’t think I’ll need to eat for two weeks.” She tilted her head. “So, who’s this Lily Milton, and why do you need her info?”

  He felt the flush rise up his neck, and she stared at him, fascinated.

  “You have a thing for her.” She pursed her lips, and for a moment she looked exactly like her grandmother. “That’s kind of weird. I know you don’t date often—actually, never—but this isn’t the way to woo a lady.”