Demon Angel

by Meljean Brook

  Rain beaded on plastic surrounding the bus stop, and steam slowly crept up the inside of the glass. Hugh shifted on the bench; his nausea from the bus ride across town had passed. He could either get out and check on the apartment—or sit here and do nothing.

  He reached down and picked up the duffel. No matter how unlikely her presence at the apartment was, it would be foolish to go in unarmed. But he kept it covered—if someone else lived in the apartment, he didn’t want to brandish a two-foot blade in her face.

  The front security door was broken; inside, the row of dilapidated mailboxes confirmed her apartment number: Milton, 4D. Shaking his head over her choice of last name, he took the stairs two at a time, trying to ignore the smell of cat litter, dirty diapers, and frying meat that permeated the air. The stairs creaked under his weight; if she was in the apartment and listening, she’d hear his approach—and he knew she could probably distinguish his footsteps from the other tenants’.

  Not that he intended to surprise her—he just wanted answers.

  The fourth-floor landing carpet was well worn; ground-in dirt darkened what had probably been blue to a dingy brown. Lilith’s door was the last on the right; a single bare bulb lit the hallway.

  Hugh frowned, almost certain now that the address was fake. Why would she choose this as a dwelling? He could afford better, even if his only income had been his adjunct professor’s salary—and she had access to whatever monies and connections had pulled the strings to create her current persona.

  Deciding to follow through, now that he’d come that far, he knocked twice on the door marked 4D.

  No answer.

  He knocked again, then listened for sounds from inside. Water pipes groaned, but he couldn’t be certain if they were from 4D or the rooms on the floors below. He tried the doorknob, and it turned in his hand.

  He didn’t hesitate to swing the door open, reaching into the duffel to grasp the handle of his sword. The room was dark, but the source of the noise became clear; within the bathroom, a shower was running.

  His eyes quickly adjusted. A studio apartment, bare of furniture except for a twin-sized bed pushed into one corner, and a metal folding chair tucked under a cheap card table. Slung across the back of the chair was a suit—the same suit that Lilith had worn earlier. He could see the dull shine of photographs and manila folders spread across the tabletop.

  Books were piled and stacked on every other available surface, stuffed into cases lining the walls, filling the open-faced cupboards in the kitchen.

  Relaxing slightly, he flipped on the light and grimaced. Although clean, the studio was as shabby as the rest of the building. Evidence of water damage streaked the ceiling, and the linoleum in the tiny kitchen cracked and buckled. On the bed, a lumpy striped mattress looked as if it could have come from a jail cell; it had probably been included with the apartment, since Lilith didn’t need to sleep.

  She certainly hadn’t bothered to decorate.

  The shower shrieked as the she turned the water off. Mildly surprised she hadn’t already charged out of the bathroom, weapon in hand, skin red and eyes blazing, Hugh pulled his own sword from its sheath, dropped the duffel onto the floor, and stepped across the room to stand next to the bathroom door.

  The distinctive slide of shower curtain rings across metal followed by the squeak of old floorboards allowed him to track her movements within the room. A faucet turned, water splashed in a sink. Then the slow, steady brush of terry cloth over skin.

  Blood rushed to his groin as the image immediately formed in his mind—Lilith, one foot propped on the edge of the tub, running the cloth down her long length of leg. Would her skin be crimson again, he wondered—or the pale silk she’d assumed that afternoon?

  He’d find out soon; the floorboards creaked again, and he lifted his sword, holding it across the width of the doorway at neck height.

  A rush of steam escaped as Lilith opened the door, stepping through—then belatedly noticing the sword aimed at her throat.

  Crimson skin, he noted as her eyes widened, darting from the blade to him. But otherwise human in appearance. Her surprise was quickly replaced by indifference.

  “If you are going to break in and point something at me, Hugh,” she said, raising one hand and pushing the blade out of her path, “at least point something interesting at me.”

  Her gaze dropped to the front of his jeans, and then she turned away from him with a languid roll of her hips. “Did you not receive my e-mail? Or are you so eager to lose your virginity that you ignored it?”

  He allowed her to pass, watching her as she walked across the room to a small closet door. She’d wrapped herself in a bright yellow towel that covered her from chest to mid-thigh; droplets fell from her length of dark hair with each step, creating tiny circles in the threadbare carpet. She moved with a lanky, casual grace that belied her agility and strength.

  Sheathing his sword, he said, “No. Colin said you’d been Punished.”

  Her back still to him, she pulled several items from their hangers. Her voice was disinterested as she asked, “Did he?”

  She pulled a black T-shirt over her head, then reached down, stepping into a whisper of blue satin. Hugh didn’t look away as she skimmed the panties over her legs, catching a glimpse of the curve of her bottom as she lifted the towel to slide them into place. She let the towel drop to the floor.

  The methodical cleansing, the lack of emotion: impossible not to recognize it. There was no need for a demon to bathe. She was going through a ritual, purging herself. For what purpose?

  “Why are you dressing like that?”

  She froze, then glanced at him from under her lashes. “You prefer me unclothed?”

  “I wonder why I haven’t yet seen you in any form other than Lily and the demon. I wonder why you wear real clothing, when you can create it with a thought. I wonder how it is that I surprised you in your home, and why you sent Colin to the restaurant instead of going yourself—in any guise. You enjoy those powers, revel in them.”

  He nearly took back his words as she glanced down at herself, and shame flickered across her features, erasing her amusement and leaving a blank, remote expression.

  “Lucifer claims it is an effect of the blood loss and the subsequent resurrection,” she said without emotion. “But I know a Punishment when I’m subjected to one.”

  “He has taken your ability to shift?”

  “Except for my full demon form, and those in between. And to send dreams. A few other minor abilities, too.”

  Lucifer had that kind of power? “This is why the symbols are missing,” he realized. “Why give you the form you use now?”

  “To remind me that I subjected my will to his when he transformed me.” Turning toward him, she swept back the wet curls that had fallen onto her forehead. “And to punish me for my long-ago vanity, I imagine. One of his promises was that I would never age, that my beauty would never succumb to time.”

  “Then he denied it,” Hugh realized, following her to the table and laying his sword down. And when Lucifer allowed Lilith her own face, it was not a reward, but a constant reminder of the choice she’d made. There had been many times Hugh had taken on the face of another, but he’d always been able to return to his true form.

  “I often work undercover. More difficult to remain unnoticed with this face, with the same face each day. He relishes that difficulty,” she said, but with that awful, uncharacteristic detachment.

  Hugh studied her, looking for any emotion, and found none.

  “Lilith,” he hesitated, then lifted his hand to her jaw. “Are you well? What has happened?”

  A shudder wracked her body. She pressed her cheek into his palm, then wrapped her fingers around his wrist and dragged his hand from her face. “Do not be kind to me,” she said from between clenched teeth, her eyes glowing brightly. “You will destroy me with it.”

  Though her statement felt like a blow to his chest, he said, “If it brings you pleasure, I shall
do my worst.”

  Her grip tightened, but the pain of it was nothing to the smile that tilted the corners of her lips. With a sigh, she released him. “I heard you come in; I was surprised by the sword. I did not think your babysitters would allow you to carry one around the city.”

  “They don’t know,” he said. “I left through the back of the restaurant.” He’d taken the opportunity the detectives’ precipitate leaving had given him; their surveillance team had not yet arrived when Hugh had slipped out. Savi and Auntie would likely be upset with him, but it seemed the only time to search Lilith’s apartment.

  An unexpected boon, that she was still here.

  “At night?” She shook her head; the smile had not yet faded. “You couldn’t have waited until the nosferatu . . .” Trailing off, she regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Have you ever heard of a nosferatu resistant to the daysleep? Or daylight?”

  “No. And the only vampire is—”

  “Colin, I know. I don’t know why or how he is, though. And no matter how I threaten him, he won’t tell me.”

  Hugh knew, and he had no reason not to tell her now. “Michael’s sword tainted Colin’s blood when he was human. You remarked once on his sister’s resistance to your suggestions; she came by it the same way: the sword.”

  “The spoiled little slut,” Lilith said absently, as if her mind was working through something else. Hugh suppressed his grin.

  “You saw a nosferatu during the day?”

  She nodded, and her mouth thinned into a grim line. “Perhaps they used the underground parking structure to escape the sunlight, but they were awake.”

  He searched her face, caught the lingering fear that crossed her features. “How many?”

  She held his gaze. “Five. And one was in a human’s form. He had your student’s scent.”

  “Ian?” His breath stilled, and his hands trembled as rage tore through him. Though she must have felt it, he kept his voice even. He would not make her a target for his anger. “The ritual gave the nosferatu that power? To shift, to resist daylight?”

  “I think so,” she said slowly, watching him. Then her gaze lowered to the table, and she pulled a report from a stack of files. “There was very little blood at the scene.”

  “Not surprising, given they are nosferatu,” he said. It was a coroner’s report, and he only gave it a cursory glance.

  “No, but it is a change from the ritual I knew.” Laying her hand on his, she opened to the second page. “Stomach contents.”

  He forced himself to read through the haze that clouded his vision. “Just milk and cereal.”

  “No blood. The blood is the key for the transformation—the power is derived by ingesting the blood that flows after the symbols have been carved. It’s collected, and then the person must drink it before they fall unconscious from the blood loss. My guess is that instead of your student ingesting it, the nosferatu did—and they took in the properties of the transformation that way. Perhaps the one I saw took more than the others, or the full benefit of the transformation can only go to one. But nosferatu don’t trust one another, so they would demand at least a share of the power, even if it is very small. And it does not take a great amount of blood, only the endurance to remain alive until the end of the carving. That is how I was made. And at the end Lucifer asked me if I wanted to drink and live, or die. And we made a bargain that I would serve him for as long as I had my demon powers.” A bitter smile curved her mouth. “I assume that is not how Michael does it.”

  “Nay.” He had to put the report down, clenched the edge of the table to control his hands’ shaking.

  She gestured toward his sword. “Do you want to stab me?”

  As she no doubt intended, the offer startled him out of his anger; but the energy coiled within his muscles did not fade as easily as the rage. He raked his hand through his hair, stalked across the room. It wasn’t enough. He turned back. The detachment had settled over her again; she stood, looking at him without expression, her arms folded beneath her breasts, her demonic skin like a violent gash against the black shirt.

  A few long strides and he was beside her again. She took a deep, sudden breath, as if something in his appearance unnerved her. A human response, despite her apparent intention to show none.

  “This is not kindness,” he said. He slid his hand over her jaw, behind her neck to thread his fingers in the damp curls at her nape. Her skin burned beneath his palm, sent warmth spreading through him.

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “What is it?” Her chest rose and fell in a quick rhythm.

  “Envy.” He envied her control, desired it for himself. And when he touched her, his restlessness fell away. Left a new purpose in its place, a direction for the energy within him.

  He closed the distance between them, grazed her upper lip with his tongue. And immediately wanted more. “Avarice.”

  “Wrath?” The word shook, with laughter and fear and—

  He smiled against her mouth. “Lust,” he corrected, and his voice was rough with it. He drew her lower lip between his teeth. Why fear? He couldn’t hurt her. His wrist still throbbed from her grip earlier, but she . . . “Why is kindness more destructive than a sword?”

  She closed her eyes, began to pull away, but he followed. “Gluttony.” He whispered it against her mouth before kissing her, coaxing her open with the gentle insistence of his lips and tongue. Despite his claim, he drank from her with delicate sips; he had less control over his hands, and they gathered and pressed her full-length against him. Slid up her ribcage, over her peaked breasts.

  Arching into his touch, she moaned low in her throat, yet amidst the desire he could still hear the fear. She responded, but held back. His chest tightened with an unbearable pain.

  The last time he had kissed her thus, he had killed her.

  Hugh dropped his hands, staggered back. Lilith’s stance mirrored his, her hands fisted at her sides as she stared at him. In her attempt to resist touching him, her nails had cut into her skin.

  Of course, her resistance indicated that, for all her preparation, the emotions she’d tried to hide were not far from the surface. Lucifer would easily sense these, and physically smell Hugh on her. She’d have to cleanse herself again when he left. But for now, she was finished with suppression.

  She licked her lips, slowly uncurled her fingers. “You’ve never been a proficient sinner. That,” she said with a grin, “was not gluttony.”

  “If it had been, it would be the least of the sins I have committed against you.”

  Her eyes widened, and a laugh broke from her. “You’re overcome by guilt . . . because of Seattle?”

  His mouth compressed. “You are not free; and you are still afraid. I should have found another way.”

  “Hugh, I couldn’t tolerate the idea of your Fall. I would have slain you had you not me first. Like this.”

  Quick as thought, she was back in his arms, her lips raised to his. His body was taut and hard, and he drew in a sharp breath.

  She shivered, resisted the urge to rub against him like a cat. “Your sword, here.” She called the broadsword in, placed it in his hand.

  He looked down at the weapon, and his gaze flew back to hers. “Lilith,” he said softly. “How did—”

  “And mine.”

  He stiffened as the cold length of her blade pressed against his back. She drew the point up his spine, slicing his shirt but careful not to cut his flesh. With her free hand, she circled around his chest, smoothed her palm over the plane of his shoulder blade. “Your wings were here,” she said. Her fingertips found the edge of the tear, and she pulled. The shirt ripped as easily as tissue. Bare, warm skin beneath. She slid her forefinger across his back, felt the shape of the bones under the sheet of muscle. “And this would have been the entry point for my sword. Between your ribs, through your heart.”

  She pressed on the spot, then raked her nails gently over it. The swords vanished, and he shuddered as if she’d released him from an
invisible hold. “That does not absolve my—”

  “I would not have regretted it.” The words fell between them like drops of ice. “You have nightmares, do you not?” She knew he did, even without the confirmation in his tight nod. Impossible to have that level of guilt without it manifesting in some way. “I don’t.”

  A wry smile touched his lips. “You don’t sleep.”

  “I wouldn’t have them even if I did. By that time, you were not worth the regret. There was nothing left of the man who’d once fascinated me, who’d ruled emotions I’d rather not have acknowledged. Yet you were still my tyrant.”

  His face whitened. His throat worked, and she dropped her gaze to the buttons at his collar. The top two were undone, and she began unfastening the rest.

  “Will be easier for you to fulfill your bargain.”

  His voice was hoarse, thick. It took a moment for her to realize what he meant. She looked up from the smooth expanse of his chest. “No. That was then. Now, I would regret. Why else would Lucifer have waited so long? No reason, but for you to shed the skin of frost you wore as a Guardian, and to become Hugh again.”

  She pressed her hand over his heart, and he captured her wrist, held it still. “What do you need from me?” He searched her face, and she wondered what he saw there. “Do you need me to be as I was when I was a Guardian?”

  She shook her head, laughing. “You cannot save me.” Pushing the shirt from his shoulders, she vanished it before it hit the floor. Oh, but he was beautiful. Golden flesh, sculpted by his inner demons, and more perfect than any illusion he’d been able to create as a Guardian.

  He lifted her chin. “I can try.”

  “I hate martyrs,” she said, smiling. Her hands moved to the waistband of his jeans. Her fingers dipped in, stroked the hot, silken tip of him.

  A broken, unraveling breath escaped from between his teeth, and the muscles of his abdomen stood out in sharp relief. “What is this?”