Demon Angel

by Meljean Brook

  “You are simply too accustomed to me at seventeen,” he said, smiling. “And without eyeglasses. I am changed, but only by seven years’ worth, at most. Do you not notice your strength?” He thought how she had easily tossed him over on the bed. “Perhaps because you were a demon much longer than I was a Guardian—but you almost equal a vampire. I have only half that.”

  Her mouth was hanging open.

  “It leaves its mark,” he said, pleased that he could be the one to tell her. “You are probably the strongest, fastest human woman on Earth.”

  She smiled, but dipped her head as if to hide her surprise. “I like that. A lot,” she added thickly, and he laughed.

  “How do you think you survived a trip through the bay? And you recovered from it within hours. Did you think I was speaking metaphorically of your strength? Of your quickness?”

  She lifted her shoulders, and said with a note of embarrassment, “I thought it was your idea of a pep talk, your supportive teacher role. ‘Believe in yourself,’ or some other twenty-first century self-esteem shit.”

  “No.” He laughed softly, trying to imagine himself saying that to Lilith—or to anyone else. “And your strength is not anything near what you had before; it isn’t enough to defeat a nosferatu should you have to wrestle one,” he said. “But you won’t be helpless.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What did you refer to earlier—the nosferatu not biting into your jugular? Don’t tell me you fought one.”

  It was his turn for embarrassment. “I did not intend to fight it; I misjudged the control Beelzebub exerted over them.” Her brows lifted in a mocking gesture, and she gestured with her wineglass for him to continue. Hugh quickly recounted the flight to the basement, focusing on the hellhound’s victories to direct her attention from his own idiocy; she grinned and tossed Sir Pup cheese from her plate. “He killed the nosferatu who attacked me, and finally Selah was able to teleport us out,” he finished.

  “She can ’port?” Surprise in her voice, then realization. “That’s how she got the kid out of the tomb in New Orleans— and why Michael allowed her to return with him. She can get to safety without a Gate.”

  “Yes. She went back for Colin,” he added, his eyes troubled. “They could have made it out, but I don’t want to raise false hope.”

  “Was Sir Pup there?” She turned when he nodded, and threw another piece of cheese. “Did they make it out? The vampire and the Guardian?” The hellhound whined and barked, wagging his tail. Lilith’s mouth relaxed into a smile. “Yes. More difficult to tell without feeling his emotions, but I’m certain that was ‘yes.’ And Michael had said he was looking for someone in the Pit. It might have been Selah and Colin—though, if they were there, he did not find them. Perhaps Colin made her teleport to Paris for a shopping expedition,” she said dryly.

  Hugh knew she didn’t believe it, but made no comment. He briefly described Beelzebub’s attempt to bargain Savi’s life for his, and her expression became pensive.

  “I agree with your assessment; he needs you for the ritual,” she said, shaking her head. “But what use could you be?”

  His lips quirked at her blunt phrasing. “Moreover, why would Lucifer strike the bargain with Michael? If you kill me, Beelzebub and the nosferatu would not be able to use me. Which leaves three possibilities: Beelzebub is betraying Lucifer in some way; Lucifer thought you would be persuaded to perform the ritual when you killed me; or, the ritual and the bargain with Michael have the same end.”

  “Caelum,” Lilith said, and Hugh nodded. “But I don’t see how including you in the ritual would secure Caelum for them. Nor do I think Beelzebub would betray Lucifer.”

  “Does he think you would perform the ritual on me?” His eyes locked with hers.

  “Perhaps,” she said slowly, and looked down at her plate. “I tried once and failed; it’s possible he thought that with the proper incentive, I would try again. Before Sir Pup came for me, his demons were conditioning me.”

  “Conditioning?” Hugh stiffened. “Torture?”

  “Of a sort—they couldn’t physically hurt me, of course; the Rules prevent it. But I was in a dark chamber, and they continually spoke of how you don’t care for me, but only for your own success in saving me; that it was your life or mine—” She must have seen his expression, for she paused. “I wasn’t hurt.”

  He could barely speak past the rage clogging his throat. “It was something Vlad might have done. In a few more days, you would have been starving, dehydrated—hallucinating. You might have done anything at that point, out of your mind and hardly aware of it.”

  “Yes. I’m certain that’s what they planned.”

  Unable to have it separating them any longer, Hugh pushed away from the counter, circled it. He tamped down his anger—and in truth, should he not direct it at himself as well? Had he not manipulated her, forced her to face Lucifer without defense?

  And so he hesitated when he reached her chair; she swiveled the stool to face him. “Is this kindness as well?”

  “Nay.” He would have given anything to feel her skin against his; still, he did not reach out. “I do hate my failures, but it is not the reason I fight to save you.”

  “I know.” She looked down at her hands, resting atop her bent knee. “I rarely trust a demon’s words; lies are compulsory. Lucifer was upset that I had chosen to tell you the truth about our bargain. I don’t think he realizes you would not be fooled by them, and so they are useless.” A half-smile tilted her lips. “That could work to our advantage. I shall only speak lies, you shall divine the truth—and if we are heard, the demons and nosferatu will assume I’m fulfilling my bargain.”

  He shook his head, and his eyes searched hers. “We have both tried to solve our difficulties by going around them, and have only made of mess of it: you forged Polidori’s letter, and it has created more problems for us than it has solved. I tried to subvert your Punishment by forcing pleasure from you, and he took your powers. Now the bargain’s resolution is imminent, and the consequences no longer affect just the two of us.”

  “And you would have us confront the nosferatu directly?” she asked.

  She began laughing, as if she’d imagined them fighting the nosferatu and found the thought hilarious. Mesmerized by the sound, he forgot his earlier reticence and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was still damp from her shower, and he could smell his shampoo, his soap on her skin.

  “Only that we should approach it differently than we have in the past,” he said when she paused for breath. Her eyes shone with amusement, and her skin gently flushed with laughter and wine.

  Sliding down in the seat, she raised her leg and rested the ball of her foot against his chest. “So you think I shouldn’t lie?” She gave him a light push.

  Automatically, he caught her ankle and used it to anchor himself, shifting his balance; when he had his feet well-braced, he smoothed his palm under the cuff of her khakis. The pants were too long; her foot, half-covered by the material, looked dainty, fragile—the opposite of what she truly was. Appearances were deceiving, even in this.

  “No, I think it will be useful,” he said finally. “But in this instance, it would not serve us. A demon would not believe you were following through on the bargain if you only spoke in lies.”

  Her brows drew together as if she’d taken offense, and he laughed. Never would it be said Lilith did not pride herself on her ability to lie, to succeed in any purpose with deception.

  “Go on,” he challenged. “Lie to me.”

  CHAPTER 28

  She only debated for a moment. It was ridiculous; if he could read her lies, was it an assessment of her skill to hide them? But for what purpose?

  “Your décor is atrocious,” she said, testing.

  His eyes widened in mock horror. “I shall kill myself immediately.”

  So that was the game. Lies that would lead anyone listening to believe her aims were to kill him. Lies that would serve a demon. “Colin would have,” she
muttered.

  “I”—he lifted her foot, nipped sharply at her big toe—“am not Colin.”

  Her breath caught, and she struggled to keep the arousal that kindled warm and tight in her belly from spreading. Her toe, for fuck’s sake. Ridiculous to respond to it. Or to the expression in his eyes: even with humor brightening azure to sapphire, even behind the shields of his lenses, his focus was so intense it felt like a touch.

  He let go her foot. “You can do better,” he said.

  No, she could do worse. She drained her face of emotion. “You’re a coward.”

  He smiled, studying her. A fascinating thing, how he translated the cues of her eyes and tone as easily as her words. “That does not fit the criteria: you must only speak lies. There might be truth in that. I have been a coward where you are concerned, else I would have pursued you as we both wanted, long ago. Perhaps we would not be in this position now if not for my cowardice.”

  Now, simply his voice—and a hot, spiraling ache began to coil through her. “This is all the fault of your cowardice,” she said dryly.

  “Much better, though absolutes make for rather easy lies.”

  “I think you are a coward.” She grinned, and slid off the chair. His hands settled on her hips, as if she were a lady dismounting from a horse and he would support her until she found her footing. He did not remove them.

  “Now you flatter me,” he said, and then his smile faded. Standing, her gaze was on level with his mouth, and it was no effort to imagine flattering its beauty, the firm curve of his lips, the simple power they seemed to have over her. “It would be the type of lie you would need if you wanted to break me. But you are here to kill me. Given that you did not immediately pull out a sword and stab me through the chest, would you not try to convince me to lower my guard? To make me love and desire you, so that the betrayal is more sweet? Is that not what a demon would do?”

  Her heart contracted, and for a moment she could not meet his eyes. She already wanted those things, but they were not lies, nor designed to destroy him. She was not a demon, and no longer served Lucifer—that agreement had been terminated when he transformed her into a human—but they probably still expected her to act like one. Funny, that demons would be deceived by truth, and only because they did not recognize it as Hugh did.

  “So lie to me, if it pleases you,” he said quietly, and slid his palms up the sides of her waist, beneath her shirt. “But do not do it for them.”

  She rose up on her toes. Lifted her mouth, not to kiss—not yet—but so that he couldn’t mistake her teasing. “I wonder that you accept me so easily, knowing what I have been—what I am. You must have a terrible flaw, your soul irrevocably corrupted by temptation.” Winding her arms around his shoulders, she leaned against him. Had she once thought him vulnerable in this human form? Difficult to remember why, with the broad strength of him so close.

  “Easily? It has taken eight centuries, a multitude of kisses bargained and stolen, both of us dead and brought back to life, one terribly translated manuscript and thousands of lies for me to accept you.” His voice was light, amused; but she felt the tension in his hands, saw the self-derision in his eyes. “I only wonder that it took me so long.”

  She did not. It would have been nothing like the emotional torrent she felt now: beautiful, brilliant. She would have turned it into something ugly, something safe—never realizing that there was another kind of safety in this, despite the threat of the bargain and the nosferatu. Never allowing it to just be.

  Impossible to tell him that; it was easier to lie.

  “I’m still hungry,” she said.

  He went rigid against her, and she dipped her head to taste the strong column of his throat. A reverberation against her tongue as a groan escaped him, but the sound was muffled as if he’d clenched his teeth. Did he resist her then?

  Remembering his earlier hesitation, she bit him on the muscled arch between his neck and shoulder. He shuddered, but still did not do more than hold her, his hands firm at her waist.

  Guilt, she guessed. That wouldn’t do.

  “I didn’t like being taken against the closet door,” she whispered silkily. Her tongue swirled over the stretch of skin below his ear. His erection rose taut and hard between them. Desire licked at her, then pulsed deep. “I don’t remember how good it felt when you were inside me.”

  His breathing was ragged now, his fingers sliding around her back. “It shouldn’t have been like that.”

  She laughed, forgetting to lie. “How should it have been? Gentle, with marriage vows between us? A lord and his lady, quiet in their bed, thinking of duty and England?”

  “Not a betrayal,” he said.

  “Of what? Of whom? Not of me.” She pulled back to look at him. His features were drawn tight, his eyes bright with self-directed anger. “I won’t lie to please them, only if you do not judge yourself by a morality that has nothing to do with us. If I’d been any other woman, yes, what you did might have been unforgivable. But do you think I didn’t feel your struggle? That I didn’t rejoice when you failed to resist? I want everything from you; I won’t settle for half. I’m selfish and greedy. If I were a better woman, I wouldn’t relish the knowledge that you risked your soul to save me; nor, after you’d fulfilled your wager, that you took me despite your honor, your sense, and your character, because you couldn’t deny yourself. And I could have escaped you then, saved you in turn, but I chose to stay because I couldn’t deny you, either. We are not human, nor Guardian, nor demon; we have made choices that have set us apart, but they were the only choices available to us. What was the alternative to that night? Any night—Essex, Seattle, last week? Every other choice ends in disaster or death. And we are on the cusp of disaster again, but I prefer four days with you than another thousand years as a demon.” Her voice broke; she hadn’t meant to say it, but now that it had been spoken she would not retract it. “That is the choice I make now. And to fight; there is little else to do.”

  She stopped, suddenly embarrassed by the vehemence of her speech. Though she knew he would not accept all she had said, some of the tension faded from him. He lowered his head, rested his forehead against hers. “Michael said the same thing: that there is naught to do but fight,” he said, and laughed when she made a sound of dismay.

  She closed her eyes, grateful he’d let her escape into humor. “Shit. The next time I sound like him, stab me.”

  “I will,” he said, and brushed his lips over hers. “I love you.”

  She’d known—she’d known and yet had no idea that hearing the words would burst within her as it did, a release, a freedom. She trailed kisses quick and hard over his lips, missing his mouth more often that not. He was a fool to love her—she’d not known anything of love but to twist and ruin it. And it was only fair that she warned him.

  “Imbecile,” she said between his jaw and his neck, and he laughed again and lifted her against him, half-dragging her out of the kitchen. The bedroom—he was headed to the bedroom. Too far. Impatient, she twisted and tripped him, fell atop him on the corner of the living room rug, a tangle of legs and tongues. His hands were on her breasts, plucking at her nipples through thin cotton.

  “Take it off,” he commanded, but didn’t wait for her and began pulling up her shirt. He paused for an infinitesimal moment, as if drinking in the sight of her—then his mouth was on her, suckling and licking before the T-shirt cleared her head, and she was caught in darkness, the black material trapping her arms and covering her face. Wordlessly, he reached up, fisted his hand in the shirt and hair, held her immobile.

  And there was only his lips and tongue on the aching peaks. The scrape of his whiskered jaw on her skin. The thick ridge of his cock beneath her. Her spine arched, and she gasped as he captured her nipple between his teeth, not enough to hurt but to make her fall silent, still.

  Blind, she waited breathlessly as he unfastened her pants and slid his hand inside. As he cupped her sex. Then moaned as he let go of her nipple
and slowly, slowly swirled his tongue around the taut flesh.

  She heard the smile in his voice, felt it against her breast. “Do you want kindness, Lily?” He pushed a finger inside her, and she pressed her bottom lip between her teeth to stay her cry of need. More, more. As if he heard that silent plea, he drew her nipple deeply into his mouth. Her blood seemed to carry fire through her veins. She panted, the small confines of the shirt hot and humid.

  Another finger, stretching and thrusting, and she grunted with frustration and rocked against him, trying to spread her thighs wider, grind herself closer to him, needing more.

  “What would be kindness now? Do you want to look?” He pumped his fingers, his palm slick with her arousal, gliding over her clit. “Do you want to see that I’m inside you? But not enough.” His voice was hoarse. “I’d have to let go your shirt, free my hand to unzip. And you would see. Would that be a kindness? You wouldn’t see what I do.”

  “What would I see?” she whispered, the words ragged.

  His tongue began to trace a pattern on her skin. Realization struck, and she shivered, tried to pull away from his mouth. Didn’t want him touching what Lucifer had put on her.

  “No!” His harsh denial surprised her, the desperation and anger behind it. “Don’t hide from me now, Lilith. I see it, but it’s not all that I see. I’m not a fool in this. I can take it all. There’s nothing you have been—or could do—that would make me reject you.” His grip loosened on the shirt. Quickly, she ripped it the rest of the way off. And caught her breath at the stark beauty of him, the emotion that filled his eyes.

  Unwilling to have anything between that expression and her, she leaned forward and removed his glasses. Tossed them on the sofa cushion. “What do you see?”

  “Look.”

  And she rose up, looked down between them. He was fully dressed, she half-dressed—it should have been a wanton and sinful display. Perhaps it was. She couldn’t care. She only saw her dark-tipped breasts, the nipples drawn tight. The whisker-reddened skin. The spread of her thighs over him, his fingers buried in her glistening sex. His marks.