He nodded, unable to do more.
She grinned. “But we’ll buy more anyway.” Scooting down, she laid her head on his chest. Her fingers circled his flat bronze nipple, and they both watched as the nub puckered. “I am good,” she said. With a self-satisfied laugh, she relaxed against him and let her palm rest on his abdomen.
They lay in silence in the darkened room, until she finally said, “The nightmare—it was Seattle.” A harsh breath ripped from him; though she didn’t raise her head to look at him, she shook it in denial of his assumption. “Not you slaying me. My father. The bargain.”
He waited; eventually, she turned her chin against his breastbone and met his eyes. He slid his arm around her, pulled her closer to him so he could read every nuance of her expression. Her breasts were a soft pressure against his chest, the bulk of her weight supported by her forearms, denting the pillow on either side of his head.
“The man who shot Savitri—do you regret his death?”
The man who’d killed Savi’s parents without reason or guilt? Had murdered others as well? Would have killed Savi, simply for being able to identify him? “No,” he said hoarsely, forcing it out. “The method. Using my Gift in that way. He shot himself of his own will, but I could have made certain he was caught, convicted—tried under human law—yet I did not.” Each word scraped his throat like broken glass. “And we should not be executioners. Of demons, nosferatu, even vampires: aye, for there is little alternative to contain them but death. But Guardians should not execute humans, lest we become tyrants and think ourselves above them.”
She touched his neck, he felt a tug as she slid her fingers up to toy with the short curls against the pillow. “You can sign with your hands. It’s not as secret as you Guardians think.” Her smile was wry, her gaze steady—and tinged with fear. “Are you certain you can take me?”
It wasn’t sexual, that question—he’d claimed there was nothing that could make her reject him, but she apparently thought whatever she was going to tell him would change his mind. Or perhaps it was what she’d just done.
His arms tightened around her. “I’m certain,” he said, unwilling to let go to sign. Pain was preferable to that.
“I enjoyed it.” She focused on her fingers, gently twisting a short lock of hair behind his ear. “When I first began, I enjoyed it. The first one was in Greece: a husband who had killed his wife for bearing yet another daughter. The second, a woman who’d tortured and killed her male slaves. A father who’d raped his daughter, then killed her when she became pregnant. On and on. And I tormented them until they took their own lives. I thought of myself as one of the Furies, a servant of the gods—not answerable even to the gods—and I enjoyed it for over a thousand years. Not because it served Lucifer, but because I thought they deserved it.” She took a deep breath, met his eyes again. “I still do.”
“Enjoy tormenting them?”
She shook her head. “That wore thin before I met you. And though it was still deserved, I no longer had a taste for it. In that you are right; we have no place in this modern age to be executioners. To assist, perhaps, but not to judge.” Almost absently, she began rubbing her toes up and down the length of his calf as she spoke. “But I still enjoy the . . . the game of it. The challenge of trying to make the impossible seem an everyday occurrence, the extraordinary seem normal. That’s what I did with them; I took their fears, paranoia and guilt, and used my powers and deception to draw them out—without ever letting them realize it was something outside of themselves. And that is the only part of my job that I enjoy now: coming up with explanations that, while sometimes absurd, at least were believable to someone who’d never seen a demon, a vampire, or a Guardian. Explanations that made sense within the context of the modern world.”
He fought to hide his smile. Did she think he hadn’t known this? That he would ask her to be something she wasn’t—had never been? “So you are saying you could never be a suburban housewife.” The words came out as a rough whisper.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “There is truth in the mark Lucifer left on me: I will always be Lilith.”
And she thought he would turn away from her because of that? That he wouldn’t stay with her? He briefly wrestled with the bitterness within him—she hadn’t believed him, didn’t think very highly of his declaration of love—and found it was easy to push away in the face of her fear. Far more important to erase it than to wallow in his own pain. He lifted his head and pressed his lips to hers, then flipped her over onto her back.
Only the barest light shone in from the windows, but it was enough to see the design between her breasts, the hesitation in her eyes. “Is that what this is? Your name?”
She nodded.
His mouth hovered over the mark. “What was it before?” He kissed the upper curve of the design, tracing it to the upper swell of her right breast.
“I don’t know.” Her chest rose and fell with her quick breaths. “He took it from me; he stripped all halflings of the memory of their human names. Michael would know, I suppose”—he closed his lips over her nipple, unable to resist the taut bud so close—“but it hardly matters.”
He returned to the mark, his lips and tongue painting glistening strokes. It doesn’t matter, he signed over his head, his mouth too busy for speech. Did you choose Lily Milton?
“Not Milton—” He heard the smile in her voice. “Lucifer wanted to remind me that ‘They also serve who only stand and wait’ as I spent my years in the Bureau, anticipating the onset of the bargain.”
Hugh lifted his head and stared at her. “You’re joking.” It was the last line of a poem John Milton had written after he’d lost his eyesight; it questioned whether he was as valuable to God if he could not perform any great and heroic deeds that served Him.
She shook with laughter. “No. Lucifer is quite willing to twist anything that refers to Him to suit his own needs.”
“And Lily?” He lowered his head again to tug lightly at her other nipple.
“I chose it,” she gasped. “It is near to Lilith in sound, and I was tired of remembering which name I was supposed to respond to. You’ve called me Lily.”
He slid lower, and his lips caressed the dip of her navel. Only when I want to be inside you. He had to use his hand to push her knee over his shoulder, then cupped her bottom in both palms and lifted her to his mouth. “Lily,” he said aloud against the silky skin of her inner thigh. Beautiful, wild, fragrant. He inhaled, and her scent filled him. That it was laced with his own masculine odor sent possessive lust surging through him, and he barely held it in check. If he hadn’t just spent two hours hard and begging for release, he’d have already been inside her again. “But only if you want it.”
“The name?” She laughed, and tugged on his hair. “Or do I want your tongue on me, right now!”
“The name. Hold yourself open for me.” He blew lightly through her curls.
“I love how you say it: Lily,” she said the name languorously, her voice deepening; and he smiled against her skin. It echoed how he felt with her; he’d no idea it had been so obvious. Her hands left his head, then her fingers slipped between her thighs. “In that moment, I am soft and yielding.” Her legs trembled as she bared herself, and he drank in the sight of her, wet and plump with arousal. “But not always, and only with you.”
“Only with me,” he echoed hoarsely. “Lily.”
She shivered, and he bent his head. Her moisture flooded his mouth, exquisitely sweet, exquisitely Lilith. He’d meant to tease her, to draw it out, but as he laved lightly at her clit she begged, “Not soft now, Hugh,” and he was lost. A growl of hunger escaped him, and he took from her mercilessly, lapped up her cries with each stroke of his tongue, each thrust of his fingers into her slick heat. She lifted, grinding her clit against his tongue, rubbing and rubbing, and he had to pump his hips against the bed to keep from slamming into her. Her back arched, her body drew tight beneath him.
“Harder, harder.” It became her chant;
he used his teeth. She came with a guttural scream, and still he licked and sucked at her, until the clenching of the smooth muscles around his fingers became flutterings, until she fell back to the bed and her hands dropped from between her thighs.
“Holy fuck,” she said, her voice awed.
He chuckled against her belly, then rose up to lie next to her. Rolled her so that her back was against his chest.
“Lily,” he said, his voice deliberately low and sensuous, and he laughed when she shivered again.
He waited for her to sleep, but she seemed just as content to lie in his arms as he was to hold her. It wasn’t until the first rays of the sun settled in stripes across the bed that he spoke again.
“Lilith?”
She made a soft, drowsy reply.
“If waiting serves him, then we’ll not wait.” He already knew what would save Lilith, knew what he’d have to do. But first he had to make certain she—along with everyone else around him—would be safe from the nosferatu.
She tensed, then turned to face him. “I have a few ideas.” Her smile was wide, wicked.
God, but he loved her. His heart ached, but he didn’t have to force his laughter. “Are they absurd?”
Her eyes danced. “Oh, yes.”
CHAPTER 30
What was truly absurd, Lilith decided as she scanned Hugh’s closet for anything to put on her feet, was attempting to get around San Francisco without shoes. Or a car.
Once they got to her apartment, she’d have clothes—they wouldn’t have confiscated all of them—but getting there was the problem. Sighing, she pulled out a huge pair of battered tennis shoes and slipped them on.
Hugh grinned when he saw her, but it was easy for him to laugh when he had jeans and boots that fit, and his shirt looked as if it clung to him out of sheer desperation, afraid of losing contact with his skin. She envied that shirt, hated it.
She clomped out of the bedroom. “They won’t let us on the bus without shoes, and your precious Savi’s feet are the size of a fairy’s.”
Was he still grinning as he followed her? She would have turned, except that she was afraid she’d leap on him and they’d be waiting for another hour. Or two.
“We aren’t riding the bus,” he said.
“Oh?” She paused to scratch Sir Pup’s neck as he skidded up to them, his claws sliding on the wood floor. “You have a car?”
“No. I don’t like enclosed moving vehicles: planes, cars, trains.”
He was grinning.
She closed her eyes, trying not to laugh. “Your bike? Will you pedal me around on that trusty steed?”
“Aye, my lady. My bike. It will add to the absurdity.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the garage; on the way, he opened a closet and thrust a leather jacket at her. “How can you wear leather but not eat meat?”
She slanted him an exasperated look as she shrugged on the jacket. It was too big, but a fine quality. “I don’t eat leather. Why do you ride a bike?”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “It’s too far to walk to the university, and I get time to think. This is for when I don’t want to think anymore.”
He opened the garage door, and her heart filled with lust and pleasure. A black BMW motorcycle stood in the corner, sleek and compact. Built for speed.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh. I want one.”
He tossed her a visored helmet, and she caught it by reflex. “That’s Savi’s, but luckily her head is bigger than a fairy’s. If you tuck up your hair, anyone watching the news won’t be able to see who you are.”
She quickly wound her hair into a coil. “Can I drive?”
“Not a chance.” He slung his leg over the back of the bike, patted the seat behind him. “I’ve seen you fly.”
The ride was too short. She rested her head against his broad back and clenched her thighs alongside his as they arrived in her neighborhood; he pulled to the curb a block away from her building. Her hair caught as she took off the helmet, then cascaded down her back as it fell out of its twist. She’d left her visor up; the wind had whipped tears from her eyes, and she hastily wiped them away.
Sir Pup sat on the sidewalk. He was too big to be mistaken for a normal dog, but he’d taken on a form with only one head. His tongue lolled, his tail waved happily; Lilith guessed that he’d enjoyed the run almost as much as she’d enjoyed the ride.
“We send him in first?” Hugh braced his feet on the ground and ran his fingers through his hair. Unshaven, slightly rumpled—but with a glint in his eyes that made him look dangerous. Sexy. He’d put in contact lenses that morning, and she realized now they were more practical when riding the motorcycle than glasses—but she almost missed the professorial air they had given him.
It was a safe look: safe and comfortable for her. This Hugh was new—another surprise.
He caught her studying him, and his gaze heated. “Lily?”
“We send him in,” she confirmed, her voice thick. He hadn’t argued when she’d outlined her plan to gather information, though it put him at considerable risk.
Sir Pup disappeared after a quick command to check the apartment for anyone inside. Lilith slid off the bike, watched as Hugh lowered the kickstand.
“When he comes back, we’ll have him look after it. No one will steal it then,” she said.
Hugh nodded. She knew he couldn’t have missed the dilapidated housing around them, but he hadn’t commented on it.
Of course he wouldn’t. “They won’t deign to come to this area,” she explained, and slid her hands into her pockets. “Beelzebub, other demons. They prefer luxury, and I found the poorer my surroundings, the less likely I would be bothered by them, or have them show up unannounced.” She smiled wryly. “And it takes almost all of my salary to feed Sir Pup.”
He arched a brow. “You didn’t just vanish it from a pet store? Like the books?”
“I have some morals; I won’t feed my dog stolen food. And I didn’t like meat in my cache. It makes me feel . . . bloody.” She shuddered. “And I couldn’t, even if I’d wanted—books were in the public sphere, but the meat was under private possession. I could have fought the butcher for it, I suppose, defeated him in battle and then vanished it . . .” She glanced at his expression and sighed. “I won’t do it anymore. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Is it so terrible?” His voice was low.
“No,” she admitted.
Though he looked relaxed, half-sitting on the bike and his hands tucked into his pockets, his intense regard sent shivers over her skin. “I’ll give you all the books you want,” he said.
She leaned down, and his lips were warm and firm under hers, full of love and promise.
And it was easy to let go her petty pleasures.
A ribald shout from a passing car broke them apart. Sir Pup lay at her feet, grinning up at them.
“Pervert,” she told the hellhound, laughing. “All clear?”
He chuffed softly.
“Let’s do this quickly then,” Hugh said.
The hellhound had already broken through the locks and the police tape at her door. Though very little of it had been hers, her throat tightened when she saw the state of the room: stripped of books, the weapons gone . . . even the threadbare carpet ripped up, as if they’d searched for items beneath the floorboards.
Hugh’s hand found hers, and he gave it a gentle squeeze. When he gestured toward the closet, she burst into laughter. They’d taken the door. She imagined a forensics lab trying to make sense of the ragged holes from her claws, the scrapings from her nipples.
She quickly stifled her amusement; very likely, the neighbors had been asked to contact the Bureau if she came home. A quick glance in the closet confirmed that it still held most of her clothes. She grabbed several items at random, breathed out a sigh of relief when she saw her suit hanging in its place near the back. Her heart lightened even further when a quick search of the jacket yielded her badge and identification.
“Got it,” she sai
d and began changing.
Hugh appeared at her side, a plastic bag in his hand, and piled her extra clothes inside. “Taylor and Preston don’t seem the type to have missed your ID in a search.”
Lilith frowned. “They aren’t. It’s evidence of an abrupt departure, perhaps under coercion—no agent would leave without his ID. This is probably Smith’s work. The Bureau took over the investigation, yes?” At his nod, she said, “Then this is a result of their search, not the SFPD. They just got rid of the weapons and books, then left a mess to make it look good.” There were enough demon agents in the Bay Area that the search could have been handled solely through them; no one would question poor investigation techniques.
“Did your saving the boy on the bridge force Lucifer’s hand?”
Her zipper rasped as she yanked it up. Her holster and gun had been in the pile of weapons; she would have killed for them now. She hated to go anywhere empty-handed. “What do you mean?”
“You interfered with his free will when you caught him.” Hugh’s gaze was dark with remembered pain; she sucked in a breath, realizing how her action must have seemed deliberately self-destructive.
“I didn’t even think of that when I caught him,” she said. “I was just pissed that he was being so fucking stupid, and interrupting my brooding time.”
Hugh’s lips twitched, but his gaze was serious. “But Lucifer had to either destroy you or Punish you—or, since you were a halfling, revert you back to human. He would have had to make that decision even if I hadn’t forced your physical response. So had he already decided to condition you”—his mouth twisted with quick anger—“or did he have to make the decision after you caught the boy?”
“I don’t know.” She finished buttoning her vest, and met his eyes—and suddenly saw what he was getting at. “You think that even if I was brainwashed and went through with it, he never intended for me live much longer than it took to kill you.”
“You had no shortage of time, no need to be conditioned before Michael made his wager. But if Lucifer had another deadline to meet and another bargain to fulfill—with the nosferatu—he might have already planned your Fall and your death.”
Demon Angel Page 36