Demon Angel

by Meljean Brook

  Probably a mistake; though it offered height, her feet sank into the soft mattress. It would slow her down. “Crossbow,” she said, and the stock immediately landed on her palm—perfect placement. She closed her fingers around it; the skin around her knuckles felt uncomfortably tight, raw from the harsh soap and endless scrubbing.

  Hugh lifted a brow as she raised the weapon to her shoulder and took aim at his throat. “The bolts are still drying on the table.”

  A quick downward glance confirmed the truth of it. The weapon wasn’t loaded. They would ready it and the gun—bullet in the chamber, safety off—before they left, but she should have been aware of the crossbow’s state before calling it in. Beelzebub couldn’t hurt them, but if he managed to get past them they’d lose their chance to get the information they needed. There couldn’t be any mistakes. “Shit,” she said, sinking to her knees beside the hellhound. “That would have been very, very bad.”

  He nodded and dragged his fingers through his hair. “The venom didn’t coat the bullets well.”

  “We just need enough to slow him down. A trace amount will do that.” She ran her hand under Sir Pup’s jaws; no swelling or abnormal heat. The incisions had closed and healed within the first half hour, but it had taken her twice that time to let him move from the bed, to let herself be certain he was no longer hurting.

  Hugh watched her. “How did you manage to befriend a hellhound?”

  It wasn’t a casual query; he was leading up to something. Though she feared she knew what it was, she stroked the length of the hellhound’s back and tried not to lie. “Eight years ago, I went through the Gate and there was a pack of hounds waiting. I was bit, once—halflings and humans are immune to the venom, so I wasn’t paralyzed—but still injured badly enough that I’d probably have been killed. Except he was in the pack and managed to fight through and hold the others off. So I took him back through the Gate with me.”

  Sir Pup licked her hand, and she waited for the next inevitable question, dreaded it. She stole a glance at Hugh; yes, he was weighing her response, listening to what she had left unsaid.

  “He must have known you before to have protected you,” he said finally. “You spoke of a Punishment that he’d managed to avoid; did you help him in that?”

  Dammit. “Yes.”

  A muscle in his cheek clenched before he asked, “What kind of Punishment did you suffer?”

  “The normal kind,” she said flatly and slid off the bed. Her suit lay folded atop the dresser, but she only picked up her shirt, shrugging it on before turning to face him. His unreadable expression made her chest ache; he’d closed himself off from her. He hadn’t hidden anything since the night at her apartment, and she hadn’t realized how dependent she’d become on the transparency of his emotions.

  In the past, he’d hidden from her to protect himself. Had she hurt him so badly now, or did he hide to protect her?

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. For a moment she thought she’d been completely unguarded, had said it aloud, until he continued, “I don’t know what ‘the normal kind’ is, Lilith—and Beelzebub will use it against me if he can. He mentioned it before, and I could not separate truth from lie; I was not prepared for it. It will be like charging in with faulty weapons if he can twist my emotions, yet you could prepare me for whatever he might say.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, and she could read that easily enough: he was angry, on the edge of violence. He wanted to move, but he forced himself to stay in place.

  She turned away, laid the crossbow on the table. He was right, of course; she had to tell him. Beelzebub would use it. “Dismemberment. Burns. Eyes and organs taken,” she recited. “They heal, or grow back, so it doesn’t matter much. The worst is the contraption they make to keep the blood circulating.” She couldn’t look at him, so she busied herself refilling the clip with ammunition. “If the blood is gone, you die—and their fun is over. So it’s collected and pumped up to a cistern. It has a hole in the bottom, and if they put your neck in the hole with your head inside, it plugs the hole and the cistern fills and they don’t have to worry about it, because you drink or drown in it . . . either way, you ingest it and you stay alive, because not to ingest is a form of suicide, and that would be a failure in service to Lucifer, and you’d end up frozen in the field anyway.”

  His footsteps were soft; that she heard them at all must mean he’d wanted her to. He wasn’t trying to take her unawares. He was giving her the choice to acknowledge his approach—or not.

  She did. And his mouth was warm and sure on hers; no heat in this kiss, only tenderness and an offer of strength, did she need it. She would have preferred heat—she could distract him with that, avoid telling the rest of it.

  He didn’t give her the opportunity. His palms cupped her face when he pulled back, his gentleness its own vise, holding her still for his relentless, searching gaze. “As terrible as your Punishment was, that is not reason enough to have hidden it. Colin was surprised you hadn’t manipulated me with it—and initially I thought he meant the loss of your shifting ability these past sixteen years. But it was this Punishment he spoke of. Was I the cause of it?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You take it upon yourself too easily. I was the cause; the decision was mine to make. I knew the consequences of it.”

  “Of giving me to Michael,” he realized.

  “That and interfering with your execution. Had Mandeville lopped off your head you would be neither Guardian nor demon. I interfered with his will and had to be punished for it.”

  His lips thinned, and his hands fell to his sides, releasing her. But he did not move away, and she couldn’t mistake the tension in his long body. “Did you think I’d lament you’d ever saved me and sacrifice myself on a rack of overwhelming guilt?”

  “I’ll admit it had occurred to me.” Arching her eyebrows, she said, “You were Catholic once.”

  He stared at her for a frozen moment, then turned away. Almost immediately he glanced back at her, the corners of his mouth tilted into a reluctant smile, unraveling the hard little knot that had formed in her chest. “You disarm me without effort; you always have—and for that I once felt guilt. I thought myself far too susceptible to your humor, to sin and temptation.”

  “And to my tits.”

  “Yes.” His smile widened, and he gave her chest a cursory glance before meeting her eyes again. “And you do it again. You leave me defenseless, Lilith.”

  “If I can manipulate you with laughter and bend you to my will with sex, be certain that I’ll keep you permanently disarmed,” she said. “Because your defense is to fall down upon your sword.”

  His smile faded. “You think it is easy for me, that it is my first choice.”

  “I have seen you do it before,” she reminded him.

  The frustration in his voice echoed hers. “Aye, but if I were in the same position as I was then, I would not do it again.” Her surprise must have shown on her face, for he gave a hard, short laugh. “What were my reasons? Guilt, for encouraging you, challenging you, and not knowing a way to stop you? Piety? Duty? Those are the reasons of an idealistic fool, a youth who imagines himself a hero. There was no gain in the lie I told; not for the baron nor the countess, nor for you. You think that by telling me of your Punishment, I will feel obligated—because of guilt, because of duty—to die for you. Yet none of these reasons are mine now: not piety, not guilt, and certainly not obligation.”

  She bowed her head, her breaths coming in sharp pulls. “You are a fool to love me,” she said tightly. “I did not ask this of you—don’t want this from you.”

  “And yet you have it. You accepted me, knowing the type of man I am. Do you reject me now?”

  She should; for his sake, she should. But his carefully even tone—after anger, laughter, and frustration—alerted her to the pain and fear beneath the question better than a shout could have. She glanced up, and though his gaze was calm and steady, his shoulders slumped as if in defeat, his
body braced for a blow. And even did she say yes, she realized, he would not stop his efforts to save her; he would just do it alone.

  Wordlessly, she shook her head. His eyes closed, and he released the breath he’d been holding. A quick step forward, and he swept her up and spun her around in a circle, his laughter a deep rumble in his chest. “You will be the death of me, Lilith,” he said as he set her back down.

  She bit back her grin. “That’s not funny.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said, and caught her fist before she could hit him. He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, then to her lips.

  “Promise,” she said. “If I can’t stop you, then promise that it’ll be the last option, not the first.”

  “It will be the last, I promise you that.”

  This time she connected, and he laughed though it must have hurt him. She shook the stinging from her hand, and her heart clenched as she looked at him. His eyes bright blue with amusement; his beautiful, sculpted mouth; the strong, masculine line of his jaw and throat. And the rest of him: a warrior contained within that body, though little used for battle since his Fall. He’d not been able to deny his physicality, channeled it into different activities; he’d not been waiting to fight, but he’d been unable to resist what he was.

  What he always would be.

  Despite the mirth lingering at the corners of his eyes, the curve of his lips, his voice was solemn as he finally said, “I am here, Lilith.” He gestured to the table and the venom-soaked bolts, to Sir Pup. “If I thought my death was the only way to save you, I would have you tied to the bed at home and spend my last hours lost within you. Four days are not enough to make up for the eight hundred I was too foolish to take for my own, yet I would try.”

  She nodded slowly; she could be content with that, for now. After a glance at the clock, she said, “I saw a condom dispenser near the soda machine. We can make up for time now.”

  His gaze darkened, but he shook his head. “We need to practice; I haven’t used a sword in sixteen years, and you are still unaccustomed to your new levels of speed and strength.”

  She rolled her eyes, though he was right. The room was smaller than Smith’s office, but it would serve them well to test their skills within the tight confines, using the furniture as obstacles. “Sword,” she said, and grinned when he did the same. “And when you are satisfied, Professor—may I screw you after that?”

  “If we haven’t been tossed out for making noise, certainly.” He was quick; his blade flashed, and rang against hers. His smile was slow. “But as all of my students will tell you: I’m rarely satisfied.”

  Though she recognized his gambit—he intended to distract her—she could not stop the heat gathering within her, the moisture pooling low. She saved her breath for combat, or else she would have laughed: little did he know she was accustomed to fighting him with her body afire. Still, it took her longer than she’d anticipated. Cerberus’s balls, but he was clever with his weapon, even disadvantaged by his lesser strength and speed, even taking care not to hurt her.

  It seemed an eternity before she finally pinned him against the wall, her body pressed into his, her sword at his throat.

  Perspiration slid down the side of his neck, and she suddenly felt parched, desperate to sip from his golden skin. Her chest heaved against his, her nipples tight and aching beneath the thin cotton. His denim jeans were rough against her bare thighs, his arousal hard and hot against her lower abdomen. “Satisfied?”

  His hand fisted in her hair, and for a breathless moment she thought he would continue; he had several escape maneuvers from that angle: from his legs, from the leverage in that grip.

  And when his sword dropped to the floor, it was hardly surrender, but a challenge.

  “Not yet,” he said, lowering his lips to hers. And his mouth was a much more effective weapon; she held onto her sword, but within seconds she was disarmed. Defenseless.

  The screams had stopped—or he and Selah had clawed so far into the cave the sound no longer penetrated the thick walls. Too dark to see, but he could feel Selah’s terror. His had faded days before, replaced by resignation, numbness.

  “Try again,” he said.

  He hadn’t taken blood from her since they’d teleported here; he barely had the strength to lift his hand, to search her out. Her fingers touched his.

  And he knew she’d failed when she gave a shuddering sigh, let go his hand.

  She’d promised not to leave him and had kept it. He’d brought her to this place, where giant scaled creatures tore and ripped and clawed. Where bodies dangled from a ceiling of frozen flesh, all but their faces exposed to the dragons’ hungry jaws—but even without faces, they screamed. And screamed as their bodies regenerated and were eaten again.

  He could feel more creatures—smaller but just as deadly, just as hungry—moving in the darkness; it would not be long before he and Selah were found, and had to flee again. But he had no strength to flee this time. And he was tired—so tired.

  “Try without me,” Colin said.

  And when he reached out, she was gone.

  The security at the federal building was thorough, but they got through as easily as Lilith had predicted. A uniformed guard ran a metal detector over Hugh’s shoes, then turned and performed the same scan on Sir Pup’s harness. Hugh fumbled over the basket that held his keys and sunglasses, listening to the banter between Lilith and the guards as she went through the same routine. It was a short conversation, but revealing: she deliberately shoved many people away, such as Taylor and Preston—but for everyday, casual acquaintances, she allowed a friendly relationship instead of playing the bitch. He slipped on the sunglasses and studied her behind the cover of the darkened lenses.

  She spent most of her time away from San Francisco on assignments, away from Colin; had she cultivated any other friendships that weren’t false? Or had her existence been as solitary as his?

  They crossed the lobby together, just before five o’clock. The descending elevators were full, and most of the people headed out. She’d timed it well: late enough that the offices would be emptying, but before Beelzebub’s assistant would have gone for the day.

  “It’s unfortunate you can’t just kiss Smith and have the same effect on him as you do on me,” Lilith said as she punched the button for the thirteenth floor. Her shoulders were rigid, her form tense—too tense.

  Hugh slanted an amused glance down at Sir Pup. “Why is it that she’s so determined to put me in a sexual situation with another man?” He caught her look and raised a brow. “I’ll do it, if it makes you happy.”

  She pursed her lips. “Maybe when Colin returns.”

  “I wonder if his fangs—”

  She growled low in her throat. “You’ll touch no one’s fangs but mine,” she said, baring her teeth and returning her attention to the floor indicator.

  He laughed softly and saw an answering shake of her shoulders. Then the elevator stopped with a quiet ring of a bell, and calm settled over him. Always, that calm before a battle; it was familiar and welcome, as was the thrum of his blood, the subtle tightening of his muscles.

  Easy to fall into sync with her; he had fought her often and he knew her patterns. He made the rhythm of her stride his own, was as attentive to the cues of her body as he was the sights and sounds around them. The advantage of familiarity with the terrain and the people was hers; she took point, just slightly ahead of him. It must be strange for her to trust him at her back—to trust anyone—but she didn’t hesitate or glance over her shoulder to confirm he’d taken his position.

  She’d outlined the Bureau’s layout before they’d come; Beelzebub’s office was in the southwest corner of the building. Hugh quickly adjusted to the low-level noise of the office—telephones, chatter—and it faded into the background. Silence followed in her wake. Agents, casually leaning against desks, talking on phones, paused and watched her progress. More than once, Hugh saw someone begin to call to her, to express surprise or disbelief�
�or perhaps even to begin an inquiry—but stopping before making a sound.

  It was not just the forbidding expression on her face, he realized, but the result of years of distancing herself from them. She’d established no camaraderie—and they felt no real concern for her beyond the loyalty of brotherhood. She’d cultivated that distance, and now she used it to move undisturbed. A high price to pay for a smooth journey, and he could see her regret that it had cost so much. Had she ever regretted it before? Or only now, when she was on the verge of making the distance irreparable?

  Then she focused, and the regret dropped from her. The assistant’s area lay outside the main office; an enclosed room, a waiting area with chairs, but no door—and the desk manned by a demon. It shouldn’t have surprised him the assistant had taken the form of an elderly woman; Beelzebub would want his subordinate’s appearance to be weak. She wore a headset over her gray curls, and was speaking into a microphone and staring at a computer monitor as they entered. Hugh smiled. Starched and efficient, but too arrogant to give them more than a cursory glance. Her psychic probe told her they were human; they couldn’t be a threat. He wondered if she even bothered to scan the dog—probably not.

  Lilith stopped in front of the desk, and slipped her hands into her pockets. “Keep your hands on the desk and your weapons in your cache, or my hellhound will tear you apart,” she said quietly. “Is he alone?”

  The demon’s eyes widened with shock and confusion. Obviously, Beelzebub hadn’t told her about Lilith’s transformation. Her gaze slid past Lilith to Hugh and Sir Pup, and fear flashed over her features.

  “No,” she said.

  Hugh gave a tiny shake of his head. Lilith’s smile was cold and dangerous. “Run,” she said. “If you stop before the Gate, he’ll eat you.” The demon hesitated, and Lilith sighed. “Or he can do it here; I have nothing to lose.”