Michael’s face did not soften. “I was almost too late.”
“You always are,” she said and took a deep breath. A Guardian had no obligation to save a hellhound. “I owe you.”
“No,” Hugh said. She tilted her head back. His eyes were cold, his mouth hard. “You don’t.” He waited for a moment, his gaze holding hers; then he looked up at Michael. “Take her to Caelum. Keep her safe there until the time for Lucifer’s wager has passed.”
Hugh did not include himself; he probably intended to stay and fight the nosferatu. She could—would—change his mind. At least he was trying to find options other than self-sacrifice. But the brief hope that filled her was destroyed by Michael’s reply.
“I can’t.”
Hugh’s body trembled behind her; she reached back, lay her hand on his hip. “You won’t. Naught forbids you from taking humans but custom. You protect Savi there; you can protect Lilith.”
“You know I speak the truth: I can’t,” Michael said softly, and then he was in front of her. A blade flashed, and her shirt parted down the front. “He left his mark. She cannot traverse the Gates, and I cannot take her to Caelum; her anchor is in Hell. And unlike Colin’s, it is etched so deeply I cannot overwrite it by force of my will.” He stared down at the symbol between her breasts, his jaw set, his bronze skin drawn tight with anger.
Stricken, Lilith placed her hand over her name. Lucifer had left it deliberately then, to prevent her from escaping to Caelum. “Can you remove it?”
“Yes,” he said. “But the price may be more than you are willing to pay.”
Sweat ran in rivers over his face. His arms and chest burned, but he couldn’t stop lifting. From the living room, he heard occasional bursts of laughter from Colin and Lilith. A note of strain beneath it; neither the vampire nor she felt like laughing, yet they did. God, but he wanted to be with her, but his pain might force a decision from her that he prayed she would not make.
Did Michael remove the symbol, it would erase all that she’d gained since she’d become a demon. The lingering power and speed—but also the knowledge and memories from the past two thousand years. She would be a normal human woman, alive—lost in a modern world, but that would not signify if she lived in Caelum. And though Hugh had no doubt the woman she’d been had many of the same traits, same strengths . . . she would not be Lilith.
She would not know him, nor love him. The ache deep within his chest spread, burning into his gut.
He couldn’t protect her from the nosferatu. Nor could Sir Pup or Michael—not every moment. And Lucifer would never let up; it would be too humiliating if a human got the better of him. Eventually, there would be a mistake made, and they would take her.
But she would be safe in Caelum. Her bargain with Lucifer would still be in effect, but without her having knowledge of it. And when Hugh eventually ended his life—it wouldn’t matter when, tomorrow or in a hundred years—it would be for her. She would be the cause, and it would fulfill the terms. Her soul would be safe, and she would not be pained by losing him as she would now.
She would never know he’d existed. And he would stay away from her, to save her from ever knowing.
It was the best option for her. She would have Caelum, as she’d once dreamed—Beelzebub had not been lying in that. And when she eventually died—five decades, six?—she would not be frozen in Hell.
And perhaps, one day, did they destroy the nosferatu . . .
He forced away that thought. Even did the Guardians slay all, even did Michael allow him to visit Caelum, Hugh would still have to fulfill the bargain. If she loved him, it would hurt her when he finally did. And there was no guarantee that she would love him again; would it not be worse torment to see her, but not have her?
Nay. Her death would be the worst torment.
Michael appeared beside him, clamped his hand over the bar. Destroying yourself in this way will not help her, he signed with his other hand. The weights slammed into the cradle, and the bench shuddered beneath Hugh’s back. No use fighting against the Doyen; the outcome would be laughable.
He sat up, bowed his head. Looked at his hands, his chest. “Where are ours?” Perhaps if he cut his out, it would not hurt as much. But, no, he had to remember. If he did not, he could not fulfill the bargain.
Michael eyed him silently for a moment. “The ritual is a false transformation. The effect is similar, but the method is different. The symbols are there, Hugh—but they are written on every cell, every particle of your being. And the longer they stand, the more they become your own. I can erase the depth of them when you Fall, but I cannot erase the whole without destroying you. I can leave a part of her, but there would be none left of you.”
It did not matter; he could not be that boy again—he did not want to be him. He would carry Lilith with him, even did she exist nowhere else . . .
He rubbed his forehead with trembling fingers, then stood, and walked to his desk. In the bottom drawer was a thick sheaf of paper, and he picked it up. “Will you take the book, put it in the library?” A grim smile touched his mouth. Perhaps she would run across it, wonder at its author and subject. “It is not a Scroll and is missing much of her story, but I would be grateful.”
Michael nodded, and it vanished from Hugh’s hands. “Will you fill in the rest?”
“If I live long enough,” he said, and ran his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “I wanted to be angry at you for failing to tell me that she was a halfling—but I cannot. I should have seen; I knew how to look.”
“You saw what was important.” Michael hesitated, then said, “There are parts you don’t know, and failings for which I’m culpable.”
“Carthage? I know of it. Lilith said there were no other Guardians, and Selah mentioned that you created the corps after that failure.”
Surprise flickered in Michael’s eyes, and he shook his head, a reluctant smile pulling at his mouth. “Lilith was the last halfling made, but all those before had been . . . not worth saving. Each as inhuman as demons in their own way. And she was no innocent, but not a monster. Lucifer had become too bold, so I recreated the corps.”
Hugh’s brows drew together. Recreated? Had there been an Ascension, as widespread as the latest? “There is no mention of an earlier corps in the Scrolls, nor do any Scrolls predate the Latin.” No surprise the Scrolls were in Latin if they’d been written after Lilith’s transformation; it would have been the language most common to those in the corps after that time.
The Doyen’s mouth flattened. “I destroyed them.”
The former, older Scrolls or the Guardians? But Hugh knew him well enough to see that he would not speak of it anymore. Nor could he speak about the wager. “Savi?”
Michael gave a short nod. “Well. The nosferatu who followed you were searching for her. It won’t be long before they realize she is out of their reach.”
He did not need to say the rest. Nosferatu would not easily change their plans, but once it became apparent using Savi had become impossible, they would try to use others to force Hugh to submit to the ritual: Lilith, most likely—but if not her, his students.
How well could Lucifer control them? According to the wager, he could not instigate another kidnapping or ritual, but if the nosferatu became impatient and acted without Lucifer’s consent...
Hugh shook his head and turned away.
Steam filled the small room. Lilith quietly closed the door, began slipping out of her clothes. The outline of Hugh’s body wavered behind the frosted glass; his hand was braced against the shower wall, his head bowed beneath the spray.
She stepped inside, and he turned toward her, gave a halfhearted smile. “Are you here to tempt me?”
“No.” She ran her hands over his shoulders, and she kissed him. His lips were salty; she drew back, studied him. Not all of the moisture on his face was from the shower. “I’m keeping the symbol,” she said.
His eyes searched hers; his muscles were rigid beneath her fingers. “Did y
ou hear my conversation with Michael?”
“Colin did; he told me.” And she knew he could have signed, kept it private—but he’d wanted her to hear, wanted to remind her that if she had decided to remove the mark, there would still be some version of Lilith in existence. Wanted her to hear that the woman she had been was reason enough for Michael to reestablish the Guardian corps.
“You would be safe. You would be free.”
She shrugged. “Safety and freedom would mean nothing to the woman I was.” She dipped her head, caught the stream of water sliding across the hollow of his throat with her tongue. “And I know it would not stop you from sacrificing yourself.”
“Lilith—”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know. But we have two more days; another option might present itself.”
But there were not many left.
CHAPTER 36
Hugh woke just after dawn; she watched him leave the bed and gather his clothes from the closet. He murmured something to Sir Pup, and the hellhound gave a short bark of agreement. A run, then. She closed her eyes against the heaviness in her throat, her chest. An idea must have occurred to him, and he was working it through, teasing out the threads, examining the weave of it.
Unable to fall back asleep, she slipped into one of his shirts and padded barefoot down the hall. Colin sat on the sofa, watching spellbound as a woman chopped and sautéed on the television. Lilith rolled her eyes and continued through to the kitchen.
She poured a glass of orange juice and returned to the living room to look him over. “Did you hunt?”
“Why?” His fangs flashed when he grinned. “Are you afraid I’ll eat you now that you’re human?”
“Your clothes,” she said, nodding toward the silk trousers, the tailored shirt. “Did you attack some unsuspecting fool and leave him naked?”
“I’d hoped you’d be afraid.” He sighed dramatically. “As for the clothes, I’m a most beloved client at Wilkes Bashford. They delivered.”
She stole a glance at the clock, and shook her head in disbelief. He complained about the price of dog food, and then paid unimaginable amounts for clothing. “Did you take a sip from the delivery boy?”
“And the housewife across the street.” He paused. “Everyone in the neighborhood may be anemic by the time this is sorted out.”
It might be sorted out sooner than Colin thought. The juice was tart and cold over her tongue, but she hardly tasted it. What was Hugh planning?
The silence stretched between them. Colin studied her features, and she wasn’t certain what he saw there. Waiting became a physical ache; every passing moment seemed to unravel into an eternity. She searched for something to fill it.
“Are the reporters still outside?”
“No, unfortunately; I’d have liked a bite of the Channel Five correspondent. She’s starred in my eleven o’clock news fantasies for years.”
Hard to muster a smile, though she tried. “Did Selah return?”
The humor in Colin’s eyes dimmed. “Yes. She’s out with Hugh. Michael’s still here, using the computer in the upstairs apartment.”
Her brows rose, but he lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug.
“I can’t make sense of it, either.”
She nodded slowly. Michael must be in contact with someone—Bradshaw, perhaps. As difficult a time as she had imagining Michael typing, at least he wasn’t using smoke signals or Morse code.
He must have heard them; moments later, he walked into the living room. No toga or giant black wings, simply a loose white tunic and cotton pants. No display of power in that appearance, and she wanted to curse at him for it. Perhaps if he had made a better showing of strength, Hugh would not take this all upon himself.
He met her gaze, his features without expression. “They are returning.”
“You can stop him,” she said without thought and was horrified when tears sprang into her eyes, as if the words had released a terrible pressure within her.
His visage blurred, but his words rang clear. “I cannot.”
Footsteps at the back door; she drew in great breaths, but though her chest filled and filled it seemed she could get no air. “Please,” she whispered. “You know what I will do. You know what I am.”
Michael shook his head. “So does he.”
She turned. Hugh. God, but he was beautiful. And he did not look away from her, though he should have.
“I will submit to the ritual,” he said quietly.
The glass slipped from her fingers, vanished before it hit the floor. She did not notice; her focus narrowed down to Hugh.
“No.” A strong denial, but it would not be enough.
His jaw clenched, and he continued, “It is not just for you, Lilith. Eventually, they will use my students against me, Savi—even Colin. Or innocents that I don’t know; it does not matter.” He swallowed, and signed, I can destroy the nosferatu.
“Let the Guardians kill them; that is why they were created.”
There aren’t enough of them. There are very few left.
She shouldn’t care; she shouldn’t be startled. “You are not a Guardian.”
They drink the blood in unison. If we replace my blood with Colin’s, they won’t discover it until it is too late. It will be an anchor; Michael and Selah can transport them to Chaos, though they think it will be Caelum. If Colin performs the ritual, he can change the symbols so that the resonance follows the blood, doubling the effect.
She squeezed her eyes shut. It was a good plan. “You could be healed.”
Silence followed her statement, and she shook her head in denial.
“No, Lilith.” His voice thickened. “It will use too much blood; I couldn’t survive it. Michael can heal tissue, but he can’t create blood that is not there.” And Caelum would be saved, for Lucifer would have lost the wager—you would not do it personally. The five hundred years can be used to rebuild the corps.
“No,” she said.
“It must be done anyway, Lilith. It fulfills your bargain—and the sooner it is done, the better. I would wait a hundred years, but even do we survive the nosferatu, there is no guarantee you would not have an accident. A car, the motorcycle. A stray bullet. If you died before me, your soul would be lost.”
All would be saved but Hugh. She bowed her head.
“My name and my life are worthless,” she said, and couldn’t stop the tears from spilling. “But I would give them for you, do you not do this. I would give my soul for you to live.”
She did not hear him move. He lifted her chin with gentle fingers, stared in wonder at her tears. “That is why I cannot let you. I would be worth nothing did I take a few days—a few years—in exchange for it.”
Worth nothing. Only a week ago, she had stood across from him and reached into his mind, and found that fear lurking: worth nothing. A fear that did not have to be based in truth for it to be worked upon, for it to fester.
For it to break him.
The mark weighed heavy on her chest. She did not want to be this—but she could not let him die, and she did not know how else to save him.
“And so despite your claim that you are not a hero, you’ll try to be one. Like the foolish boy you said you were.” Mockery in her voice. A tone could lie, but more important her words did not—and she said them quickly, so that he had no time to consider nuances and words left unsaid. Made them painful, so that his emotional turmoil would cloud his reading. “You will try to do what is best for the most. Do you think you are a king, your sacrifice worth that much? You are not a king; you are not even a knight, stripped of your rank.”
“I remember,” he said harshly.
He was close; her hands were between them, beneath his line of sight. He would not see her fingers moving.
“What are you? You think to defeat those who once were angels? You are a man, a common man, saved by the lowest kind of demon. Never meant to walk among the angels.” They had run from Earth, and you never run from anything. “You
could never be compared to them.” Your worth is infinitely more. “And you cannot save me this way.” It will destroy me. “You are worth nothing.” To them, but not to me. You are everything to me.
His features were absolutely still. “This is truth? You believe this?”
“Yes.”
His eyes closed, and a sob rose in her throat when he opened them again; she’d seen this before. They glittered like blue ice. Not Caelum there, but the tormented faces Below—just as when he’d slain her, given her freedom.
She’d thought then it was a reflection of her Hell, but it was his.
His—and she was its cause.
“I will not be worth grieving then.” His hand dropped from her face, and he turned away.
She stared after him; his broad shoulders were squared against her words. It was like being ripped in two, to cause him this much pain and know it had been for nothing. No, he did not break; but she would—
He stopped, thrust his hands in his pockets. He did not turn to look at her. “I can accept that you will always be Lilith, will always be the demon.” A visible tremor shook him, and she pressed her fist to her teeth to hold in her explanation, her denial. I don’t know how to save you. A demon knew nothing of saving, only lying and deception. “I do not understand why you still serve.”
Roaring in her ears as he left the room. Blood in her mouth.
“Is this what you wanted, Lilith? Are you proud of what you’ve done?”
She did not know if Michael spoke, or if it was an echo of her last failure. But the answer—the true one—was the same.
No.
He was not there to hold her this time.
The tile floor was cold beneath her legs; she couldn’t stop shivering, though the window was open and the breeze warm. Her knuckles no longer bled, but she could still taste it.
No. She closed her eyes. Honesty with herself, at least—it was not the blood that had made her sick.
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