Demon Angel

by Meljean Brook

  But she had not lost him—they had not lost one another. For that, she would have borne any mark, any burden.

  He set the weight in the cradle—he was not finished, but it was the best opportunity for her attack.

  Lilith straddled him before he could start another set.

  He half-rose, but she pushed him back down. Kissed him until she felt the hard rise of his shaft beneath her. “I don’t want you to think.”

  “You are in the best place to accomplish that.” His hands settled on her hips, his thumbs began a lazy stroke of her inner thighs. And with that easy touch, she was disarmed. His eyes searched hers. “Did it not go as you’d planned?”

  She dipped her head, smiled. Her fingers traced the powerful line of his chest, swooped in to circle the flat bronze nipples. “Bradshaw told them a story about my apartment being used as storage for a theft ring; that somehow the thieves had known it lay empty most of the time.”

  He grimaced. “That’s awful.”

  “Terrible,” she agreed, laughing. “He’ll become more creative with practice.” His abdomen rippled with muscle; she trailed her fingers over the defined ridges.

  “An evil twin is not all that creative.”

  She pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes. “You couldn’t have come up with better, given what I had to work with.” And Moloch’s transformation just before she’d killed him had been the most incredible luck—a miracle, if she’d been inclined to believe in them. “And the media started the ‘evil twin’ nonsense, not me.”

  Rising up, she slid her hand beneath his waistband, gripped him firmly. His breathing changed, deepened, and he watched her with a half-lidded stare. “The university called,” he said. “They will renew my contract in the fall.”

  Her stomach clenched. Would he accept that offer? Or would he hers? Silk and steel and heat against her palm, and she began a long, slow stroke. “I am no longer with the Bureau.”

  And now his hands, deliciously rough against her skin. Sliding down, finding her hot and moist. “Tell me, Lily,” he said.

  She bit her lip, her head falling back as he pushed inside, his thumb working over her clit. “I don’t want you to think,” she gasped, laughing.

  He sat up. Lifted her in an easy movement, his arms beneath her thighs, holding her open over his hips. The cool wall against her back. His mouth warm on hers. His cock slid through her wet folds, but he did not enter.

  “Tell me, Lily,” he said against her ear. Rocked against her.

  How could she be so open, so vulnerable—so needy—yet still so strong? Safety in this.

  He bent and his mouth closed over her nipple, pulling and biting at the taut peak.

  “There are rogues—hundreds that fled before the Gates closed. And if Belial overthrows Lucifer, he won’t be bound by the wager to keep them closed. Vampires. A few nosferatu that didn’t join with Lucifer.”

  “And evil twins.” She heard the smile in his voice as he moved to her other breast. “Shall we become demon slayers, traveling the country?”

  “I want you to teach.” And moaned as he nudged inside her.

  Hugh paused, brought his face back up to hers. “That’s unfortunate, because I told them I would not be returning.” Her back arched as he sank into her; she writhed, trying to push down, take him all the way in, but he held her fast. “I’ve been offered another position.”

  She drew a breath. “Damn him—Michael!” The name came out as a scream as he suddenly thrust deep.

  He shook with laughter.

  “That is not what I expected to hear,” he said.

  Her hands gripped his shoulders; if he denied her legs movement, she would use him for leverage. “Don’t stop,” she panted.

  “Oh, God, Lily.” He buried his face in her neck, lifted her higher. Began pistoning into her with long, smooth strokes. “You know I can’t.”

  “Can’t teach them?” No, no—she needed him with her, needed—

  “Stop.”

  “Good,” she laughed breathlessly. Much better.

  He flattened his palms against the wall, held her weight on his forearms. So strong. “You don’t have to convince me,” he said, working against her, into her with each thick slide.

  That it was good? Her heartbeat thudded in her ears. “I can’t think.”

  “Good,” he said, and then she lost every thought. Only felt.

  “You cheated.” She tried to glare at him over the top of her glass, but only succeeded in grinning. She sat a little deeper into the sofa, watched as Hugh pulled the cork out of the bottle with a slight pop. Sir Pup glanced up from beside the bookcase, then lazily lay his heads down again when he saw there was no food to be had.

  Hugh laughed, topped off her wine, and propped his feet up on the ottoman. “Michael came to see me earlier today, but he apparently didn’t tell you he’d already spoken to me when he made the same offer to you. Said that he’d managed to convince a few officials in Washington that they might need to fund a new division.”

  “Did he do the warrior-angel thing again?” Lilith rolled her eyes.

  “I imagine so,” he said. His eyes shone bright blue with humor. “Although he said Congressman Stafford also pushed for it.”

  She shook her head, still disbelieving that Rael had gone rogue, choosing to stay on Earth rather than fight with Belial. “Michael just wants you mentoring them, he doesn’t care how it happens. And I think he wants to keep an eye on me.” She laughed. “Exactly what I need, another father figure.”

  His gaze held hers. “What do you want?”

  “I’ll be directing operations: overseeing, then spinning the story.” She shrugged. “It’s the perfect job for me: I boss people and alienate them, I lie, and I kick ass. And I thought I’d pull some vampires in, if I can recruit them.” Her bare feet slid over his. “You’d be training them, the fledglings and the human agents, and helping with operations. I’d need you there; I’d be an imbecile to waste you on rookies. But mostly I want to spend the next hundred years working beside you, and then come home with you every night.”

  He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to her lips. “I want that, too.” He glanced up at the clock, and his eyes darkened. “I have something for you.”

  A thud and clatter behind them; she spun around on instinct. Michael stood for a moment, watching them with his obsidian gaze. His eyes lowered to her midsection, narrowed. His expression was grim when he raised his eyes to hers.

  “You are barren. I cannot heal it.”

  She stared at him a moment, then shook her head and burst into laughter. “Good, because we are completely out of condoms.” When he frowned, she said, “Idiot, just because we are settling down you think we want a kid? We already have Colin.”

  Hugh choked on his laugh. “Sir Pup. Savi.”

  “We are doomed,” Michael said and disappeared.

  “That’s probably what he said in D.C.,” she said, examining the huge paper-covered frame he’d left behind, leaning against the wall: ten feet wide, seven feet high. “Do you think he’s still furious about the sword?”

  “Probably.” Hugh clasped her hand in his, pulled her around the sofa. “Colin painted this for you.”

  He reached up, tore part of the paper away.

  “Oh,” she said, and everything inside of her softened. The sky in Caelum was the same color. It blurred in front of her, and she turned away from it—found its original.

  He slid his arms around her, enveloped her in his touch. A kiss, that was love and promise.

  And it was kindness—more than kindness—to a woman such as her.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at Meljean Brook’s next paranormal romance,

  DEMON MOON

  Available in June 2007 from Berkley Sensation!

  Colin rested his hand against the small of Savitri’s back as he guided her past a long line of clubbers. As an act of courtesy, it proved a masochistic one; beneath his palm, the gentle curve of her spine moved in rhythm with he
r steps, with the beat of the music from inside. Matched the need throbbing within him.

  He ground his teeth together, urged her forward a little more quickly. How could he be so desperate to feed? He’d taken enough for two days from the last blonde alone.

  “It was popular before, but not like this,” Savitri murmured.

  Colin glanced at the queue; mostly human, but a few vampires waited as well. A growl rose unbidden in his throat. He didn’t want her here; he didn’t want to be here—yet he’d been unable to refuse her request.

  And she hadn’t even flattered him.

  His gaze dropped to her neck; her short hair left it deliciously exposed. He should mark her as his. Protect her from the vampires here and the others inside. Inhale her, drink her, sink into her—

  He swallowed thickly and forced the territorial hunger aside. What he wanted to do to her could not be considered protection.

  “It’s morbid fascination,” he finally replied.

  She sighed, and her lashes swept down against her cheeks. The investigators—and the press—had linked Polidori’s to last year’s ritual murders; burning it had been determined a cult’s symbolic way of beginning its quest for immortality.

  All lies, of course; Colin had helped fabricate them. But the story had entertained the public for months, and many of the people standing outside had only come because of the club’s connection with death. Her friends’ deaths.

  “And I spent a sordid amount of money on it,” he added. “I can’t fault them for recognizing my unparalleled taste, and flocking here to revel in it.”

  Her lips curved into a smile, and she slanted a glance up at him. “Was it truly that much? Lilith claims you are the cheapest bastard she’s ever known.”

  Pleased with himself for turning her thoughts from her grief, he said, “Agent Milton has a demon’s tongue. I am not cheap, my sweet Savitri. I’ve an eternal retirement; I budget wisely.”

  Her throaty laughter pulled at already tight nerves along his skin. Her hip bumped against his leg as they rounded the corner to the entrance; her fragrance wafted around her. In her heels, she stood only a few inches shorter than he. So easy just to bend and press his mouth against . . .

  He dropped his hand from her waist, clenched it into a fist. This was bloody ridiculous. A fruity perfume, and he had as much control as an adolescent pulling himself off on his sheets.

  A huge vampire guarded the entrance and ran the guest list; he towered over Colin by his bald head, outweighed him by half. His muscles bulged through the tight black T-shirt. An intimidating presence, and one most vampires respected; but then, they were often fooled by appearances. Colin had deliberately chosen him for his resemblance in size and baldness to the nosferatu—but though the vampire was strong, Colin could have torn him in two with little effort. It was one of the advantages of Colin’s transformation with nosferatu blood, instead of an exchange with another vampire.

  And the taint Michael’s sword had left in his blood had generated the other differences.

  The bouncer’s eyes widened—Colin usually didn’t use the front entrance—and he quickly unhooked the velvet rope. “Mr. Ames-Beaumont.”

  The urge to dash inside, to find the nearest willing body and glut was almost overwhelming. “Mr. Varney, this is Miss Savitri Murray. She should be on the short list.”

  Her chin tilted up, her gaze leveled on Varney’s features. It was difficult to tell human from vampire, but Castleford would have taught her to recognize the signs: the careful placement of the lips during speech; the slight perspiration in heated rooms or warm nights; abnormal respiration and reflexes. “What’s the short list?”

  “Full access, miss, including Mr. Ames-Beaumont’s personal suite. No charge.” There was more, but Varney didn’t mention that any vampire who tried to drink from someone on that list would receive a visit from Colin. It hadn’t happened yet; there were very few people this side of the Atlantic to whom he’d give anything for free, and Lilith and Castleford were the only other names listed.

  A vampire would have to be a blithering idiot to attack them.

  “Except for tonight.” Colin led her forward, and descended the stairs. “You’ll pay the cover and for your drinks.” An auburn-haired beauty was going up; she glanced at him, then froze with her foot in the air and watched as he passed. “Do you know the Guardians’ sign language?”

  “No,” Savi said, and looked back over her shoulder. “I hope she doesn’t fall.”

  He suppressed his laughter with difficulty, and said in Hindi, “I’ll walk with you to the bar; then I must leave you alone for a few minutes. Because you came in with me, you’ll be a curiosity to the vampires inside. They may approach you. Don’t ask them questions, don’t talk to them.”

  “Why? Isn’t the point of all this that I’m seen?”

  “You’ll be seen, sweet Savitri.” But he didn’t want them to have any more of her than that.

  And hopefully, once he’d fed, his need for more would also fade.

  It was inelegant, perhaps even ill-mannered, but Savi eschewed the straw and gulped straight from the glass. Lime and salt, sour and sweet. And cold—she couldn’t get enough of it.

  Delayed reaction from the flight? Her breath fogged the inside of the tumbler. Heat from the mass of bodies?

  Perhaps he’d been too stingy to pay for air conditioners.

  She fished out a cube of ice, sucked it into her mouth. The bartender glanced at her. Another vampire. Colin had been right; they’d all watched as he’d taken her hand and led her through the club. As he’d dropped a quick kiss onto her forehead.

  Like a little girl. A little sister. She’d known what it was: a display of protection. Because Hugh had saved Colin’s sister, the vampire felt obligated to guard Hugh’s adopted sister in return. She should have been grateful. Perhaps she would have, if she didn’t feel so restless, as if she’d suddenly been caged.

  It was a familiar feeling, but it usually didn’t make her angry.

  She crushed the ice between her teeth. Why was it so fucking hot in here?

  She lifted her hand and gestured for another, asked for a water to accompany it. The wounds on her palm had almost completely healed over; only a lingering stiffness remained. She examined the thin pink lines on her fingers. The blood sped healing—is that what allowed them immortality? Accelerated regeneration or cell replication, with no degradation over time?

  But wouldn’t their hair grow more quickly if it was replication? Did it simply keep existing cells in perfect repair, not speed the manufacture of new ones?

  Why did it only heal humans when applied topically, or through a transfusion? And why was it safe? A transfusion would temporarily give a human some strength and healing ability, but it didn’t last. Only through ingestion was there a danger—blessing?—of transformation.

  Was it the act of taking it in and the choice to drink that provided the power, or the blood itself? Before Michael could transform a human to a Guardian, the human had to agree to the change; she’d heard the same was true of a vampire—the transformation didn’t take well if it wasn’t voluntary. Could blood recognize choice and free will?

  The bloodlust supposedly did—except for the free will of the vampire it controlled.

  She felt Colin before she saw him; he stood next to her, leaning gracefully against the bar. His expression was unreadable, his gaze hooded. Even in the dim lighting, she could see the slight flush on his skin.

  She’d seen it before.

  Lifting her glass, she took another long drink. Licked the salt from the rim, from her lips, and forced a bright smile. “The redhead on the stairs?”

  His mouth tightened, but he gave a slow nod.

  She arched a brow. “You must lose a lot of clients if the ones you feed from leave bleeding.”

  “She wasn’t. And I don’t often feed here; I prefer the hunt. Pursuit offers a challenge.” He looked away from her toward the dance floor, his mouth pulled down in a grima
ce of distaste. “When it is readily available, it is merely scavenging.”

  Her chest squeezed painfully. She’d not only been available; she’d thrown herself at him. “So the aristocrat surveys the unwashed masses, and finds them lacking,” she murmured.

  And she was just a brown little girl.

  “They have their use during revolutions, but there is no rebellion here. Only a mess of conformity.” His gaze met hers again. “But I do not care if they bathe, Savitri, as long as they bleed.”

  The glass was slick with condensation; she wiped her palm across her forehead, hoping to ease the heat with cold and wet. “I thought, because of—” She paused, switched to Hindi. He probably didn’t want anyone to overhear that he couldn’t create other vampires. Surely his impotency embarrassed someone like him, and she wouldn’t prick his vanity again. “Because of your incapability, that you couldn’t heal me. I was wrong.”

  He contained his emotions too well to interpret his response. “Yes. You also believed Castleford when he confirmed your assumption that I was gay.”

  It had been easier; a woman had little defense against a face like that—except to believe it couldn’t be hers. But she’d been mistaken in that, too. Gloriously mistaken, until it had turned into something . . . painful.

  “Did she tell you what you wanted to hear?”

  A mocking smile. “She screamed it.”

  She nodded, drained her glass. “I’m going to go dance.” Sweat out some of the heat boiling within her. Feel someone’s touch on her skin.

  Anyone’s but his.

  She’d known better.

  Before her family had been destroyed by a few bullets, Savi had been surrounded by stories—her mother had loved them. Both surgeons, her parents had limited time dedicated to Savi and her brother. But in those rare evenings when her mother had been home, fairy tales and fables had been standard bedtime fare.

  The music drowned out the voices of the men dancing with her, but she could still hear her mother’s voice clearly—one of the advantages of a memory like hers.