Demon Marked

by Meljean Brook

  “I obviously shouldn’t have,” Ash said. The passport had seemed to legitimize the other items. He hadn’t faked or stolen that. “Why give me the identification?”

  “You needed the passport to board the flight. It was necessary. I’d never have given you anything of Rachel’s for any other reason.”

  That didn’t surprise her. She wondered, “So you do have more of her things?”

  “Yes.” He lifted his computer again and focused on the screen, effectively dismissing her. “But they’re not for you to ever touch.”

  Because he’d cared for Rachel and hated demons, Nicholas would apparently break human laws while seeking his revenge . . . or just to play a game on a demon who’d lost her memory.

  Well, now. Ash’s smile widened. That was so much more interesting than guilt.

  CHAPTER 4

  Nicholas ignored her for the remainder of the flight, but Ash didn’t mind. She passed the time watching the attendants; one of them hated the other two, yet spent hours pretending that she didn’t. Why the hatred? Ash didn’t care enough to ask. Simply observing the attendant proved to be an intriguing study: The woman concealed her feelings, yet so desperately wanted the others to know how she felt.

  The others weren’t completely blind to it. Unease and uncertainty coated Ash’s tongue in their vinegary flavors when a smile became too brittle, a laugh sounded too shrill, or a gesture appeared too abrupt.

  Yet each time, the other attendants shrugged their unease away. Why? Didn’t they trust their perception? Or was it just simpler to pretend they didn’t notice?

  Whatever their reasons, people were endlessly fascinating, Ash decided. And the man across her probably only seemed all the more fascinating because she couldn’t read him as easily. Perhaps, unlike humans, demons didn’t like everything to be simple.

  Perhaps it was only Ash who didn’t.

  She turned her attention to Nicholas again, trying to sense beyond his emotional barriers. Did he have to consciously maintain those after erecting them? She waited, but they held strong—only cracking once, when the plane shook through a spat of turbulence.

  Even then, she barely sensed anything from him other than mild surprise, followed by expectation. No fear. No dread. He only met her eyes and said, “If it’s Rosalia, I hope that you’ll catch me.”

  Rosalia, the woman he’d spoken to on the phone earlier—the one he’d called a Guardian. Did he truly think she’d attack a plane, or was he playing with the amnesiac demon again?

  Ash decided that he was jerking her chain when he told her, “Or it could be a dragon.”

  Sure. Ash gave him a disbelieving look. He smiled that unpleasant little smile and resumed his work. By the time one of the flight attendants came over to assure them that the turbulence would pass soon, the cracks in his emotional barriers had closed again.

  But the cracks had been there. His expectation had been real. And he had said something about demons having wings. Guardians might, too.

  Did Ash have wings? She hoped so.

  Ash didn’t know if she’d bother to catch Nicholas St. Croix, though.

  Fortunately for him, he never needed her to. The plane landed without incident in New York shortly afterward. Ash pretended to be Rachel through customs, where, despite the story she’d prepared in anticipation of questions about Rachel’s disappearance, the officer spent more time reminding Ash to update her passport photo to include her tattoos than asking about the years she’d spent in England. After they verified her status as a U.S. citizen, she followed Nicholas to their waiting rental, a black luxury SUV.

  Outside the terminal, the air hit Ash with an icy blast to her face, far colder than London had been. She gritted her teeth and shoved her hands into her pockets, only to yank them out again when Nicholas tossed the SUV’s key fob at her. She caught it and stared at him over the hood of the vehicle.

  He moved to the passenger door. “You know how to drive?”

  “Yes,” she responded automatically. But did she know how to?

  She supposed they’d soon find out. He got in, and after she climbed into the driver’s side—yes, all the controls and pedals felt familiar—he reclined his seat and closed his eyes.

  “You don’t need sleep. I do. So you drive.”

  So he knew Ash didn’t need sleep. How much more did he know but hadn’t yet told her? Maybe she’d catch him, after all.

  And she had to admit, he did look tired. Nicholas St. Croix couldn’t conceal everything he felt. Shadows darkened his eyes and stubble roughened his jaw. Though it was only just past midnight in New York, given the time change, he’d essentially remained awake until dawn.

  “All right.” Ash turned the key. With a few beeps and chimes, the dashboard computer started up.

  The screen had a map. She didn’t know how to use that.

  “Where do I go?”

  “West on Interstate 80, then north to Minnesota. We’ll stop in Duluth before we head up to her parents’ house.”

  It would take a full day to drive that distance. “Why not just fly there?”

  Nicholas opened his eyes and scanned her expression, as if to determine whether she was serious. He must have realized she was. Tiredly, he scrubbed his hand over his face and closed his eyes again.

  “Why not just e-mail our destination to the Guardians and save them the trouble of trying to find us?”

  Ah, yes. The Guardians. He hadn’t had time to tell her about them before, but they had twelve hundred miles to kill now—and a tired man could still talk.

  She checked traffic and pulled out into the lane. “So who are the Guardians?”

  “Warriors with angelic powers. They were all human once, but they were transformed after sacrificing themselves to save someone else. I don’t know the full story—I just know what matters: Guardians kill demons.”

  Oh, fun. They sounded almost as likable as Nicholas. “I can’t wait to meet one,” Ash said dryly.

  A low, rough sound made her glance over. Was that a laugh? She hoped he hadn’t hurt himself.

  He caught her look. The laugh receded into a wry nod of acknowledgment. “I’m tired.”

  “I’ll remember that exhaustion makes you more vulnerable.” Just like a good demon would, surely. “So, Guardians kill demons. Why?”

  “Because you’re determined to destroy everything human.”

  Ash shook her head. “But I’m not. I don’t recognize anything of myself in that description.”

  “Your memory—”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. I don’t remember learning to drive, either. But some things feel familiar—and destroying humanity doesn’t.”

  He rubbed his face again. “Look. This is what I know: Demons are evil. You were angels, but you rebelled, went to war in Heaven, and got your heads smashed in by the good angels. After that, you were transformed into demons and thrown into Hell. Now you all fuck with human souls, trying to damn us to the Pit, and follow Lucifer.”

  Lucifer.

  Memory surfaced, hot and sharp as a blade. A dark figure. Raging pain. I name you Ash—

  Then he’d ripped her apart. Lucifer had ripped her apart.

  Terror closed her throat. She remembered that. His horrible voice. Ah, God, she could almost hear it now. Shredding everything she was, everything she’d been.

  A scream clawed inside her chest. She bit it back, suppressing the tremors, her hands clenching on the steering wheel.

  “Does it sound more familiar now?”

  Nicholas’s voice dragged her out of the memory. She glanced over and found him watching her, his eyes tired, but just as sharp.

  Ash struggled for breath to reply. It took several tries. Finally, she admitted, “A little.”

  The Special Investigations warehouse in San Francisco housed their official law enforcement offices and less-official novice training quarters. Though Guardians could travel directly from Caelum using a Gate that led into the hall near the gymnasium, most of them avoi
ded it—which was probably why Rosalia hadn’t used it, either. The Gate had been created after a Guardian had sacrificed herself to save one of the novices a year ago; her death was too fresh for most of the Guardians here, and using the Gate seemed to trample on her memory.

  Fortunately, Michael still allowed Taylor to teleport to Special Investigations—and if not for Michael, she’d have likely been living at the warehouse full-time, along with the other novices. Taylor could fight, she could shoot, but her skills were nothing against the abilities and speed of a demon . . . until Michael took over.

  As frustrating as that was, Taylor had to be grateful for it, too. She’d have gone mad, cooped up in the warehouse instead of working in the field. Most Guardians had trained for a hundred years before they’d been allowed to fight a demon. Now, because they were so strapped for manpower, a Guardian might start working after only four or five decades of training, but that was still too long to wait.

  So Taylor trained herself in the basic Guardian stuff like flying, shape-shifting, and weapons—she didn’t always want to rely on Michael—but she worked, too. Her job tracking down demons wasn’t much different than the one she’d had as an inspector in the San Francisco Police Department. She just lied a lot more, had a worldwide jurisdiction, covered up evidence instead of unearthing it, and when she located a demon, she tossed away anything resembling a fair trial and went straight to capital punishment.

  All of that had gone against the grain when she’d begun, but the more demons she met, the more she saw the necessity of it. Demons didn’t play by manmade rules; they played with them. So Guardians did the same. The difference was, Guardians tried not to hurt anyone while they did it.

  Which, when it came down to it, was really the same as the spirit of human laws: Try not to fuck other people over or hurt anyone. If you do, you pay for it.

  Simple, really.

  Taylor mentally swept the building as soon as she teleported into the large hub at the heart of the warehouse—a habit she’d picked up from Michael, but now, apparently, she did on her own. Since the sun was up, no vampires were working, though she sensed a few sleeping upstairs. Most of the Guardians’ minds were shielded, but a few sent a little mental probe in return; since they couldn’t actually send thoughts, only project emotions and images, that psychic touch was the equivalent of a Hello.

  A little disappointed that she couldn’t sense Joe Preston, her former partner on the force and now a human working for SI in almost the same capacity that she did, Taylor headed for the director’s offices, instead. She missed Joe, though she understood why they weren’t paired up on assignments; Michael or not, it would be like putting two novices together. Maybe when she had a few more years under her belt . . .

  Of course, in a few more years, Joe would hit retiring age. God, that was crazy to think about. Something that she didn’t want to think about. Taylor knew she was lucky—a hundred years of training meant that most Guardian novices never saw their family and friends again—but she didn’t know how well she’d take immortality when she saw her mother, her partner, and her brother aging themselves to death.

  Maybe Michael could help her deal with that, too. He’d seen hundreds of human generations grow old and die.

  Aaaaaand, no. That thought didn’t help at all.

  Shaking away the morbidity of it, Taylor rapped on the director’s office door.

  Her hope that a male voice would answer was dashed when Lilith called for her to enter. Crap. Taylor got along a little better with Hugh Castleford, a former Guardian who now shared the office with Lilith and served as a codirector when he wasn’t training the novices. This obviously wasn’t one of those times.

  Lilith sat behind her big desk, and didn’t glance up from her computer when Taylor came in. She must have had an outside meeting today. Instead of the leather pants and corset that Lilith usually wore, she appeared as she had the first time Taylor had met her: in a severely cut pantsuit, with her long black hair in a tight roll at her nape, and the bulge of her weapon just visible beneath her jacket.

  Lilith had been an FBI agent then, and she’d deliberately fucked one of Taylor and Joe’s murder investigations into a humping, unrecognizable mess.

  Taylor still couldn’t bring herself to like the woman, though she’d grudgingly come to respect her. Two thousand years old, Lilith had once been a demon halfling—a human who’d been given a demon’s powers through a sick ritual of symbols carved into flesh, bloodletting, and a vow to serve Lucifer. Almost every halfling disappointed him, however, and so they’d all ended up in the frozen field . . . all of them except for Lilith. A master of lies and self-preservation, she’d outlasted the others—and eventually lied well enough that she’d tricked Lucifer into releasing her from her vow to obey him, and won a wager that led to the Gates of Hell closing for five hundred years.

  She’d paid for it, though. Her demon powers had been stripped away and she’d become human again. Though the two thousand years had left its mark on Lilith, leaving her as strong and as fast as a vampire, she wasn’t immortal anymore. She couldn’t fly; she couldn’t shape-shift.

  She could still lie like the devil, though.

  Despite that, Michael had trusted her enough to put her in charge of Special Investigations’ operations—and Taylor couldn’t fault his decision. Those two thousand years as a demon meant that Lilith knew their methods better than anyone else on Earth. When an assignment popped up and Lilith gave her opinion about the demon Taylor would be looking for and the places she’d probably find him, Taylor shut up and listened.

  “Perfect timing,” Lilith said. “I just got a ping from the novices trolling local police reports. A double murder. Apparently, the guy already confessed.”

  “But?” There was always a but.

  “He said that the ghost of a dead girlfriend visited him, encouraging him to seek vengeance.”

  Probably not a ghost. Either the guy was delusional, or he’d been visited by a very solid, shape-shifted demon having a bit of fun with someone who’d been easy to take advantage of.

  “I’ll take a look,” Taylor said. “Who am I taking with me?”

  Lilith’s mouth twisted a bit. “It’s Marc Revoire’s territory.”

  The Midwest, which wasn’t exactly a thrill, but the expression on Lilith’s face made it a little better. Though a Guardian, Revoire didn’t take his assignments through SI, but he might know exactly who the demon was, and be in the process of hunting him down. Everyone understood that barreling into another Guardian’s investigation might bungle the whole thing and let a demon slip away. So although Lilith would have probably liked to flip Revoire the bird and send a team from SI to handle the double murder, she was forced to play nice, Guardian-style.

  Taylor didn’t mind working with Revoire, anyway. She’d met him before in Caelum, shortly after she’d come out of the three-month coma following Michael’s kiss, her transformation, and the link that had formed between them. Brooding and dark, with a hint of France in his voice, Revoire struck her as a solitary, silent type. He’d asked Taylor whether there was anything he could do for her and to let him know if there ever was, and then left to talk to Irena, who’d taken over as Guardian leader in Michael’s absence.

  Taylor hadn’t seen him since, but she heard mention of him now and again—though the other Guardians referred to him as Icarus rather than his name. Why, Taylor didn’t know, but after watching a few novices in their disastrous early flight attempts, she assumed that something similar had happened to him in his early years, and the nickname had stuck . . . for more than a hundred and fifty years.

  Considering that it had taken ten years on the force and a promotion to inspector before the other rookies in her year stopped calling her Red, Taylor had sympathy for him.

  “I’ll contact him now,” she said. “I also ran into Rosalia. She thinks that Nicholas St. Croix picked up a demon, but he’s gone under.”

  “St. Croix?” Lilith’s brows arched, her
earlier irritation smoothing away. She turned back to her computer. “We’re already keeping tabs. We have been since he consulted for Legion Labs. Handsome, rich, and working with a demon-run corporation? It was too easy. Now we know he was just searching for his mother, but at the time, he looked good for being a demon himself.”

  “Rosalia thinks he still looks good for it.”

  “We can’t kill every asshole. Who would raise all of the asshole children?” Lilith narrowed her eyes at the computer. “And look at this. The asshole just landed in New York. No reservations or rentals yet, but if something pops, I’ll send it through to you.”

  That surprised her. “Me?”

  “You brought this to me. It’s yours unless you want to pass it on.”

  “I don’t,” Taylor said. She really didn’t.

  “All right. If you’re still with Revoire when the info comes, take him with you. Otherwise, I’ll send someone to meet you in New York.”

  Suddenly rocking back in her chair, Lilith fixed a stare on Taylor’s face, looking deep, and nothing like Rosalia’s warm perusal. Lilith’s gaze flayed—not skin and flesh, but the shields Taylor wore.

  God damn her. Lilith didn’t have psychic powers anymore, but she didn’t need them. Two thousand years had told her how to read a woman’s face, to pick out every uncertainty and fear—and right now, Taylor carried too many of them.

  But the former demon only said, “Do you want Sir Pup to come with you?”

  Lilith’s hellhound. The mere sight of the three-headed beast could terrify a demon and there was little on Earth that could hurt it. If Michael’s absence from her mind meant that he couldn’t protect her, Sir Pup was more than an adequate replacement for the job.

  Except the hellhound terrified Taylor, too.

  “I’ll have Revoire with me,” she said.

  Lilith’s gaze sharpened. “And Michael?”

  Of course she’d zero in on what Taylor hadn’t said. Sooner or later, demons always found a weak spot.

  “If we find this guy’s ghost, I guess we’ll find out,” Taylor said.