Demon

by Kristina Douglas

  I glanced around for another entrance to the patio, but I could see none. Whoever had brought the food was a magician, and I didn’t care. I sank down into one of the wicker chairs and began to eat.

  I could still hear the angry voices, but at a distance, and I closed my eyes, letting myself drift back into the memory of last night. I was immediately wet, and disgusted with myself.

  I wasn’t going to worry about it. That’s what I felt like; and when he finally returned to these rooms, he’d sense my arousal and—

  What if he didn’t return to these rooms? What if the initial bonding was all that was needed? He’d made it clear he didn’t want to have feelings about me. I didn’t doubt that he did—I wasn’t that insecure—but I knew he was more than willing to fight them. Just as I was.

  Except that I wasn’t. I needed him, I needed him now. I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting my fingers drift to my mouth, down to my breasts, then up to the invisible brand on my neck, and I wondered if I could will him to come to me. If I called to him, would he hear me?

  A shadow passed between me and the sun, and I opened my eyes in instant, unguarded delight. And then froze, looking up into the cloaked face of a stranger.

  “Who are you?” I croaked. By now I knew every inhabitant of Sheol, by face if not by name, and this was no man I had ever seen before. I looked into his eyes and they were empty, as if there were no one there, and I had seen eyes like that before. When I’d been strapped to a table in a dark room in a dark city, out of my mind with pain.

  I tried to scream, but no noise came out. They’d already taken my voice, and this time they would finish me. I scrambled to my feet, knocking over the chair in my hurry, but the creature didn’t move, simply following me with those empty eyes.

  I tried again for my voice, and found a husking remnant of it. “Go away. You don’t belong here. I don’t have any more information for you. I’ve told you everything—you don’t need to hurt me anymore.”

  He spoke then, in an eerie, disembodied voice that sounded mechanical. “We are not here to hurt you.”

  We? I looked around and saw there was another one to my left, watching me with the same soulless intent. I stood a fighting chance against one of them. Two—impossible.

  I still tried to back away, toward the French doors I’d stupidly closed. If I got inside I could lock the door, slowing them down while I ran for help. “Then why are you here?” I asked.

  “To kill you,” the creature said, his voice expressionless.

  “Why?” I was edging closer and closer to the door, and neither of them had moved. There was just the slightest chance I could make it.

  “So it has been decreed, and so it shall be,” he said, moving toward me, and I saw his hands, hands that were more like claws, and for one crucial moment I froze in remembered terror.

  My panic broke, and I whirled around just before he touched me, making a dash toward the door; but he caught me, talons ripping through the white cotton into my shoulders, and I felt the spurt of blood as I screamed once more, in deathly silence, knowing they would kill me, praying that death would be quick and merciful.

  I didn’t want to die. Not now. I wanted to lie in bed with Azazel and explore all the pleasures of the flesh. I wanted to walk in the bright sunlight beside the water that frightened me. I wanted to talk with Allie and laugh with the others, and I wanted to do what I did best. I wanted to heal the loss, make certain there were babies for these women to hold in their arms.

  I felt a strange frisson ripple through my body, almost as if I were changing form; and instead of running, I lashed out at the Truth Breaker nearest me, watching in shock as the talons of a night bird ripped across his face, and he screamed in pain.

  A second later the French doors exploded in a hail of glass shards, and Azazel stood there, rage on his pale face, his wings, his beautiful wings, unfurled. They were a deep blue-black, seeming to fill the space with a righteous fury, and then he was a blur of movement, ripping the Truth Breaker away from me and slamming him against the wall. I could hear the crunch of bones, the creature’s high-pitched squeal of pain as I dropped to the ground, clutching my torn shoulders. I must have imagined that temporary shift, the lashing out with a raptor’s talons.

  Someone had followed Azazel and was making quick, efficient work of the second one, breaking his neck and dropping him to the ground, but Azazel was horrifyingly merciless. He tore the pincerlike hands off the first creature as it shrieked and babbled, and then, with a quick twist, broke his neck and ripped his head from his body.

  I should have been sick, horrified. Instead, if I’d had a voice, I would have cheered him. I was on my knees on the stone patio, blood streaming down my arms, my hands making no progress in trying to stanch it. Feeling dizzy, I swayed, thinking I could just lie down for a moment; then he was beside me, scooping me up in his arms, an unreadable expression on his face as he cradled me against him.

  And then we went up, up, into the twilight sky, my blood soaking into his clothes as it soaked into mine; and I felt light-headed, though I wasn’t sure if it was from blood loss or being flown in the arms of an angel. And then I saw where he was heading.

  I began to struggle, desperate to escape his grip. Allie had explained to me one afternoon how the sea had healing powers for the people of Sheol, and I knew he was taking me there, down into the black, murderous depths, and I knew I would drown once more at the hands of a man I loved.

  “Stop it,” he said, crushing me against him. “You’ll make us fall.”

  I didn’t care. I would rather die in a tangle of broken limbs than drown at his hands. I tried to tell him, but nothing but air came from my throat, and he simply ignored my desperate struggles as he rose vertically over the roiling ocean, and then plunged downward.

  I expected bitter cold, but the sea was merely cool and salty. I shut my eyes to keep the stinging water out, closed my mouth on the silent scream and held my breath, fighting him as he pushed me down, down, and my lungs were bursting, my body sinking, as he pulled me to him and covered my mouth with his.

  I was too shocked to resist, and he forced my lips open, breathing into me, sweet, pure air for my starved lungs, and my eyes fluttered open. I could see him clearly in the luminous blue water, smell the scent of his skin, and when he lifted his mouth I realized I was breathing.

  He stripped the torn and bloody shirt from me, letting it drift away in the ocean, and the salt water washed my wounds, soothing them. I felt my body release its frozen panic, almost on its own, and I lay back, the water wrapped around me, cradling me, caressing me. A moment later we shot upward, his arms tight around me, so that we were floating in the water.

  “I should never have left you alone,” he whispered against my ear. “But none of us ever imagined that the Truth Breakers would dare to come here. I ran as soon as I heard you call, but I was afraid I wouldn’t make it in time.”

  How could he have heard me call, when I’d had no voice? It made no sense—but then, neither had that strange, momentary shift my body had gone through. He had come in time, and that was all that mattered. I let my head sink against his shoulder, my legs wrapped around his waist as he slowly carried me from the sea.

  The shore was filled with people, and I was shirtless. He held me against him, shielding me, as Allie rushed forward. I didn’t turn my face from the warm presence of his skin, but I recognized her voice, her worried questions.

  “She’s fine,” Azazel said. “I’ll tend to her.”

  I must have imagined it, but I thought I felt the crowd draw back respectfully. He carried me effortlessly into the coolness of the main hall, back into the rooms that had been a haven.

  He carried me straight into the huge shower, turned on the hot water, and stripped my sodden pants off me, his hands gentle, impersonal, as he soaped the salt from my body, warming me. The wounds on my shoulders had already begun to heal, and I felt limp, pliant, as he took care of me, wrapping me in a thick white towel
when we were done and carrying me into the bedroom.

  Someone had removed the smashed doors and cleaned up the broken glass, and a soft breeze came in through the open casement. I could only hope the same people had removed all the body parts. The bed had been remade, but Azazel yanked back the covers and settled me, towel and all, into the welcoming softness.

  I didn’t want him to leave me, but I didn’t know how to ask. I didn’t have to. He slid into the bed beside me, his damp, naked body pressed up against mine, and he pulled me against him, wrapping himself around me. Finally, finally, I let out my pent-up breath. I was safe. I was well. I was loved.

  No, that was ridiculous. As ridiculous as the thought that I could have shifted form and ripped into one of the creatures who had almost killed me. But there was no other word for it than love.

  “Yes,” he murmured against my temple. He knew my thoughts, I remembered without alarm. What was he saying yes to? It didn’t matter. I could believe what I wanted to, what I needed to. At least for now.

  Everything was still and quiet. Night had fallen, and moonlight drifted in the open portal. I wanted to stay like this forever. Didn’t I?

  I could feel him growing harder, thicker, even though we lay perfectly still. Was he asleep? I knew men became aroused in their sleep. As a demon it had been my job to whisper in their ears, to excite them enough to take their wives and plant their reluctant seed. Could I whisper in Azazel’s ear and tell him to take me?

  His hands slid down to cover my breasts, his fingers plucking my nipples, and the banked fire roared to life again. I pressed my butt against him, rubbing, and his sudden growl was pure animal need. Something that vibrated within me as well. I turned in his arms, and he kissed me, his mouth still tasting of the salt water, and I wanted to drink him in. Wanted to suck at him, as he had sucked at me, and I knew what I was going to do.

  “Oh, God,” he muttered weakly, and I remembered he could read my thoughts. My body heated with a rush of embarrassment, but he only laughed, low in his throat, and shoved the covers off me.

  C HAPTER T WENTY-TWO

  AZAZEL LAY ON THE BED IN A perfect agony of anticipation, yet Rachel had suddenly become nervous. He’d forgotten that, despite her randy thoughts, in terms of pleasure she was practically a novice. She might know what she wanted, but she had no idea how to go about it. He could read her confusion, her shame, and he wanted to hold her in his arms, protecting her from everything, including her own uncertainties. But he could read her longing as well, and he had already proven he was a far cry from a saint.

  He took the hand that clung to his shoulder and drew it down his chest, slowly. It was bunched into a nervous fist, and he used his fingers to open it, placing it flat against his stomach. He quivered in anticipation—even her touch would be enough to send him over the edge.

  Lie back and think of England, he reminded himself with a streak of amusement. And brought her open hand to his straining erection.

  She tried to jerk her hand away, but he wouldn’t let her, holding her against his hard flesh, and after a moment she calmed, letting her fingers touch him, learning him, encircling him. He wrapped his own hand around hers, showing her the motion, though it was a dangerous thing in his state of rapid arousal. She tugged and pulled at him with perfect precision, and just when he was about to stop her, she released him. He breathed a sigh of relief, only to feel her fingers drifting over him again, touching the sensitive head, drifting along the ridges and veins, and he could barely stifle his low moan.

  She pulled her hand back swiftly. “Did I hurt you?”

  His soft laugh was strained. “No,” he said. “It felt too good.”

  “Oh.” She seemed to think about that for a moment, and even without seeing her face he knew she smiled in the darkness. He was growing attuned to her every mood, whim, and reaction. “In that case,” she murmured, and pulled away from him, rising on her knees over him.

  He felt the feather-light touch of her mouth against his throat, and he remembered her bite in the pouring rain, her unconscious mimicry of the sacred bonding ritual. She moved her kisses down his chest, until he felt her small wet tongue against his nipple, and he reached up his hands to hold her there, to guide her, then dropped them again, fighting his own need to control.

  She moved down and then halted, and unconsciously his hands fisted the sheet beneath him. Then her hand found him again, and her closed mouth brushed against the sensitive head of him. He moaned, but this time she realized it was from pleasure, and she moved her lips over him, feather-light touches that were an agony of delight. Her mouth left him, and he let out his strangled breath, only to feel it open around him, taking him into her mouth, sucking him in deep, her tongue moving against him, and it was all he could do not to climax immediately. He could do this, he reminded himself. There were far worse things than being tortured by pleasure.

  Or maybe there weren’t. She was kneeling over him, and it was easy enough to pull her against him. He wanted his mouth on her, tasting her as she sucked at him; but she resisted, clearly not wanting the distraction, so he had to content himself with sliding his fingers between her legs, finding the tangled damp, pushing in as she tightened around him.

  She slid her mouth down, trying to take all of him, and he found her clitoris, using his thumb as he thrust his fingers into her. She responded, her mouth moving up and down on him with such hungry urgency that he knew in a moment he’d be lost.

  With a strangled roar he reached down and pulled her up, over him, ready to let her straddle him. He placed his cock against her, and she sank down eagerly, a perfect precision of their two needs, and she laughed low in her throat as she took him. And then, to his astonishment, she rolled over onto her back, tugging him with her so that their connection didn’t break, and he was covering her, her knees up high around him.

  He looked down at her, cupping her face, and kissed her with all the force and power he’d been holding back; and she met him fully, a kiss of rampant desire and demand. He moved then, pulling out and then pushing in again, the eternal rhythm that somehow always felt new, and he could feel the shimmering convulsions tightening around him. He wouldn’t last long, couldn’t last long, and he sank his head next to hers, concentrating only on their joining, when her soft voice suddenly penetrated his haze of lust, and he froze in an agony of need.

  “I want …” she whispered in that lost, broken voice that filled him with shame and sorrow, “… I want to change positions.”

  He managed a crooked smile. “Of course,” he said, starting to turn and pull her on top; but she resisted, pushing at him.

  “No,” she said. “There’s another way.”

  He held very still. “There are many other ways,” he said finally, his own voice sounding as damaged as hers.

  “I … I …” Embarrassment colored her voice, and he knew she couldn’t find the words.

  “You want me to guess?” he said with strangled amusement. “We could just try it different ways until we hit the one you had in mind.” And then he caught the image from her mind. “Ah, that one. One of my absolute favorites. If you’re sure.”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice muffled.

  He pulled out, moving back, and she turned over, lying flat on her stomach. He slid his arm under her waist, pulling her up. “No, love,” he said. “It won’t work that way.” He reached between her legs, finding her, and began to push in slowly, the unaccustomed angle slightly tighter.

  He didn’t mistake her moan for displeasure, and her first shimmer of climax almost pushed him back out again, but he held still; when the convulsion lessened he pushed in farther, a slow, easy invasion that was going to kill him, he was certain of it.

  When he finally came up against her he held still, letting her get accustomed to the feel of him, deeper than ever, and she lowered her head onto the sheet. He was too close and he knew it, but he wanted her with him. He thrust, hard, his hips flexing, and she braced herself, welcoming him, and h
e gave in to it, pumping into her, no longer able to control himself. He felt her begin to climax and put his hand between her legs to touch her, driving her as he spilled into her; and his wings unfurled, wrapping around them both, encasing them in a cocoon of safety and desire.

  It felt endless, delicious, closer to heaven than anything he’d known since the beginning of time. He felt her shudder and weaken beneath him, and he held her, cradling her, as the last stray tremors faded away, and his wings folded back in, releasing them.

  He rolled over onto his back, taking her with him, letting her collapse on top of him, an exhausted, pleasured little heap of a girl. He didn’t need to ask why she’d wanted it that way. Accepting his weight on top of her yesterday had been an act of faith, of letting go of the stubborn need to control that had brought about disaster, just as his own questioning had done for him. By deliberately choosing a highly erotic but symbolically subservient position today, she’d banished the last of her fears. She could take him any way she wanted, as long as it gave her pleasure.

  Her lips were at his throat, and she nuzzled him there. “Why didn’t you bite me?” she whispered.

  He hesitated before giving her the truthful answer. “It doesn’t have to be every time. If you don’t like it, we don’t have to—”

  She was stronger than he expected. She rolled over, and he was once more on top of her, cradled in her thighs. She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, brushing a kiss across his mouth, reading his hunger, and he knew that it matched her own. She arched her neck, pushing his face down, and his fangs were already extended for the bite when he touched skin, the taste of her blood incredibly sweet on his tongue.

  He had to be careful. She’d lost blood today; and while he’d taken the bare minimum last night, she was still operating on less than usual. He pulled away, licking at the twin wounds, closing them, and sank down beside her, holding her in his arms, totally spent. If Uriel won, if all their efforts came to nothing, he would at least fade from existence knowing that the end of his life had been the very best part of it. And holding her close against him, he slept.