Demon Marked tg-7

by Meljean Brook

  Thanks to Madelyn, he’d stopped boohooing as a kid. Nicholas did feel guilt—that he’d used Rachel, that she’d fallen in love with him, that he couldn’t save her when she was dying in his arms—but he wasn’t responsible for her death. Madelyn had killed Rachel. Full stop.

  He didn’t know this demon’s reasons for asking, and he didn’t have to speak the truth. But in the end, truth was just simpler.

  “No,” he said, and started down the stairs. “I didn’t shoot her. Madelyn did.”

  He glanced over his shoulder to catch her response. Her eyes had narrowed, and he easily read the suspicion in them.

  She thought he was lying.

  Now, wasn’t that just fucking hilarious? Shaking his head, he pulled out his phone again. He’d take time to be amused when they were on American soil, and a Guardian wasn’t hot on their asses . . . a Guardian who could come for them even after they were in the air.

  It was going to be a damn long flight.

  CHAPTER 3

  Michael was gone, and the walls of his temple were cracking.

  Taylor stared at the thin lines twisting through the pale marble. If there was one place a Guardian should have felt safe, it was here—in the center of Caelum, the Guardian realm, standing within Michael’s great hall. The first and strongest of all the Guardians, he’d been entrusted with great powers by the angels themselves after killing a dragon and ending the second war between Heaven and Hell. He’d built the massive temple simply through the power of his voice and will. And for the past six months, almost without realizing the adoption taking place, Taylor had come to consider this temple her home. She should have felt safe.

  But she was terrified, because Michael was gone. At least, part of him was—the part she could usually feel in the back of her mind, after he’d linked his psyche to her through blood and a kiss. The part of him that sometimes protected her, guided her. The part she often fought against. The part that was probably responsible for her coming to accept his temple as her home. But that was only part of him, and a tenuous connection, at best.

  The rest of him was in Hell, tortured in the icy field surrounding Lucifer’s throne. Buried, with only his face showing, his eyes frozen open and fixed on Lucifer’s tower; his body eaten by dragons in the Chaos realm before it regenerated to be ravaged again.

  Surrounded by the screams of the damned, he’d been in that field for a year now, and for the past six months, Taylor had visited him as often as she dared—using his power of teleportation, which was also a part of her, and which Taylor had begun thinking of as her own Gift. They’d come to an agreement of sorts: He wouldn’t teleport her without her knowledge or against her will, but if she needed protection, he could take over her body and fight for her.

  Obviously, that agreement had changed. Because whatever of Michael was left in Taylor’s mind, he still allowed her to teleport . . . he just didn’t allow her to teleport to Hell anymore.

  That scared her more than the cracks in the walls, scared her more than the sense of shattering and pain that she felt when her hand flattened against the marble—because it meant that whatever was happening to him in Hell, Michael was protecting her from it. Through their link, Taylor had become used to the echo of the pain and horror he experienced, though she knew Michael shielded her from most of it. Now, whatever was happening, he shielded her from all of it.

  Could it truly be that bad? Worse than what she’d already seen?

  She was afraid of that answer. A former detective, she’d seen every evil that a human could visit upon another being. That evil didn’t even scratch the surface of Hell.

  Michael had sacrificed his life and broken a bargain to save Earth and Caelum, and in the faith and hope that, eventually, his friends and fellow warriors would find the right spell to release him. Six months ago, Taylor had sworn that she’d find a way to free him. But she was no closer to finding a solution . . . and she couldn’t feel him anymore.

  And she knew that was what scared her most of all: that she wouldn’t be able to save him.

  Outside the temple, Caelum’s sun shone brightly in a cloudless blue sky—as it always did. The shining marble city was nearly empty of any other Guardians—as it always was.

  At least, for as long as Taylor had known it. Through Michael, she had the faintest memory of the city filled with thousands of Guardians, mentors and novices, warriors and scholars. Less than a hundred Guardians remained now, and they didn’t pass their time here. There were simply too many demons and too much to do on Earth.

  A few were passing through, however, visiting the archives or taking a short rest between assignments. Taylor could hear their heartbeats and voices, and at times, it seemed as if she felt their footsteps vibrating through the marble streets and courtyards. She hadn’t yet decided whether she truly felt those vibrations, or if it was another echo from Michael: his connection to the realm, channeled to her.

  She doubted that her singing would reshape the arches and spires as Michael’s singing did, however.

  Across the courtyard facing Michael’s temple, Rosalia emerged from beneath one of those arches, which doubled as a Gate between Caelum and the human realm. Used by the Guardians who didn’t possess a teleportation Gift—which was most of them—each Gate led to a different location; Rosalia was coming in from France.

  Dark-haired, stunningly beautiful, and so nice that it was impossible to hate her for it, Rosalia smiled when she spotted Taylor on the steps of Michael’s temple. Her yellow sundress flirted with her knees as she crossed the courtyard, and she looked so sunny and cheerful that it was easy to forget that this woman could manipulate shadows like a weapon, and that behind those warm eyes lay a mind that had formulated a plan that tricked hundreds of demons into destroying each other.

  And her warm eyes also saw too much. Her smile dimmed when she drew in close, and Taylor wondered if the cracks were showing inside her, too.

  “Are you feeling well, Taylor?”

  “Fine.” No need to worry her about Michael or the temple yet. For all of Rosalia’s brilliance, for all that she could manipulate people and form devastatingly successful plans, she knew no more than Taylor about spells or how to free Michael from Hell. “Just one of those days.”

  Rosalia nodded as if accepting that explanation, but Taylor wasn’t certain that the other woman wasn’t on the verge of feeling her forehead for a fever, even though Guardians couldn’t become sick. Rosalia had that way about her.

  But she didn’t pull out a thermometer. She only sighed and said, “I see.”

  She probably did see, and understood that Michael was at the root of it, even if she didn’t know the specifics. Rosalia had witnessed the worst of Taylor’s battle with Michael for control of her own body. Hell, Rosalia had healed from the worst of it, when Taylor, possessed by Michael, had stabbed the other Guardian through the chest.

  Strange how that incident had resulted in a bond of friendship between them. But then, since becoming a Guardian, a whole lot of Taylor’s life had become strange.

  Strange was her new normal.

  Though now that she thought about it, Rosalia being in Caelum wasn’t normal, either. The Guardian didn’t visit the realm very often, and usually only when meeting her friends. Neither Radha nor Mariko was here now, so that meant she’d probably come looking for Taylor. If so, now Rosalia was probably wondering if she’d come at a bad time.

  “Did you need me for anything? It’s not that bad of a day, if you are.”

  Smiling faintly, Rosalia stepped close enough to adjust Taylor’s white shirt collar, then smooth her hands over Taylor’s shoulders. Though she might have punched anyone else, Taylor allowed Rosalia this, too. The poor woman couldn’t stand seeing someone that she cared about looking untidy—and in any case, Rosalia wasn’t really paying attention to what her hands were doing. She’d gotten that look in her eyes that said: A demon would be dying soon.

  “Do you remember Nicholas St. Croix?”

 
Taylor frowned. Did she? The name was familiar, but she couldn’t recall a face.

  Rosalia helped her out. “The dungeon in Rome.”

  Ah, yes. No wonder Taylor couldn’t immediately remember. She’d spent half of her time in the dungeon watching a few hundred demons being slaughtered, and waiting for Michael to take over her body and save the humans stuck in the center of the massacre.

  St. Croix had watched the massacre, too. He’d made being present for it a condition before allowing Rosalia use of the dungeon.

  “Let me see if I remember,” Taylor said. “Caucasian. Sixtwo, one-seventy, black-brown hair, and blue eyes that remind me of ice chips from the frozen field in Hell. A handsome devil of the GQ variety, and if I’m not mistaken, you thought he actually was a demon for a while.”

  “You’re not mistaken. He’s a straight-up bastard.”

  “Who you helped anyway.”

  “Yes, well. He was useful.” Rosalia stepped back, and seemed satisfied with the straight line she’d made of Taylor’s button-up front. “I think he’s found his mother.”

  “Oh.” Yes, Taylor recalled part of that, too. He’d bought the dungeon because he’d been searching for a demon who’d posed as his mother. Maybe after he’d had his revenge, he’d be less of a bastard. Taylor doubted it, though. “So is he headed to Rome, intending to lock her up and slay her?”

  “I don’t know. I lost him in London.”

  “Ah.” Now the reason for Rosalia’s journey to Caelum became clear. The Guardians’ base of operations on Earth, Special Investigations, could help her locate St. Croix. “So you were looking for me, or you were headed to San Francisco?”

  “I was headed to SI, but you might be able to make it all easier. Can you teleport to him?”

  Taylor should have been able to. In the dungeon six months ago, his mind hadn’t been well shielded, and she’d been able to sense his emotions. That made his psyche familiar to her, and she could teleport directly to anyone with a familiar, unshielded mind.

  But apparently not St. Croix.

  Rosalia grimaced. “I taught him how to block.”

  “And you taught him very well, apparently, because I can’t go to him. I’ll save you the trip to SI, though.” Not much of a save, since “the trip” was only a single step through a Gate. “I’m headed there now. I’ll let them know to start looking for him.”

  “I’m grateful, thank you. That will allow me to return to Rome. Hopefully he’ll show up there.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  “No. Partially because he trusts no one, but also because he knows that I’ll look there for him.” Rosalia smiled. “But he also knows that I know that he probably wouldn’t use the dungeon, so he might go anyway.”

  It took Taylor a second to sort that out. “So twisty.”

  “He thinks like a demon at times. So I will, too.” Rosalia turned to go, then paused, her gaze sweeping over the courtyard. “It’s so empty. I forget. I turn around, expecting to see everyone . . . but they are all gone.”

  “Not empty. I think Khavi’s hellhound is running around somewhere.” A pet as big as a Hummer, straight out of Hell and Taylor’s nightmares. She avoided the three-headed puppy as much as possible. “And hopefully, I’ll be called to make more of us soon. Well, maybe not ‘hopefully,’ considering that means someone has to die. But you know.”

  Rosalia gave her another of those long, seeing-too-much looks. “You are not feeling inadequate in that way, I hope? Because it is beyond your control, Taylor.”

  Yes, it was. That didn’t mean Taylor didn’t feel responsible. Along with the psychic connection, Michael had also passed to her the powers of the Doyen. She’d become the Guardian who transformed the humans who sacrificed themselves while saving someone else from a supernatural threat.

  But Taylor hadn’t been called, not in the year she’d been Doyen. Everyone told her that there had been times when a decade had passed before a new Guardian had been transformed . . . but those had also been the times when there had been thousands of Guardians to take up the slack. In five hundred years, the Gates to Hell would open, and the Guardian corps needed to be thousands strong again. They couldn’t afford to have one month go by without adding a new warrior to their ranks, let alone twelve months.

  There wouldn’t have been any more transformed if Michael had still been Doyen, either. She knew that. The Guardians couldn’t go out on a recruitment drive; everything depended on a human’s sacrifice. Still, she did feel added pressure, because Michael was gone and the corps wasn’t as strong without him. She needed to be transforming more Guardians. Their survival—every human’s survival—might eventually depend on it.

  “Let’s just say that I know exactly how one of those oldtime queens felt, when everyone was expecting her to produce an heir to the throne, and years go by without one. Pretty soon, you know she’s going to get beheaded and he’s going to find another woman to make the babies.”

  Amusement shone in Rosalia’s eyes, a warm golden light. “I remember a few queens like that. The clever ones solved the problem by inviting another man to their bed.”

  Oh, this metaphor was suddenly heading somewhere that Taylor definitely didn’t want to go. Having Michael in her head was enough to become accustomed to, and she’d carefully not thought much about sex while he was in there. Mostly so that he wouldn’t know that he figured prominently in those thoughts, but letting him see her imagining another man seemed just as bad.

  “I don’t think there’s a good ‘another man’ that works as a comparison.” The problem didn’t come from Michael or any other Guardian. “The humans just need to stop shooting blanks.”

  Rosalia’s soft laugh didn’t echo in the courtyard. Strange, but Taylor’s did.

  And even more strange, when her laughter faded and Rosalia had gone, she glanced back at Michael’s temple again . . . and the hairline cracks in the marble had vanished.

  She just hoped to God that if her laugh had sealed them, that it had helped Michael a little, too.

  On the plane, Ash waited until Nicholas occupied himself with his computer before looking through the few items he’d had of Rachel’s. When they’d stopped outside his hotel, she’d waited in the car while he’d retrieved Rachel’s passport and his luggage—and he’d brought down another small packet with them. He’d claimed the things had been in Rachel’s overnight case along with her identification, but Ash could have deduced that for herself. The packet contained a flat hairbrush, a toothbrush, a red silk dress, and strappy sandals. Tucked beneath the clothing lay a set of lacy lingerie, red and revealing . . . exactly the kind a woman might take on a special weekend away with a lover.

  They meant nothing special to Ash. The items weren’t even familiar. Rachel had obviously loved the shoes; the soles were scuffed, as if she’d worn them often. But although Ash liked the style, she had no urge to wear them or the dress. Had Rachel been nervous while she’d been packing for her weekend, or had she been excited? Had she wavered over what to wear, how many outfits to take? Ash didn’t know. She’d hoped to sense some connection to Rachel’s things, but she felt nothing, even though Rachel had surely chosen these items for a reason.

  Whatever her reasons, they’d been lost when she’d died six years ago.

  Six years. Ash examined the items again, no longer looking for a connection but simply looking. Only a few wrinkles marred the smooth silk. No dust had collected on the hairbrush or the sandal straps. Instead of musty, the dress smelled faintly of dry cleaning.

  These things hadn’t been sitting in an overnight bag for six years. Nicholas had kept them and cared for them. Why?

  She let the dress fall into her lap and looked up. Nicholas sat in the seat across from her, booking a hotel near Rachel’s parents’ home, finalizing their travel arrangements, or simply working—she wasn’t certain. Ash hadn’t paid much attention to him since he’d lowered his crossbow. He might be able to help her, but right now he had no idea who Ash was, s
o she had little use for him.

  Little use for him except for his bank account. Now that she had identification, Ash could have eventually made her way to America, but his ability to place one phone call and charter a flight made the process much simpler. She appreciated that.

  Ash also appreciated that he’d given her Rachel’s things. He hadn’t liked giving them up, however. He’d tossed the packet to her with an abrupt order to “see if these improve your memory.”

  She knew he traveled often. What were the chances that he just happened to keep Rachel’s clothes in a hotel room in London? No, he must bring them along wherever he went.

  Had he cared for Rachel so much that he couldn’t let these items go? Were they simply a daily reminder of his reasons to pursue Madelyn, or a statement of his guilt?

  Guilt, Ash guessed. Kept alive by a dress and underwear—and a weekend getaway that Rachel never got to have.

  She supposed some people were driven by less.

  Did it bother him that a demon touched Rachel’s things now? Trying to determine his mood by studying his features proved a futile exercise. Was he aware of her scrutiny, or did he simply sit stone-faced all the time?

  Ash waited for a crack in his expression, but it didn’t come. And she’d never tried to sense someone’s emotions before, but that proved futile, too. The door he’d erected still blocked Nicholas’s emotions from her. The flight attendants’ and the pilots’ feelings filled her senses with their various and ever-changing flavors, but she couldn’t taste Nicholas’s at all.

  Without looking up at her, he said, “Did you learn anything from those?”

  Ash glanced at the dress and shoes. “Not about Rachel.”

  She’d only learned more about him. And though she had little use for Nicholas St. Croix aside from the money and information he might offer, that didn’t mean she didn’t find him . . . interesting.