Demon Moon

by Meljean Brook

  Colin flinched beneath her, and a rough sound of denial came from deep in his throat, vibrated against her palm.

  She couldn’t stop. “And there are many things for which I deserve to pay, but your selfishness is not one of them. What Michael’s sword did to you is not one of them. What happened to you in Chaos is not one of them.”

  She lowered her hand from her face, but she couldn’t see him through her remaining tears. Her shoulders hunched, and her palm slipped away from his mouth. A blurry red streak remained. “You could’ve just asked me to get back into the car, but you chose to exercise your frustration and to hurt me instead. And you didn’t even know you were doing it—or you didn’t care. I’m not sure which is worse.”

  Her gaze fell to her lap, his chest. She stared at them blindly, waiting for his response before recalling herself. She’d effectively gagged and bound him. He wouldn’t risk speaking or moving, not with her blood covering his lips, not with her shields down.

  A folded silk handkerchief poked up from his breast pocket. Of course he had one. She wadded it and brought it to his mouth, then paused; the green hue of the material protruding between her fingers matched perfectly the pinstripe in his shirt collar.

  It was so Colin—and it shouldn’t have made her feel like smiling. Not now. She bit the inside of her cheek to prevent it.

  Colin watched her, his expression tormented as she gently wiped his skin, as she traced the seam of his lips to collect the blood pooled there. Stretching a clean section of the handkerchief over her forefinger, she dipped the silk between them, skimmed it along his inner bottom lip.

  He had such a beautiful mouth. Wide and masculine, the curves strong and firm, yet his lips possessed the most intriguing softness…

  She averted her gaze, stuffed the bloodied silk back into his pocket. Her knees protested when she stood. She crossed her arms over her middle as she walked back to the Bentley and sat down on the edge of the hood. Her neck was stiff, her stomach sore.

  It would all feel worse in the morning.

  Colin rose slowly to his feet, as if he didn’t want to frighten her. Didn’t he realize yet that he couldn’t? But he approached her with the same care, pausing once to reach down for the dagger and then carrying it by the blade. A nonthreatening gesture.

  He stopped in front of her, an arm’s length away. A smile hovered over his mouth, though not wide enough to show his fangs. “It was a bloody brilliant defensive maneuver.”

  Admiration filled his voice, and it sounded genuine. Flustered, Savi lowered her head and rubbed at the back of her neck. She’d not known what to expect from him, but that response hadn’t been it.

  Her brows drew together. That was odd—he held the tip of the blade between his forefinger and thumb, and was lightly drumming the broadside of the dagger’s hilt against his thigh. She’d never seen him given to nervous, fidgety displays; perhaps he was as uncertain of her response as she had been of his.

  “I thought it an offensive one, actually. I hate violence,” she said finally, and looked up at him. The quirk of his lips told her he was likely remembering her penchant for James Bond and horror movies—or DemonSlayer—and she amended with a reluctant smile, “Real violence. Though I’m also practical, and admit it has its uses against nosferatu.”

  “And vampires,” he said softly, but not without amusement.

  “Yes. Now I have only to attack a demon and my trilogy of violence against otherworldly beings will be complete.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Or you could bring it to an end at the sequel. Third installments are usually the least satisfying.”

  Her laugh sounded strained to her own ears, and she pinched the bridge of her nose to ease the ache forming behind her forehead. “And yet another reason to marry, I suppose. To avoid the need for a third.”

  “Yes.” His voice flattened, and he tossed the knife carelessly onto the hood next to her hip.

  She glanced down at its gleaming blade, then lifted her brows in query as she raised her gaze to his again.

  The humor had fled from his expression. He tucked his hands into his pockets and stared down at her, his eyes bleak. His throat worked above his collar, as if he had to force words to his tongue—or attempted to swallow them.

  “Forgive me, Savi.”

  She lowered her hand to her lap. “Okay.”

  He shook his head, as if he thought she only meant to appease him with her easy capitulation. Sincerity deepened his voice. “I did not intend to hurt you.”

  “I know, Colin. And it’s fine.” She said it barely above a whisper, and through an effort of will she called up a wide smile, a stronger tone. “I can’t carry anger or a grudge; you’ll see upon our next meeting, it’ll be as if nothing has happened at all. That’s my other big failing, you know: not just a lack of fear or not thinking, but forgiving far too easily.” Remembrance made her throat tighten. “Even for those who probably don’t deserve it.”

  A muscle in his jaw hardened. Self-derision darkened his eyes.

  “Not you,” she said, realizing how he must have interpreted her statement. “The man who killed my brother and my parents.”

  He blinked. “That is a failing.”

  She gave a half-hearted smile. “I told you.” Her gaze dropped to his stomach. The bloodstain hadn’t spread, but the skin showing through the tear in his shirt looked raw. She patted the hood next to her. “You should sit. You’re in as terrible a shape as I am.”

  He didn’t, but he leaned his hip against the side, still facing her. “You said you weren’t injured.”

  “Not really; a bit of whiplash, a couple of bruises here and there. Michael or Dru can fix me up tomorrow.” The two Guardians could heal everything but the cut across her palm—she’d inflicted it on herself. “I’ve had worse. This is nothing.”

  Colin’s gaze traveled the length of her, as if determining the truth of her statement—or thinking of that which had been worse. “How is it that a man can murder an eleven-year-old boy, a man, and his wife for the sum of twenty-three dollars and two gold watches—and but for the interference of a Guardian, would have attempted to silence a little girl, as well—yet you forgive him for it? What an extraordinary creature you are.”

  He said the last with a smile, but there was an edge of disbelief and disapproval in his tone. She knew he probably likened it to the nosferatu killing his family; a heartless, evil act, committed by a person of the same nature.

  And as she’d reproached herself for it more than once, she couldn’t blame him. “You know of it—from Hugh?” At his nod, she looked down at her hands. She had to swallow before she explained, “I didn’t want to. I hate what he did, and I wanted so badly to hate him. James Anderson. His name was…” She closed her eyes. “And I probably would have, if I’d never found out what happened to him afterward.”

  Colin made a scoffing sound. “Shooting himself in the head?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “He did it the same night, only an hour after. So I think there must’ve been something terribly deranged, something terribly wrong with him…even more than whatever drove him to rob us and shoot Mom and Dad and Ras.” She had to pause before she could continue, and still tears clogged her voice. “I mean, you have to be pretty fucked up to do something like that. But then to kill yourself afterward? And the cops said it wasn’t drugs or anything. So there was remorse, or guilt, or something—he couldn’t have been so cold-blooded. Maybe he was mentally sick, and when he realized what he’d done…” She trailed off. Colin had gone rigid beside her, his hand clenching at his thigh. She glanced up at him, saw the shock on his features before he concealed it. “What is it?”

  He smiled quickly, tightly, and shook his head. “Nothing, sweet.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

  He averted his face, and his fingers played with the dagger at her hip before he said, “I’ve simply had a moment of clarity.” He turned his head to arch a brow at her, and his smile widened un
til his fangs glistened in the darkness. “Aside from my spectacular appearance—on both ends—I love nothing so much as a moment of clarity.”

  “Please share it.” Her lips pursed against a laugh when he shook his head again. His humor had a dark edge to it, but it was infectious. And much preferable to dwelling in the past. “We have enough time. It’s still five minutes until my taxi arrives.”

  “Five minutes is never enough time.” He ran his thumb down the length of her jawline, and laughed softly when her breath caught.

  Savi flushed, but didn’t bother to deny her response. She had no reason to be ashamed of it, and he would’ve known a denial for a lie. And as she wouldn’t pursue it after that night, it didn’t matter what she gave away in the next few minutes.

  Regret tightened her throat. What a disastrous end to a promising evening.

  He’d been watching her silently, but now curiosity formed a ridge between his brows. “And so that is why you’ve forgiven me for Caelum? You’ve discovered I was suffering from flashbacks, and couldn’t discern my memories of Chaos from reality. That I had been starved and terrified beyond reason for the better part of a week. That I resented being shuttled off for my protection, and manipulated by Castleford and Lilith into leaving them to fight the nosferatu by themselves. You’ve analyzed the events surrounding my arrival there, and made excuses for my behavior.”

  She hadn’t known most of that. He hadn’t wanted to go to Caelum? And he’d had moments of hallucination? She tried to fit it into her memories of their time in Caelum, and couldn’t.

  But she finally recovered herself enough to say, “As I have done again this evening—made excuses for you. The blood, the wyrmwolves’ attack.”

  His lids lowered, only a pale arc showing beneath his lashes. “Yes. But tonight’s offense against you was unintentional. Caelum was not. I knew exactly what I was doing when I sent you a part of Chaos.”

  A tight band squeezed at her lungs, and she only managed a pathetic, “Oh.”

  He added quietly, “But I didn’t realize that you’d remember it as anything more than a vague—if rather unpleasant—dream.”

  She stared up at him, her lips parting in surprise. No. She couldn’t have forgotten. It couldn’t have been a dream…or a nightmare.

  Oh, god. Her eyes widened. And how close had she come to fooling herself that it might be a dream, and that she could experience it like every other woman did? That she could forget?

  That would have been disastrous.

  He slid his fingers from her jaw, around the curve of her ear, as if tucking away a stray piece of hair. “I regret that assumption as well, and what it has left in you.” She shivered as his fingertips skimmed the length of her throat. “I would give you its opposite, when we again have the opportunity. Something better to add to your web of memories.”

  She shook her head. “It’s okay.”

  His lips thinned. “Savi—” His teeth clenched, and he bit off the rest. His hand dropped away from her neck. “You cannot forgive everything so easily,” he said with a touch of exasperation.

  She smiled weakly. “You’d be surprised. I don’t like to obsess over the past, particularly offenses and misfortune.”

  “No, and I am glad of it, for it does nothing but create the most tiresome sort of brooding maniac.” His eyes gleamed with sudden humor; behind him, twin headlights cut through the parking lot. The taxi. “Like Castleford.”

  She pushed to her feet, laughing reluctantly. “Yes.”

  Colin shot a quick glance over his shoulder, then strode past her to collect her bag from the front seat of the car. She didn’t argue when he escorted her with his hand upon the small of her back, nor when he leaned down to give the driver her address.

  And, she noted with a quick grin, a few twenty-dollar bills; it was far more than the fare would be. His courtesy—or his guilt—must have overwhelmed his budgetary scruples.

  She lifted the handle of the back door, but his hand on the top of the door frame stopped it from opening.

  “Kiss me good night, Savi.” His gaze rested on her lips. His eyes glittered with suppressed hunger. “I saved your life.”

  Her heart pounded and she weighed and calculated, asked herself a million questions before deciding it was one regret she didn’t want to own.

  He sighed. “You think too—”

  Her mouth covered his, and she swallowed the stupid words he’d been preparing to say. No one could think too much. But they could feel too much, and that frightened her more than he ever could.

  But she didn’t want to think now. Not when he no longer tasted like mint, but tea and tamarind—why tamarind? From her mouth, during their earlier kiss? God, and he wouldn’t even know how she lingered on his tongue.

  His hands settled at the sides of her waist. Somehow he managed to keep his fangs from cutting her lips—though with the greedy abandon with which she fed from his mouth, she wouldn’t have been surprised had she paid in blood. And if she had, she’d no doubt he’d have given her back a taste of heaven.

  But she’d had that before, and couldn’t risk losing it again.

  She turned her head away, pulled free of his arms. Her chest ached, and for a moment she thought she’d never breathe again. But she focused and forced the air into her lungs—and the urge to flee faded.

  He’d only chase her; that’s what a hunter did.

  She opened the door, dared a final glance at him. He stood watching her, his hands tucked in his pockets and a broad smile on his lips that seemed out of proportion to a kiss.

  And she should have known better, but she had to ask. “What is it?”

  “You’ll think me an ass, my sweet Savitri, but I wish Castleford had come to rescue you. I’d have triumphed, seeing his countenance when his little sister kissed me as if her life depended on it.” Her mouth dropped open, but before she could respond, his humor vanished and he said, “But not as much as I do, knowing that you’re falling in love with me.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Demons and Guardians have the ability to shape-shift into any human form; a hellhound can shape-shift into any canine form. The bats and the wolves are all wishful thinking, popularized by vampires and a few misinformed humans.

  —Savi to Taylor, 2007

  Since when did a custom Bentley take a year to produce? It was ridiculous to wait so long; but as much as he hated to sacrifice style for speed, Colin found himself buying a new Jaguar straight off the lot. Then, too exhausted to haggle over the price—and too conscious of the early morning sun streaming through the dealership’s floor-to-ceiling windows—he allowed the pretentious sales manager to ream his pocketbook.

  But felt marginally better when, after receiving the keys, paperwork, and a pint of blood, he left the sod quivering on the floor behind his desk in the throes of a powerful orgasm. Nothing reminded a man of his price—or his place—as much as coming in his pants, be they thrift store cast-offs or the salesman’s four-hundred-dollar Dolce & Gabbana trousers.

  Savi had been right in that.

  Colin paused to rip off the side and rearview mirrors; a body shop could clean up the mess later. He tore out of the car lot just as the assistant-to-the-sod’s startled laughter pealed out, loud enough for Colin to hear her through those damnable huge windows and the steel-and-fiberglass shell of his nicely endowed XK.

  Rage Against the Machine fit his mood and would keep him awake; he slipped in the CD from the pile he’d transferred from the wreck of the older car, and let it screech through him until he reached Hunter’s Point.

  Three blocks away from the warehouse, a motorcycle cut in front of him, the rider’s long black hair streaming behind her. Leather jeans and jacket. Lilith. Colin’s lips pulled back in a grin. She couldn’t have known it was him in this car, but within a second she’d find out.

  He shifted, and shot around her. The visor on her helmet was up, and he saw the brief widening of her eyes before she slapped it down and rocketed ahead.

&
nbsp; God, he loved a good race. And the car cornered brilliantly; he didn’t have to decelerate as much as she did around a turn. The engine roared as he downshifted and careened into the parking lot. He spun the wheel and slid boot-first into his parking space a second ahead of her.

  Laughing and bracing himself against the sun, he got out, then reflexively caught the helmet she pitched at his head.

  “You’re a terrible sport, Agent Milton.” He tossed it back to her, then shaded his stinging eyes with his left hand.

  She snarled something in a language he didn’t know and glared at him. “You were supposed to be here before dawn. Get inside, you gorgeous fuckwit.”

  “Your flattery is sweet music, my dear. I comply.” He walked with her toward the entrance, grateful when they passed into the shadow cast by the warehouse’s bulk. “Where’s Castleford? You’ve become disgustingly inseparable.”

  “Savi’s riding with him, and she’s still sore. He had to go slower than normal.” Lilith swiped her card through the lock, then turned to look at him when he opened the door for her. “You really fucked her over,” she said darkly. “She was crying all night.”

  For an instant, unbearable pain ripped through him, tore at his heart and lungs with venomous teeth. Then he recalled the easy smile Savi had given him before sinking into the taxi’s backseat, her laughing reply.

  Feel free to triumph all you want, Colin. It’s just a phase.

  “You’re lying,” he said with certainty. Yet the tightness in his chest didn’t immediately subside, even when Lilith gave him a demure smile.

  “Of course I am.” But she glanced pointedly at the door. Colin lifted his hand, saw the impression his fingers had left in the handle. “But isn’t that interesting?”

  She swept into the corridor; he trailed after her, waited until Jeeves had verified her identity before remarking, “You’re a bitch, Agent Milton.”

  “You love me.” She shrugged out of her jacket, revealing her black leather corset. He grimaced, and her eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “The trousers are fine, but the top is horrid. I’ll order you something less—” He searched for the right word. It wasn’t tacky…exactly. She carried it better than any other woman possibly could, but it was still intolerable. “—hackneyed. Though just as striking.” Giving demons and vampires a particular image proved useful to her, but it didn’t have to be so uninspired.