Demon Moon

by Meljean Brook

  Incoherent with need, with love, with astonishment.

  And still in his trousers.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Scrolls are in Latin, and contained in a library in Caelum. They contain information about each nonhuman race and a history of the Guardian corps, but I’ve only heard of them secondhand. I’ve never seen them.

  —Savi to Taylor, 2007

  Savi neatly avoided the morning after by sleeping through it. Was it possible to have the same awkwardness, rolling out of bed at four in the afternoon? It helped that Colin wasn’t there; she could groan and shuffle and pretend later that she’d awoken fresh. Maybe even perky.

  She stood under the shower spray for an eternity, letting the hot water ease some of her soreness, then stretching carefully against the tile to work out the remaining ache in her muscles. A citrus-scented soap helped invigorate the rest of her, though not as miraculously as television commercials suggested, and she discovered she was still tender.

  It had been worth it.

  There weren’t any mirrors in the bathroom, but she didn’t need one to see the silly, satisfied smile that wouldn’t leave her lips as she brushed her teeth. Didn’t need one to know that the thick blue towel left her hair a spiky mess, and that Colin wouldn’t care. Didn’t need one to see how well the scrape on her breast had healed, along with the tiny bite on the inside of her thigh.

  She would have liked some clothes, though. The oversized towel worked well enough, covered her from chest to knees, but wouldn’t make a fantastic afternoon-after impression.

  At least she was warm; the marble floors in the bathroom were heated, her feet almost toasty. A strange luxury for a vampire who kept his house the temperature of a meat locker. Had he simply agreed to a suggestion by the contractor, or intended it for guests? She’d had the impression he didn’t invite many people here—even before the fire had destroyed a good portion of it.

  She sighed, unable to figure it out. She’d just have to ask him.

  Weak afternoon sunlight spilled through the main rooms; he’d left the drapes pulled back. She found a white silk robe folded on the bench at the foot of the bed, and she slipped it on, studying the layout of the suite.

  The windows faced east, out over the park. She’d fallen asleep in his arms, but he must have risen before dawn to avoid the sun. To paint? Evidence of it surrounded her, filled the walls. Portraits of men, women, and children in varying modes of fashion, though none of Colin. Landscapes. All photorealistic in their attention to detail, the execution. Absolutely incredible.

  She rolled up the sleeves of the robe as she walked toward the door and brushed away the dried blood over the symbols. Rock music thrummed through the room.

  If that came from his studio on the other end of the house, he hadn’t been lying. He was loud.

  She almost stumbled over Sir Pup, stretched out on his belly in front of her door, his paws over his ears. He looked up at her mournfully, then trailed behind her as she followed the pounding bass. The music room, with walls a soft tangerine, wooden floors, and thick rugs. More paintings. Another room, papered in lemon yellow—perhaps a parlor, as it seemed to have no use but to look beautiful, with spindly legged furniture upholstered with ivory damask. High, airy ceilings arched over delicate chandeliers. Though a side door, a glimpse of a billiards room.

  Her feet padded against the hardwood floors, across a rug, quicker now that she approached the tall doors. Not running, though the beat of her heart and the music seemed to hurry her along. One of the wide doors was open—only an inch or two, but she took it as an invitation.

  Her eyes had to adjust to the darkness. The windows in the music room and parlor had been uncovered; here, heavy drapes blocked the sunlight, left the studio in shadow. She hesitated, until movement and a red blinking light at the far end of the room caught her attention.

  Colin sat atop a five-foot stepladder. The volume of the music fell—he’d turned to lower it with a remote control. The snowy white of his shirt shone through the dark, but the rest of him was in silhouette.

  And the awkwardness she’d hoped to avoid descended over her, left her floundering for something to say. It would have been easier if she could see him, read his expression—easier if she wasn’t aware of how he could see hers. She wrapped her arms around her middle, tried not to fidget, and was relieved when the click of the remote being set down against the ladder gave her something to latch on to: his recent obsession with British punk, but particularly this group. It seemed another contradiction that she couldn’t parse into components that made sense.

  “I wouldn’t have thought you a fan of The Clash.”

  And the instant it came from her mouth she wanted to take it back. There was only one way he would interpret her comment.

  “Because I’m everything they abhorred? An aristocrat who owns a large international corporation, exploiting the poor and underprivileged?” He said it lightly, but without seeing his face she couldn’t tell if she’d offended him.

  She closed her eyes. It didn’t only sound insulting, but also hypocritical. Internally berating herself for her stupidity wouldn’t accomplish anything, though, and she strove to match his tone as she replied, “I suppose I am, too. Of the Boston Murrays, creator of a game that I licensed to a corporation larger than yours—a game that rots young American minds, even as outsourced and underpaid foreign employees toil away to manufacture it. I may be worse, actually; no one has died because of Ramsdell Pharmaceuticals.” She took a deep breath when he didn’t respond. “I just meant it’s something unexpected. And that I don’t have you figured out yet.”

  She waited for what seemed forever, but must have only been a few seconds before he said, “And you surprise me as well, my sweet Savitri. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be aware of their social agenda, as they disbanded when you were all of twelve years old.”

  “Well, I’ve been with a lot of guys.” Oh, god. Stop, Savi. That wasn’t exactly the best thing to say the afternoon-after. She rushed to explain. “I don’t know why, but men seem driven to educate women about ‘real’ music, and to push their tastes on to our poor little brains. The Clash has been pushed on to my brain since I first started dating, and depending on the guy, warring with The Sex Pistols for The Greatest Punk Group Ever.”

  “I’ve no intention of—” His voice shook with laughter, and he broke off. Brief silence filled the room as the song track switched from “London Calling” to “Straight to Hell.” “I vow not to push my tastes on to you,” he finished.

  Relaxing back against the door, she smiled. “They’d have been horrified by you, anyway. Is this a compilation—and on random play? You’ve ruined the artistic integrity of the original album.” She rolled her eyes.

  His teeth gleamed through the darkness. “I hardly give a thought to what another’s artistic vision is. Ninety percent of every album is rubbish. I can’t carry everything forward, or I’d have a basement full of vinyl trash. So I keep only what speaks to me, and only the best of it.”

  “Ah, the price of immortality: a music library stocked with Greatest Hits albums. Do you paint in the dark?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mind if I open the lights?” Perhaps he preferred to keep his work hidden until it was finished. She knew a few digital artists who couldn’t tolerate anyone seeing a work in progress—to Savi’s regret, as the process of it often interested her more than the product.

  “Please do. I shall be down in a few moments.”

  Anticipation quickened her heartbeat, and she found the switch in the same location as the one in her rooms. Were the upper floors of the house laid out symmetrically? This must have been a matching suite, before he’d renovated—

  “Oh, holy shit.” She turned a slow spin, her mouth dropping open, her head tilting up. Caelum surrounded her, hung in multiple frames of varying sizes, but there were more. So many more—large canvases stacked six and seven deep around the room, leaning against the walls. And not all of
Caelum.

  Moving to the nearest, a wide landscape that stood as high as her chest, she pulled it forward, looked at the one behind it, and burst into laughter. Hugh and Lilith, as they’d been before she’d known them: a crimson-skinned Lilith in her horned and winged demonic form, standing next to Hugh, her forked tongue snaking out to tease his ear. Hugh, appearing all of seventeen but for the long-suffering expression on his face, wearing a brown robe belted with a rope, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Her laughter died. She had seen him like this, and with his wings. Once, when he’d thrown himself in front of her, then flown with her to the hospital, leaving her parents and her brother behind. There’d been nothing that he could have done to help them.

  She forced that memory away.

  “I’d intended to give it to Castleford,” Colin said from beside her, wiping his hands on a towel. Attired in a white dress shirt and black trousers, he gave the impression of immaculate elegance—despite the casual touches in the two buttons undone at his collar, the unfastened sleeve cuffs, and his bare feet. “But I’m not certain if Lilith would kill me.”

  She tore her gaze from the hollow of his throat. “You’re incredibly good,” she said, and moved on to the next. A smiling woman with coiled blond hair and an empire-waisted dress, holding a baby on her lap.

  “I ought to be after two hundred years. That’s Emily and their first boy, Hugh. I protested the name; I thought it should be mine.” Amusement deepened his voice.

  “You didn’t paint this in the nineteenth century.” The edge of the canvas was brilliantly white, the staples shining.

  “No. Most were destroyed; this is what I’ve managed to produce since the fire. Some others, as well, but the majority of the paintings in the house I had shipped from the attics at Beaumont Court. These have been brought from Polidori’s and storage in the past week; I’ve not yet sorted through them.”

  Her eyes widened, and she glanced around the room again. “All of this in eight months?”

  “I’m limited only by the oils’ drying time. I can paint very quickly. But most of these I’ll toss; they aren’t worth keeping. Even I can produce rubbish.”

  She shook her head in disbelief as he gestured to the next canvas. It seemed perfect to her. “That’s the house at your family’s estate; I’ve seen pictures of it on the tourist website.” A stately mansion, set behind rolling lawns and framed by gardens. “Nani’s going to love it.”

  “Yes. It’s difficult to do otherwise.”

  Swallowing, she said, “I’m sorry about what I suggested last night.”

  “As you should be. It is my nature to be vain and selfish, but it is not a reflection of my family or my class. I would have been the same had I been born in a poorhouse.”

  “How do you know that?”

  His brows drew together. “Look at me.”

  She grinned, but still felt the need to explain, “The one time we ever visited my grandparents, it was only because my grandfather laid a guilt trip on my dad because of all the money spent on his med school, the nice living he’d received. And the visit was a disaster—they had this huge place, but we got stuck in the guest house, and only my dad was invited up to the main house. My dad was infuriated by the insult to my mom; it was one of the few times I’d seen him really pissed.”

  “So you assumed my family would only accept Auntie into their home out of obligation for my financial support, resent it, and then—unwittingly or deliberately—insult her? Savitri,” he said, “for all of your intelligence, you can be incredibly blind where your nani is concerned.”

  “I know. I should have remembered what you’d said: That you’re their beloved Uncle Colin. That it wasn’t obligation, but a willingness to assist a member of the family when he asked them for help.”

  “Just as you would for Auntie.”

  “Yeah.” With a sigh, she pushed the canvases forward. “I need to call her, let her know we’re okay, and make sure she’s settled.”

  “I did this morning; it’s after midnight in Derbyshire now. She’s well.” A triumphant smile played around his mouth. “You recognized the house; you’ve searched the Internet for information related to me?”

  She refused to blush. “Yes. If you can eavesdrop, then I can use Google.”

  “It seems a fair trade. Though I would answer anything you ask; you need not turn to a computer.”

  “I wasn’t exactly happy with you at the time; a computer was safer.”

  “Yet you still looked.”

  “Yes.” She met his gaze. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  His eyes closed. The hand towel dropped to the floor, and his palm cupped her chin, tilted her mouth up. His left arm wrapped around her waist. “Neither could I, Savi.” A soft kiss to her forehead. “Each visit to Castleford’s was a new torment. How you ran the moment I arrived.” Her cheek. “I could hear you in your flat when you didn’t leave, and how I listened for your return when you did.” Her lips. “Your scent everywhere. Torture, but I couldn’t stay away.”

  Her chest aching, she caught his mouth before he could say more; it would be worse after a month of this. Much worse. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, too.

  Think, Savi. But she didn’t see a way out of it. Nor did she want to waste this opportunity, live with the regret. What was she going to do when the month was up, if they survived the demon?

  Better to worry about surviving the demon, first. The rest would hardly matter if they didn’t.

  She broke the kiss, tucked her face against his chest. “I almost contacted you once, after you gave Lilith the painting of Caelum; I was going to commission one.”

  His hands smoothed the length of her back, sending shivers of awareness down her spine. “Had I but thought you’d accept anything from me, I would have showered you in them. Any you wish are yours to keep; you’ve only to tell me which are your favorites.”

  “I’ll pick one out later.” She stepped away, checked the robe’s belt to make certain it was still in place and her neckline closed. It wouldn’t do to tease him—or herself. “Will you show me what you’re working on now?”

  “Of course. Are you well? You’re walking like a sailor just landed.”

  This time she couldn’t halt her blush. “A little sore.”

  Colin turned and led her toward a giant canvas, at least eight feet tall, ten feet wide. No wonder he’d needed the ladder. “I intended to stop after the second time.”

  “I’m glad I disrupted every one of your intentions, then.” She studied the canvas. He must have recently begun this one; sepia tones and dark shadows created shapes, but not any detail. Four prominent vertical lines, with the bottom half blocked out. “I’m not impressed.”

  Laughing softly, he collected a sketch pad from the shelf beside the ladder, flipped it open. “I’m working from this. But if it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll not finish it. Not where you can see it and protest, that is.”

  She smiled, but it faded as he showed her the sketch. Not even a sketch—though in pencil, it was as detailed as a black-and-white photograph. He must have drawn it that morning as she slept lying on her stomach, her fingers curling into the pillow just beneath her chin, the pale sheet draped over her hips. Her limbs were sleek and toned, the material surrounding her luxurious; textured by his pencil, even the scars on her back appeared lovely, as if they’d been designed for her skin.

  Her lips parted on a sigh, and she glanced up at his face, saw the hopeful glint in his eyes, the uncertain half-smile.

  “I suddenly understand why you have so many self-portraits.” To be seen in such a way; it stole her breath. “Can I have this sketch when you’re done?”

  “Yes. Or I can paint two.”

  “Will you put yourself in mine?”

  He stared at her. “You’ve no idea the effect you have on me. If I trusted the bloodlust not to make its appearance, I’d kiss you senseless.”

  But he did not, taking back the sketch pad and flipping to the n
ext page. His pencil flew across it before he turned the page toward her. The same scene, though more crudely rendered—and this time Colin was in the bed, dressed in a cape and tuxedo, leaning over her sleeping form with a rapacious grin and his fangs glistening.

  She bit her lips to hold back her giggles. “Naked.” And couldn’t contain them when his hand moved in a blur, drew a penis extending from the tuxedo’s now-open fly.

  Grinning a bit like his double in the sketch, he slapped the pad closed and tossed it aside, then took her hand. “I shall paint us reenacting the whole of the Kama Sutra.”

  “Or we can just reenact it.”

  “Both. Come along. We’ve much to do, and I have much to show you before night falls.”

  After the attack from Beelzebub and the nosferatu the previous year, Colin had apparently rebuilt with defense in mind. Every room and closet on the first and second floors had the symbols ready for activation and weapons hidden behind wall panels and in cupboards—even in the furniture.

  In the basement, once Savi had finished panting over the theater and shelves of DVDs, he led her to a small room that could have doubled as a bomb shelter, and that served as the heart of his security system.

  She took in the bank of video monitors, the computers, and fell in love all over again. “Does this work with the spell?”

  “The monitors and the security controls, but no outside communication. However, the spell shouldn’t be necessary; no demon could break through the steel walls or the door. Perhaps you might need it if you don’t have time to engage the locks, but even if the power’s cut, a generator will provide the backup.” Colin pointed to a metal cabinet. “Enough blood for three weeks, food for six. Oxygen tanks, if air runs low and the intake has been compromised.”

  “You’ve prepared for humans?”

  “Lilith, Castleford, and you. Anyone else I’d shove out the door.” He paused. “But for Auntie.”

  She chewed on her lip, thought it over. “So at night, when we are home, we have the symbols active over the entire house so that Sir Pup is free to protect Lilith and Hugh. And we’ll keep my bedroom spelled if I’m sleeping during the day, and Sir Pup available to you as a backup if Dalkiel decides to attack you.” That thought made her uneasy; she didn’t like that the demon would ever have access to Colin. As a human, she only had to fear the vampires; Colin had to protect himself from demon and vampires, night and day. “Can’t we leave the spell active at all times when we’re home?”