Demon Moon

by Meljean Brook

  He shook his head. “For portions of the day, perhaps, but the cleaning service needs access, and we should have a window of availability for Auntie or SI to reach us.”

  “I can clean. What if the demon shifted into one of their human forms to trick you?” She couldn’t imagine a demon doing something like that—it would consider a cleaning woman too low-caste—but then she hadn’t thought one would concern himself with the likes of her, either.

  With an arch of his brow, Colin said, “No.”

  “Snob.”

  “Yes.” His lips twitched, and he leaned back against the smooth steel wall. “And you’d be too exhausted after cleaning a house of this size for me to take advantage of you as I intend.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t do a very thorough job. You saw my apartment. Do you drink from your cleaning ladies?”

  “No. It’s bad form to eat the help. Would you prefer that I engage a cook for the duration of your stay?”

  “I can do it; I like to, actually.” She returned her attention to the monitors, saw Sir Pup strolling through one of the parlors. “So, if something happens, my first response should be to run down here and lock myself in?” The demon could set fire to the house and she’d still be safe; she wouldn’t have the same protection if she was locked in one of the rooms, or a closet. When Colin nodded, she said, “How will I know if I can come out? Or if you need to be let in? You won’t appear on the video.”

  “If I do, don’t let me in.” But he frowned thoughtfully as he strode forward to stand next to her. He tapped a few keys, brought up the feed from the theater. “The portrait of Mary Shelley, here—” He pointed to a painting beside the large plasma screen. “—I’ll remove it, place it behind the sectional sofa.”

  “Okay. I’ll also get us panic buttons, and link them via satellite to SI. Maybe a personal alert for Michael to wear when he’s not in Caelum. If the shields are down, they should receive a signal, and he or Selah could teleport in. I might be able to incorporate them into our watches, or maybe a pendant, so that they’re always on us.”

  She rubbed her forehead, mentally running through the security, looking for any holes she could plug. There were holes, a lot of them, but short of imprisoning themselves in the room and waiting, there was little else they could do to prepare. Fleeing—to England or elsewhere—was tempting, but would make it more difficult to protect themselves.

  And it would allow Dalkiel to return underground. If they remained in San Francisco, it gave the Guardians a better chance of locating him.

  “Is it too much?” Colin said quietly.

  “No. I’m just frustrated, because no matter what we do, there’s going to be something we’ve missed. And I’m a little scared.”

  “Scared? Bloody hell, Savi, I have tried for months, and it is my gangster demon double who manages it?” He shook his head in mock exasperation, but his smile faded as soon as her laughter tapered off. “Don’t lose that fear, sweet. It’ll keep you sharp and aware. We know where we are vulnerable, and where we are secure—but to take either for granted is to court disaster. Our moment of greatest vulnerability will be leaving the house and traveling to Polidori’s every evening. We’ll vary our schedule, but they’ll eventually know to look for us.”

  “Does Polidori’s have a similar security system?” This one resembled the setup at SI; Colin had probably contracted with the same firm who had installed the security at the warehouse.

  “No. You’ll use the symbols in the suite and watch through the monitors. We’ll have Sir Pup with us; I’ll instruct him to remain with you.”

  She nodded, looked around the small shelter, and released a long breath. Half of her life spent avoiding the urge to run in order to protect herself, and now it would be her best defense.

  “So what exactly will we be doing at the club?”

  He heaved a great sigh and tilted his face toward the ceiling, with an expression close to pain tightening his features. “Conforming.”

  But for his hair, Colin’s life-sized portraits could have been a study in men’s high fashion from the early nineteenth century to the turn of the twentieth—and a study in his moods. Savi trailed slowly down the stairs, memorizing each one and trying to ascertain the cause of the niggling sensation that each one was not quite right.

  The third: Colin in fawn breeches and emerald waistcoat, smiling close-lipped; the proportions of his face and body were exact. Perfect. The eighth: The line of his jaw as he seemed to laugh at himself—or the observer—his fangs a startling counterpoint to the conservative black suit. The tenth: His angry glower tightening the skin around his mouth, his brows heavy and dark over his eyes.

  And the very last: Situated at the base of the stairs, and the only one in which he wore modern clothing—though his hair still overlong and curling at his nape and around his ears—cruelty in the icy gray stare, the mocking tilt to his lips.

  “Is my nose too long in this one?”

  Startled, Savi turned her head. Colin stood on the riser above her, leaning casually against the banister, looking up at the painting. Her mouth dried, and she took a few moments to let her gaze travel the length of him before she managed, “No. It’s exactly right.”

  A black shirt clung to his torso, the long sleeves loose at the cuffs; black leather jeans and boots finished the ensemble. Conforming, but not outside the boundaries of his personal taste. The metal rings studding his belt might have been a concession to Goth sensibilities, but she thought it fit his own; he looked lean, strong, dangerous—and ridiculously chic.

  She clasped her hands together to prevent herself from touching him. Though they’d spent the past few hours together, first in the kitchen as she prepared her meal, then in the studio as he painted and she set up her computer equipment in the adjoining tower room, he’d not approached her.

  She didn’t mind waiting until after they’d returned from Polidori’s; the anticipation would be almost unbearable by then, its own sweet pain.

  He slanted an amused glance at her. “Lilith lied to me, then. Are any of them wrong? But for the hairstyle.”

  She eyed his hair in silent envy; it looked as if he’d pushed his fingers into the thick strands, tugged them forward, and left it sticking up in a haphazard, golden tangle. Why wouldn’t she be surprised if that was all he’d done? And it had taken her nearly twenty minutes to gel and mess her hair to her satisfaction in front of the single mirror in the house: in her bathroom, hidden behind a wall panel.

  He’d retreated to his upstairs suite—the one set of rooms he hadn’t yet shown her.

  With a sigh, she turned back to the paintings. Again, that feeling of not quite right hit her, and she hesitated before she shook her head. “Not really. Not wrong, exactly.”

  “It’s important to me,” he said quietly. “You’ll not damage my artist’s ego by telling me I’ve done it incorrectly.”

  “No, it’s not that.” She stepped forward, studying the pitiless curve of his mouth. “Everything’s technically right. You’ve even captured your expressions, like in this one.”

  “You’ve seen me like this?” Dismay colored his voice.

  “In Auntie’s, the night we first met. A couple of times in Caelum. At Polidori’s. In the parking lot two nights ago.” Had it only been two days since he’d told her she was falling in love with him? How far she’d gone in that short time.

  He was silent, and she turned, lifting her brow in question. His lips quirked, but no humor touched his eyes. “I’m not always a kind man, Savitri, and I cannot apologize for it. But I’m sorry I directed it at you.”

  “I know. I’m not fishing for an apology.” She ran her hands over her arms. “It was there last night, too. When you saw what had happened to Nani and told me who’d done it. And I didn’t mind—was glad of it even—because I felt the same way.”

  He hauled in a deep breath. “Perhaps you won’t be once I’ve told you what I did to them.”

  Them. Three teenaged boys under the influen
ce of a demon. He’d told her they’d been caught, that they were in SI’s custody, but not spoken of anything he’d done specifically.

  What could be so terrible that he was concerned about her reaction? “What did you do?”

  His gaze held hers, his features without expression, but she could almost feel the tension holding him still. “I punished them with Chaos. The same way I gave it to you.”

  “Oh.” She blinked up at the portrait again, tried to imagine their terror. Tried to weigh it against hers, and what Nani must have gone through. “I think I’m glad of that, too. It’s appropriate—though it must have felt like shit for you.”

  “A bit. I’ll not likely use it often.” His voice, his posture relaxed slightly. “With luck, we’ll convince the vampire community not to test me…or my consort. You look edible, by the by. I chose well; you carry the image spectacularly.”

  She blushed, glanced down at herself. She’d felt a little ridiculous when he’d given her the low-slung, white miniskirt, the boots that laced up to her knee, and a matching top that covered her arms and neck but left everything between her navel and hips bare. And doubly idiotic when he’d topped the pile of clothing with a pair of sai sheaths that strapped to her thighs, and a long white coat that fluttered behind her like a pair of wing tips as she walked.

  But wearing it was oddly comfortable, not ridiculous. Like his clothing, this wasn’t her typical style…but it wasn’t not her, either.

  “You realize I’m dressed almost exactly like Angelika from DemonSlayer?”

  He nodded, and his eyes rose from the strip of skin at her waist. “Yes. We’ll use it to our advantage. They will be able to sense that you are human, but once it’s become known you created the game, and after you’ve demonstrated in some small way your strength, they won’t know exactly what to make of you—and will likely fear challenging you. For all they know, the character and her powers are based on you. The game and Castleford’s book have achieved something of a cult status amongst the community, their one source of information about their origins; knowing that you produced both will be an added protection.”

  She bit her lip, somewhat uncomfortable with finding security in something that killed two of her friends—but forced that discomfort away. “Okay.”

  Colin sighed, reached forward, and pulled her against him, dropping a quick kiss to her mouth. “If I could leave you here, Savitri, I would.”

  He must have mistaken the reason for her hesitation. “I’d rather go with you. Aside from that small display, I just sit there?”

  He rubbed his cheek against hers, his shadowed jaw rough against her skin. “No; I need you to look and talk, establish yourself as a source of knowledge. Tell them any truth they want to hear, answer any questions but for my connection to Chaos and the extent of your abilities. And keep your shields as high as possible.”

  His mouth drifted toward her ear as he spoke, down. The neckline of her shirt rose almost to her jaw, the white silk clinging to her throat; his tongue moistened the skin along the edge. Her knees weakened. Her heart thudded against her chest.

  “I will,” she whispered.

  He pulled back abruptly, breathing hard. “Oh, Christ. Not yet. We’ll not leave the house if I give in now.” His hands clenched on the banister behind him. He offered her a strained smile. “It would be easier if I didn’t want you so desperately. Though not quite as pleasurable.”

  She stepped away, raised her psychic blocks. They’d been partially down, her natural state that he seemed to enjoy for its presence, though not an overwhelming one. He made a low sound that could have been relief or disappointment. Perhaps both; if so, it echoed hers—the disappointment that they’d had to put the arousal between them aside, the relief that he could. It wouldn’t have boded well for the evening if he was constantly tormented by her scent.

  “Will I be too much of a distraction at Polidori’s?”

  “No. And I need your eyes; you’ve seen the two vampires who followed us, and your memory is an advantage I’d be a fool not to use. I need to catalogue the vampires there, and who talks with whom. I doubt the demon will show, but his lackeys might.” His mouth flattened as if he’d recalled something unpleasant. “Will it hurt terribly to re-create those memories later?”

  “No. Not if I’m paying attention.” At his questioning look, she explained, “I only have to anchor to the emotion when it’s something I didn’t notice—like the license plates. I saw them, but I didn’t really see them. If I’d read the plate, it would have been no effort to remember the number without narrowing it down by tripping through my brain. It’s the same with connecting one bit of information to another; if I’m actively doing it, I’ll notice similarities. Otherwise, it might never occur to me—it’s just random trivia. Like your house. I never thought of the house in the picture I saw on a website five years ago as being the same one listed in your data, though I knew both addresses…but if I’d considered it even once, I’d have immediately known.”

  She glanced up at the painting again. Two hundred years, and he still had a precise memory of his features. His long line of portraits couldn’t account for the accuracy from the different angles, the expressions.

  “I frequently observed myself in the mirror,” he said, obviously guessing the nature of her thoughts.

  She smiled, but looked at the portrait with new eyes. “Perhaps that’s the difference—what’s wrong. You’ve only seen yourself as a human. They’re all…flat, I guess. There’s something missing. This is more like Dalkiel than you.” Unsure she could elaborate better, she shrugged and said, “No one dropped anything when he came into the café.”

  “I’ve seen myself as a vampire. I know what you’re speaking of—it’s an effect of the sword after the transformation. What you saw last night is, I imagine, a focused version of it—Lilith said it was psychic in nature. So you are likely correct; a painting can’t produce the same effect.” His brows drew together when she turned to him, her gaze searching his face, her lips parted in surprise. “I’ve always been splendidly handsome, Savitri, but I’ve not always been this.”

  She shook her head, certain she’d misunderstood. “You’ve seen yourself in a mirror? After you were turned?”

  “Yes.” Was that embarrassment in the casual lift of his shoulder, the tilt of his smile? “I’m no stranger to moments of idiocy.”

  “When did you begin seeing Chaos?”

  “The summer of 1816. June fourteenth, to be exact—after a house party in which the houseguests thought a séance and invoking a curse purchased from a Gypsy would be a brilliant diversion. We determined that as a vampire, and a member of the paranormal set, I was the most appropriate person to recite it. Idiot that I was, I agreed—and finished it up with the dramatic use of my blood to write the necessary symbol. In hindsight, it was an embellishment I should have refrained from making.”

  Her eyes widened. “A Gypsy curse? What did it say? What language was it in? What was the symbol? Have you tried to find a way to reverse it?”

  Colin briefly caught his tongue between his teeth and grinned at her, his gaze bright with humor. “No. I’ll not answer these; such things ought not to be played with, Savi. I’ve learned that lesson well.”

  “Have you asked Michael? Or Hugh? Do they know how it happened?”

  “I imagine so, as Castleford was there directly after.” His face darkened slightly. “No matter. The anchor to Chaos is from the sword, and has been in me since the transformation; the mirrors are a minor inconvenience compared to being there.”

  Minor? She could not believe that, not after experiencing the emotions of it, seeing his aversion to the Room, and hearing from Jake and Drifter about the effect it had on him. And it had forced him into seclusion for almost a century. Why should he carry the burden of it? “But maybe—”

  “No, Savi.” He softened the denial with a kiss to her fingers, and led her across the foyer. “No. The consequences of that night were heavier than simply mirr
ors and reflections. I’ll not risk you to them, even to satisfy your curiosity.”

  “What other consequences were there?”

  He wiped away the blood from the symbols, turned to look at her before opening the door. “Three men dead by my hand; not intentionally, but dead all the same.”

  She held his gaze. “You can’t protect me from that; I’ve already killed three people with my stupidity. I’ve just not paid for it.”

  CHAPTER 21

  On the Continent, finding one or two companions and living amongst a community has become all the rage. They have come to resemble poets huddling about in self-congratulating and, at the same time, melancholy societies. I do not know how they manage to be both—only that they do.

  —Colin to Ramsdell, 1823

  The younger son of an earl, with no ambition to take orders or serve in the Foreign Office—and after his transformation, unable to marry—Colin had had two options to maintain his lifestyle: to kill his older brother and his brother’s heir to gain a title and fortune, or to be so handsome and his manners so engaging that, even if his family disowned him, even though he might become destitute, the rest of Society would welcome and support him out of simple appreciation for beauty. But though Colin had little affection for his brother Henry, his nephew had been too adorable to strangle; despite his status as one of the bloodsucking undead, his family had not cast him to the dogs—or the duns; and Society had never rejected him, though eventually he’d left it.

  He determined he was either the luckiest sod alive, or he was simply that charming and beautiful. Perhaps both. Savi falling in love with him he ascribed to the first—but to win over the vampire population, he intended to utilize the latter.