A perfect reflection of her face laughed up at her; she rose up on her toes to see better. If a penny could allow him to see his after so many years, would it disappoint him or please him?
“What would you wish for?” she wondered, then sighed in pleasure as his lips skimmed over her spine. The rasp of his zipper was loud in the silence of the courtyard. Her back arched, her hips pressing into the cool marble.
“This. Forever.” He spoke against her shoulder, his skin bare against hers. “Ah, Savitri, look at you. What you do to me.”
She watched as he slid deep, as the ecstasy unraveled over her features. Twice she forgot herself, closed her eyes, and tilted her head back; twice he reminded her to look. And she saw the need he created within her, spiraling, twisting ever tighter.
She couldn’t let go. She didn’t want to do it herself.
“Colin. Please.” Her teeth clenched; she shook under the easy glide of his body into hers, his gentle thrusts.
“You’re open, love. Your shields are down.” He whispered it against her ear; in the pool, the tips of her hair fluttered as the strands caught his breath. “You’re already there.”
She was…she was but she couldn’t go over. “Please.”
“No pain. Not this time.” His lips touched the back of her neck, but only to kiss, to lick. His hand pushed between the marble and her sex, worked at the slick, taut bud. At delicate flesh, stretched around him.
A sob lodged in her throat, but she rocked back against him, took more and more. “Help me.”
He cupped her chin; his thumb pressed against her panting mouth. “Hold on, love.” And he eased the side of his palm between her lips, her teeth. “Take what you need.”
Not her pain, but his; she bit down, heard and felt his groan against her skin. She did that to him. She was the reason for his breathless chant, the swaying of her breasts, the excitement and heat and wet. The fullness deep within her. And there was only him inside her, pushing and pushing…pushing her painlessly over. His hand captured her cry, her wonder.
And then finally pain, though she didn’t need it—the delicious sting accompanied the two punctures in her neck. Her blood rolled across the shape of his tongue, then disappeared from the reflection when he took it in, made it his.
And her last coherent thought was that if anything in Caelum abided by sensible rules, she’d have vanished, too.
If Michael thought it strange that Savi wore a mahogany painting of Caelum over her arms and shoulders—and guessed that, beneath her strappy backless top and long skirt, it covered the rest of her skin—he gave no indication.
It had taken most of twenty-four hours for the color to fully develop, with Savi wrapped up like a mummy for a good portion of it. The color would fade—first from the long stretches of fragile skin on her back, torso and legs, last from her hands and feet—but now, Colin thought it perfect.
And he couldn’t tear his eyes from it. The beauty of Caelum surrounded him, and yet it was the spires rising over her forearms that held him captive, the tower braced by her spine, the curve of a domed temple on her shoulder. The fountain’s wall ribboned around the base of her throat; he’d painted no higher, and it served as an ideal frame for her slim neck, the delicate structure of her face.
It was, he thought as he took her hand and readied for teleportation, well worth the price.
She smiled up at him as Caelum dropped out from beneath their feet…and then he clutched frantically at her wrist, trying to keep her from falling. The iron band of Michael’s arm around his chest held him dangling above a nightmare. Screams split the putrid air like an overripe corpse.
Chaos.
The bodies hanging above them, rotting—their faces frozen into the ceiling.
A loud snap cracked through the shrieks as the Doyen’s wings unfurled from nothing. The rush of freefall jarred to a stop. From the corner of his vision, Colin saw pale skin, membranous wings. Heard a shout of surprise in the Old Language as the nosferatu recognized Michael. The dull shine of their weapons.
“Don’t look,” Colin begged, and grabbed for Savi’s left hand, hauled her up against him. But she was looking—her gaze had focused over his head, her eyes widening. Then vacant and staring, as horror settled in. Her body shuddered, and she kicked wildly at him, tried to yank her hands from his. “Savi, don’t run, don’t—”
“Dragon,” Michael said quietly in warning, but the tone made it a near shout. “Prepare yourself; hold her.”
A flash of scales, the stink of sulphur—the impact ripped Colin and Savi from the Doyen’s grip.
Falling. Rivers of molten rock below; it would be quick and painless and Savi was somewhere else, not running now, and she would never know they burned and burning was better than being eaten, thank God—
“Colin,” she said against his ear, and her arms tightened around him. “He’s coming.”
The dragon? God, no, please no.
He scented Michael’s blood before the Doyen collided with them, a rush of black feathers and bronze skin.
Glass splintered around them into slicing, biting shards. Savi grunted as he landed on her, as they crashed through the Room and skidded into the observation area, the friction of the carpet like fire against his hands.
Savi’s blood. His blood.
The shrieks multiplied, a million different pieces and voices. Chaos wouldn’t let him go, wouldn’t—
“The mirrors,” Savi gasped. “Get rid of them!”
Silence.
Then the rapid beating of her heart, her frenetic breaths. She stifled a sob when he lifted his body from hers. But even as he gingerly rolled her, cried out when he saw the shredded ruin of her back and shoulders, a burst of power knitted her skin and muscle together again.
A psychic touch slid quickly over Colin’s form, and his wounds sealed up.
Michael. Colin’s gratitude died, overwhelmed by rage. Bloody fucking bastard. He wouldn’t need a sword; he’d tear the Doyen’s head from his shoulders.
But when he turned, shock held him immobile.
“I apologize,” Michael said evenly, but he staggered as he climbed to his feet. Crimson soaked his white linen tunic in rough arcs: the shape of the dragon’s bite. The blood still flowed; the wounds didn’t appear deep, and hardly fatal—but even a vampire’s would have stopped bleeding by now. “I had not anticipated how strong your combined anchors to Chaos would be.”
The Doyen frowned down at his side. Behind him, the Room gaped open and empty, blank white walls where the mirrors had been. Vanished into Michael’s cache.
“You can’t heal it?” Savi asked, standing with her arm crossed over her breasts. Holding her shirt on, Colin realized. The glass had sliced the straps.
Freshly repaired caramel skin streaked like scars through the painting of Caelum.
He didn’t trust himself to speak; he’d weep or scream, and either reaction would likely frighten her. He moved behind her, untied the bow dangling useless on one side, and used the extra length to knot it closed.
Simple courtesy—and it was all that held him together.
“Apparently, I cannot,” Michael said. He blinked; obsidian obscured the white and amber of his eyes. “That is…not good.”
Her ribs expanded beneath his hand as Savi sucked in a harsh breath; her small frame shook with sudden, hysterical laughter. Not amusement at the Doyen’s understatement, Colin knew; like him, she was overwhelmed and had either laughter or tears as a release.
Or both.
She wiped her eyes, leaned back against him. “I saw what they were writing,” she said. “The nosferatu, on the ceiling.”
Michael’s head jerked up, his gaze narrowing. “You can remember them—replicate them?”
“Yes. Though not today; I’m not quite ready to go back there yet. Even if it’s just in my mind. But Colin won’t have to take you to see them.”
Christ. Colin forced the tension from his arms, wrapped them around her. “There’s still the bri
dge, sweet.”
“Use a freaking nuclear bomb,” she said. “In and out, two seconds. Blow the whole place to Fuckville.”
This time Colin let himself laugh, pressing his cheek against the top of her brilliant head, inhaling the scent of her spiky hair.
“That may be a solution, but we’ll not do it today.”
“No,” she agreed. “Not today. Home?”
“Yes.” He could think of no other place he’d rather be with her.
“It is probably best that I do not teleport you,” Michael said. Though he looked a bit steadier now, his lips were taut with pain, his face stonier than typical.
The sod was the bloody king of understatement.
The taxi driver probably assumed Colin was sick or sleeping, but whatever concern it might have engendered didn’t prevent him from remarking several times that he’d never experienced such a quiet rush hour. Savi just hoped that he wouldn’t notice the symbols she’d scraped into the rear passenger door.
Colin’s hands were firm on her hips, his head in her lap. The hooded jacket Michael had made protected him from the sun, except for his face.
But Savi thought he held her so close out of a much deeper need than avoiding a burn—and she clutched him as tightly, though she had little to fear now.
Death had been so near—and the danger hadn’t come from Dalkiel, which they’d expected and prepared for, but something within them.
She glanced down at Colin’s fingers. Was the shaking a delayed reaction, or the animal blood? Hard to say, when hers trembled, too; the henna seemed to shiver, barely anchored by the band of platinum.
The light glinted off his ring, and she slid her skirt up, used the cotton to cover his skin.
“Shameless hoyden,” he said, his voice muffled against her now-naked thigh. And he remained down there the rest of the slow trip, though the sun descended past the horizon. Twilight hung a violet backdrop against his house when the taxi dropped them off in the street. She punched in the code to the gate, then, grinning, challenged him to a race and darted through.
Did he let her win, or had he slowed so much?
She forced the question away; as soon as he stepped through the front door, tension stiffened his body. He inhaled, a long draw of breath.
“Dalkiel?” she whispered. The house had been locked, but not spelled. The demon could have come in at any time.
He nodded. Two swords were in his hands; apparently, he’d let her win. He’d retrieved them so quickly his movement had seemed a blur. “Two days old, perhaps. And three vampires—I don’t recognize their physical odor.” He tilted his head, relaxed slightly. “No psychic presence.”
She glanced quickly around; Dalkiel hadn’t destroyed anything. “Taking inventory of what he wants to claim?”
Colin smiled. “I’ll accompany you to the basement, then I’ll make certain the house is secure before I lock up with the symbols. Once you’ve gone in the room, ring Lilith. Ask her to send the pup over.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t open it until I move Mary.”
The portrait in the theater. “I remember,” she said, and followed him down the stairs, her heart thudding. The vampires couldn’t hide their psychic scent from him, but Dalkiel could. “Why don’t you go in with me until Sir Pup gets here?”
“That,” he said as he crossed the theater, “is a splendid idea.”
Colin reached the door; it was half-open, but when he tried to walk through, he slammed into the empty air as if it were solid. He stumbled back.
Two scarlet eyes flared bright from the darkness within.
Oh, god. They’d discovered how to use the symbols.
“Run, Savi—” Colin’s ragged warning broke off as Dalkiel rushed through the door. Their swords clashed, sparking with the force of each blow; within a moment, Colin was at the other side of the room. Drawing the demon away from her, she realized. Or falling back.
Think, Savi. Get help; get weapons. She turned, fumbling for her pendant as she began to run. But she wasn’t as fast as a vampire.
And there were three of them.
This was hell.
Colin sensed the presence of three vampires as they left the shielded room—hungry…starving. Heard Savi’s quickly stifled scream, felt the burst of her psychic scent as her shields dropped. In pain.
Holding her arms, they dragged her into the security room. When the fragrance of her blood and the wet sucking sound of vampires glutting themselves tinged the air, it descended beyond hell.
And Dalkiel was playing with him.
The demon could have killed him. He effortlessly parried Colin’s increasingly desperate thrusts. Dalkiel’s sword had drawn blood from his arms, his chest, his face; each strike potentially debilitating, even fatal.
But he only made certain Colin didn’t get to Savi.
Her scent was fading. Her heartbeat fluttered like a hummingbird’s. Low blood pressure, from exsanguination.
Everything blurred. Sweat or tears or his own blood, dripping into his eyes. Even if he got to her, how could he save her? How could he—
Dalkiel fell back. Fear erupted from his mind, was quickly shielded. And for just an instant, the demon stopped toying with him.
Colin streaked past him. The vampires fed from Savi’s still body; they’d no opportunity to defend themselves.
Had he more time, he’d have gutted each one slowly. Instead, his blade sliced through their necks; Savi’s lifeblood splashed useless to the floor.
“What in Lucifer’s name are you?” Dalkiel stood in the door, his sword dripping. “You did not appear on the monitors as you came in; we thought she came down the stairs alone. I’m pleased that she wasn’t—though torturing her with your face would have been entertaining.”
Colin ignored him, kicked the bodies aside. He fell to his knees, gathered her up; she was limp in his arms. Her throat had been ravaged, her inner thigh. Her breath was thin, bubbling with each short draw.
“Stay,” he said, though he could barely manage that simple word. Don’t leave me here alone.
She heard him; her body shook with the effort she made to speak. He hushed her, curling forward as hollow agony tore through his gut, and rocked soundlessly. He couldn’t think; couldn’t breathe.
He forced himself to do both. He sat up and his gaze fell to her throat—the chain of her pendant snagged on the torn skin. Her gadget; she wouldn’t have forgotten it was there. But had she time to call for help? Had the Doyen been in any condition to teleport?
The signaler button had fallen behind her neck; her eyes opened when he reached for it.
Her brows arched infinitesimally, an unmistakable question. What took you so long?
Good God. He couldn’t live without her.
“You can save her if you transform her.” The glee in Dalkiel’s voice made it a hiss. “Are you so certain your blood will destroy her?”
So this was the demon’s game—not enough that she died, but that Colin had to have hope enough he could save her, only to see his blood kill her anyway.
But he’d nothing to lose; and what other choices had he? He brought his wrist to his mouth, severed the vein.
Michael appeared beside them, his sword in hand. A blood-stained bandage wrapped his bare torso. He glanced down at Savi; healing power knocked Colin forward.
Dalkiel turned and fled.
Savi shuddered, heaved. Her heart stopped for an endless moment before beating a rapid, impossible pace. He clenched his teeth and held on to her; tears itched over his cheeks. Michael had repaired flesh and skin, but he couldn’t give her blood. And too much had been taken. There was no hope—no hope except—
“A Guardian,” he realized. She’d have to serve, but she’d live. “You must make her a Guardian.”
Michael lowered to his heels beside them. “I cannot.”
Her breath rattled to an end. A thin moan rose from Colin’s chest. “The taint—”
“The Rules. She did not sacrific
e herself for another,” Michael said softly. “You must try to transform her. With their blood, if not yours.” He gestured to the vampires lying dead around them, but his face was set with concentration as he stared down at Savi.
Colin stilled. Not these vampires. They weren’t good enough.
“Colin—you must hurry.” The Doyen’s voice was strained. “I can keep her brain cells oxygenated but a short time; if they die before she is transformed, they cannot be repaired.”
“No,” he said, resolution lending him strength, and he lifted her. “I’ll not do it here. Can you teleport us together?”
Michael rose; his gaze never left Savi’s face. “Yes.”
It didn’t matter if he was wrong—Chaos couldn’t be worse than failure. “I need a weapon,” Colin said.
The nosferatu had no chance. Colin fired the venom-filled dart into Ariphale’s neck before it had time to react to their appearance in the detention cell.
The second dart hit its chest as it fell to the floor, paralyzed except for its mind. Its psychic scent burned with rage.
Nosferatu hated nothing so much as vampires; Ariphale would have likely rather died than be used to create one—particularly the human woman who’d humiliated him. A fitting punishment, if not preferable to execution.
And now Colin could only thank the stubborn Washington bureaucrats for delaying it. He shoved his knee into the nosferatu’s throat to hold it down—he’d no idea how powerful the venom was, and Michael needed to attend to Savi—and glanced up.
She lay in the Doyen’s arms. Colin couldn’t hear her heartbeat.
His voice was hoarse. “Give her to me.”
Her slender frame felt heavy without life flowing through it. Awkwardly, he reached for the nosferatu’s wrist; Michael lifted it to his questing fingers.
“Colin, you must prepare yourself if it does not work; the changes in her blood may interfere with the transformation.”
His only reply was to tear open the cold skin, to take in a mouthful of exquisite, dark liquid. An electric storm swept across his tongue—so incredibly strong.
Nosferatu blood had overcome his taint; it would overcome hers.
Demon Moon Page 46