Demon Angel

by Meljean Brook

  But he could not. He’d seen the demon—Lilith—and Michael’s miraculous transformation into a thing of terrible beauty and power.

  “Evidence? A figure in a night-filled courtyard?” She drew a sudden breath. “Your certainty is not because you saw me—he showed you what he was.”

  “Aye.”

  Her snort of laughter echoed through the passageway. “You trusted his appearance?”

  Sparks flew above his head. He ducked, belatedly realizing that she’d only scratched the stones with her fingernails. She did it again, and in the flash of light he saw her: a lithe, strong figure clinging to the spiraling stairs with her feet, her black hair trailing toward the floor. Another flash, and her wings spanned the width of the stairwell; horns smooth as polished jet curled from forehead to ears. Fangs gleamed over her lips.

  Darkness again. He blinked away the spots that crawled behind his eyes, willed away his unease. “You have a mummer’s dramatic flair. Perhaps the entertainers in the hall could apprentice you.”

  She laughed and struck the wall; the sparks landed on the resinous torchhead and caught. The tiny flames slowly climbed higher.

  He turned back toward her and froze.

  She stood on the stairs, though he’d not heard her movement. Her face was Lady Isabel’s, as was the blond hair tumbling down her back. Naked skin appeared golden in the dim light. White, feathery wings waved behind her, stirring the air around them.

  “I must concede that I understand your fascination with the lady,” she said. “I like her myself. Though nothing surprising passes her lips, everything she says is charming. Packaged in such innocence, ’tis hard to resist, is it not?”

  He swallowed hard, backed up onto the next riser. There was nothing angelic in her smile.

  “Shall we bargain?”

  To Lilith’s surprise, he halted his retreat. The corners of his mouth quirked into a smile, but she could not read the emotion behind it. Whether amusement or self-deprecation, it did not please her. Could the man do nothing she predicted? He did not drive himself mad questioning what he’d seen, nor was he weakened by self-doubt and fear. He should have been fleeing—or falling prostrate, overcome with desire for the body she’d assumed.

  She deliberately embodied his fantasy, his ideal. Chivalry and his code of honor should have repulsed him; his love for Isabel should have drawn him near. Yet he smiled and remained where he was.

  Frustration fueled her next words. “Or shall I simply make you beg?”

  “If I beg, it shall be of my own volition, not forced by a demon.”

  His smile widened, and she had no trouble deciphering his triumph; she pursed her lips and studied him, trying to maintain her annoyance. Michael must have told him that his free will would be honored.

  That the Guardian had told Hugh anything at all settled uneasily in her chest; she’d thought Michael had been protecting Hugh, but if he’d revealed all, ’twas possible he considered the young knight a candidate for the transformation.

  She shook herself. She should not care if Hugh sacrificed his life. A woman led by her heart could be called foolish; a demon who did the same courted Punishment.

  But the tightness the thought of his death created beneath her breast did not quickly fade.

  His gaze narrowed upon her face, as if weighing her response and calculating his. Unusual, that he was so calm, that he sought ways to thwart her, and tried to remain little influenced by his emotions. She’d let herself be discovered before, but—if not full of anger and fear—men typically became sycophants, courting her power in hopes of securing their own. They’d never presented this challenge, nor gazed upon her as if he were her equal.

  “What manner of men are you accustomed to, that you anticipate so few responses from them: lust, anger or fear?”

  Though she could have screamed in frustration at his acumen when he should have been terrified beyond reason, she fixed her smile and ran her fingers over the pale skin on her hip. “I’m not accustomed to men who have as little drive between their legs as a eunuch.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled with laughter, though he did not give it sound.

  She bit her lip to keep from letting loose her own. Cerberus’s balls, could the man not take offense at anything? Would he twist every insult to find the humor in it? He looked exceedingly young, unrepentantly so, like a boy caught stealing a pasty from the kitchens and who licked his fingers during the scolding.

  “You know your beauty,” she said. “If you give me neither lust, anger, nor fear, would you indulge me and reveal a hidden vanity?”

  He flushed with embarrassment, but did not protest her claim. He did not even suffer from false modesty—and she should not be charmed by it. Yet she delighted in the blush that heated his cheeks. She could have told herself she found pleasure in his discomfort, but such would have been a lie. She simply took pleasure in provoking a reaction that he couldn’t hide behind calculation and calm.

  Smiling, he said, “I have a bargain to offer, my lady.”

  Her eyes widened, and her hands flexed convulsively at her sides. Her tongue seemed heavy in her mouth, and she was slow to respond. “A bargain,” she echoed finally.

  “Truth for truth.”

  To enter willingly into a bargain, knowing . . . She laughed silently. Too certain of himself, he was. ’Twas not physical vanity that she could exploit, but his intellectual vanity. His conviction that he would not succumb to her, that he could remain separate from their dealings. Did he think to play with the demon’s tools and not be worked on in return?

  Only fair that she should warn him.

  She didn’t.

  She pretended doubt. “Truth for truth? You get the better bargain. My truth is valuable to you, whereas yours is nothing to me.”

  He raised a brow and smiled again, as if amused by her lie. Aye, he was too certain—but not without insight. A combination of imprudent bravery and cleverness.

  “Truth for truth,” she agreed.

  He grinned as if she’d fallen into a web of his making rather than the reverse and took her hand in his. She allowed him to lead her up the stairs, circling round and round, feeling uncharacteristically dizzy and out of sorts—and excited, as if she were a girl following her lover to a hideaway. She stifled the urge to transform so her appearance would fit the sudden playfulness that overcame her: into a maid with a circlet of flowers in her hair and white gown, trailing velvet ribbons. What would he think, should he look behind him?

  Bemused by the fancy that took hold—resenting that bemusement—she became the demon. At the click of talons against the stone steps, he glanced back. The crimson glow from her eyes limned his features; his lips tightened, but he did not let go her hand. He continued up and up, allowing her touch though her fingers ended in claws, her wingtip scraped the wall beside them, and her form declared her a monster.

  What would bring comfort to a woman such as you? What would be kind?

  She blinked away that memory, absurdly grateful when they reached the top and entered the tower chamber. Moonlight spilled weakly through the shutters, illuminating the family’s private chapel. Using the pale light to navigate, he led her to a cushioned bench on the far wall.

  “Father Geoffrey is in the hall,” he said with a lift of his brows. “Despite the Lateran Council’s rulings that suggest they avoid such entertainments.”

  Pursing her lips, she glanced from him to the bench.

  He answered her wordless query with a laugh and a shake of his head. “The stairs are much too uncomfortable. It would be torture seeking truth there.”

  “For you,” she said. “The stairs suited me well.”

  “Perhaps I could apply an iron rod to your skin during the questioning and make it equally torturous.”

  Her gaze dropped to his groin.

  “The priests forbid that as much as possible, too,” he said as he sat down. Leaning back, he crossed his ankles and linked his hands behind his head.

&nbs
p; ’Twas a pose without easy defense; was it designed to lower hers?

  Unwilling to relinquish whatever unease her demon form created in him—and it must, no matter his relaxed posture—she hopped onto a stout table and perched, her knees against her chest.

  His eyes widened and he looked away from her.

  Her sultry chuckle drew his gaze back. He swallowed convulsively.

  “You expose yourself, my lady.” His throat worked again. Abandoning his careless posture, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and pressed his head into his hands. “I’m only a man. Take pity.” ’Twas a sound between a laugh and a croak.

  The note of arousal under his tortured plea, and the bulge that had risen beneath his hose soothed her pride; she relented and called in a hose and tunic that matched his.

  “Now we are equal,” she said.

  His shoulders shook, and he gestured to his lap. “I don’t see you with this problem, my lady.”

  “I’m not willing to grow one for the bargain,” she said, brushing a long black curl from her forehead and tucking it behind one of her horns. Trouble was, she did feel the arousal that their exchange had risen within her. A liquid heat and velvet tightness that settled in her breasts and belly.

  Bedroom games were a tool, a method of persuasion and power, or even pain. There was only the chase, the corruption, the attainment of souls. Only bargains and negotiations. A demon might take pleasure in those results, but not for herself.

  Never for herself.

  “What truth do you need?”

  If he was surprised by her abrupt question, that the humor had faded completely from her voice, he did not give evidence of it. His eyes met hers levelly, their blue depths silvery in the moonlight.

  “As Isabel, you assumed a pleasing shape. Why do you not always?”

  ’Twas not the question she had expected, and there were too many answers to offer. She gave the simplest one. “The measure of a man cannot be taken by beauty; all love it, and treat it with reverence—even though, aye, it also inspires jealousy and lust.” Her lips twisted. “But the plain, the ugly, the poor and lowly? Easy to forget them, or to abuse them.”

  He nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “But is it not easier to corrupt with jealousy and lust when you are beautiful? Is that what you tried to do to me?”

  “Tried?” she echoed, brows raised high. “If not lust that you felt on the allure a sennight ago—if not lust that rose your cock-stand here, then what? Surely you don’t think this form pleasing? You gave not a thought to beauty. No man does when faced with tits and a lifted skirt.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps that is true of some men, but not all.” She snorted derisively, and his grin flashed. “But what of your vanity? As a demon, surely you indulge every sin. Do you not crave beauty for yourself?”

  She stared at him, tracing his features. Craved? Surely it was too weak a word, when his question made her feel as if a knot unraveled beneath her breastbone, loosening skeins of emotion and drawing them through her body. She recognized anger, despair; she grasped at those threads and held them tight.

  “Aye,” she said, and dropped from her perch. His nostrils flared, as if sensing danger and preparing to run. But he wouldn’t, would he? He would stay, certain he knew enough to be safe. Certain he knew enough to handle her, when she hardly knew herself.

  “Lilith.” Did he say her name as a warning as she stalked toward him? Hard to determine, when the beating of her heart pounded in her ears.

  Foolish of her, to hear it at all.

  CHAPTER 5

  It did not speak well of his morality that a woman—nay, a demon—could take a monstrous form, clothe herself in masculine garb, and he failed to summon disgust and horror.

  Uncertainty, aye—but even that faded as she seemed to rein in the tension that had overtaken her. She crouched before him, her face level with his.

  Falling through the shutter, the silvery moonlight touched her features, washing away color and emphasizing shadow, and leaving him unable to distinguish the obsidian horns from the midnight of her hair. She no longer smiled, and her fangs were hidden behind full lips.

  Strange, that shadows revealed what light had not. A widow’s peak framed her high, smooth forehead, and her brows formed elegant arches above the ebony depths of her eyes. Her cheekbones were angular, instead of broad and round as Marie’s had been. This was also beauty; not delicate and ethereal as Lady Isabel’s was, but strong and fierce.

  And yet it must be a pale reflection of what she’d been before Morningstar’s rebellion.

  “I have answered your questions, Sir Pup. Now I would have your truth,” she said, her voice a soft slither, silk drawn across stone.

  How easily he could imagine that whisper warmed by arousal. He resisted the urge to shift in his seat, remembering the ease with which she had brought him to readiness. His erection had subsided, but desire remained. “I do not believe I’ve received my part in its entirety.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but he raised his fingers to her lips, preventing her reply. His calluses rasped against her skin, and he felt the tremor that shook her as he disarmed her with a touch.

  He’d noted the same reaction in the stairwell, when he’d taken her hand, but had put the notion of her temporary weakness aside, blaming it on fancy. Had it ever occurred to him to consider the weaknesses of demons, he would not have imagined one susceptible to a simple touch. ’Twas a bizarre realization, that he had power over her. Surely after the wonders of Heaven and terrors of Hell, nothing human could impress her.

  Nor would he have imagined that his fascination for her would give her equal sway over him.

  “It must be forbidden,” he mused, before he could explore the extent of that power. Was he master of himself enough to stop before a touch became a caress, or more? “A punishment, to deny beauty to those who had once been nearest its source.”

  She shrugged, but the intensity of her gaze belied the casual gesture. “ ’Tis true the rebels were transformed when they were cast down, but they are not prevented from resembling spirits of light by Him.”

  “Who then?” Her hands slipped over his thighs, as if to distract him; he stiffened, but did not stop her until she reached the knife at his waist. He wrapped his fingers around her wrists, holding her still.

  Huffing out an impatient breath, she tugged her hands from his grip. “You have seen what happens when subjects forget their place, and think themselves equal to a ruler. They make demands, threaten war, force him to acknowledge rights and sign charters.”

  She sat back on her heels, and tapped the point of his dagger against her chin.

  When had she stolen it? She’d had only a second’s opportunity, and the theft had been so light he had not felt it. She grinned, and he dipped his head in acknowledgment of her skill. “So long as you do not steal the throne, aye?”

  “Aye.” She slowly retracted her horns and fangs. Unable to suppress his curiosity, he reached up and felt the smooth protuberance above her left temple as it flattened and disappeared. He brushed his thumb across her hairline. No lump remained, only silky red skin edged by soft curls.

  His voice was low, rough. “Is this your true form?”

  He met her gaze for a breathless moment before she slapped his hand away. “Nay,” she said flatly. She stood and took a step back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Your truth: Why did you enter into this bargain?”

  He clenched his fingers, welcomed the stinging pain. “Because I cannot be near you without forgetting my intentions and transforming into an imbecile.”

  “You cannot blame a demon for that.” Her lips pursed. “I daresay you must have always been an imbecile.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “I must be, else I would have followed my first instinct upon discovering your nature.”

  “To slay me?”

  “Aye.” He eyed her warily, wishing her countenance revealed her thoughts, but her posture was a study of indif
ference.

  “You would have found that difficult. If you wish to test my sword, however—”

  “Nay,” he said. “I have no inclination to fight a woman who possesses the speed of the wind itself.”

  “You fear defeat?”

  He considered her wording. “I don’t see the wisdom of entering into a fight in which victory is impossible.”

  “So you think to engage a different sort of battle? To outwit me with this bargain?”

  “Surely a mere man cannot use a demon’s bargain to his own ends. In the years you’ve lived, your wit must have been honed to perfection.”

  She gave a reluctant laugh. “You seek to flatter me.”

  He did. “Do you fear flattery, my lady?”

  “Am I too weak to resist the compliment to my vanity, and thereby incur Lucifer’s wrath?” She smiled, as if delighted he would try such a tactic. “I think not. Your pretty words are naught to me, and the risk is only yours.”

  “Mine?” He shook his head. “ ’Tis flattery, but is also truth. I don’t admire your intentions, or your methods—there is little risk that I would use them. I could never be as you are.”

  “Nay,” she said, her eyes flaring red. “You risk engaging my vanity so strongly that I would cleave myself to you for the remainder of your life, begging for bits of kindness from your lips, tormenting you when you do not offer them.”

  The censure in her voice made him flush, reminding him that he had been the one to follow her from the hall. True, he had some effect on her, but she had not sought his company as he had hers. Had not Michael told him that she’d said she was done with him?

  “I want to know my role in this,” he said suddenly. “That is why I made this bargain.”

  Her lids lowered. “What conceit convinces you that you are involved at all?”

  “Though he must have known what you were, Michael encouraged me into those ruins,” Hugh said. “Of my feelings for the lady, you make something of nothing. I have been included—of my own will at times—but also unwittingly. Included by a demon, which should not surprise me; if I were to commit evil I would use any tool available. But Michael, who is an instrument of Heaven—”