Demon Angel

by Meljean Brook

  He broke off, realizing that his voice had risen and anger coursed through him like fire. Struggling to contain it, he abandoned the seat, striding across the small room to the opposite window and throwing open the shutters. The cool air did not ease his sudden choleric temper.

  “Formans lucem et creans tenebras.” Did his voice shake? He rested his elbows on the stone sill and lowered his head into his hands. “There must be something good in what you do, even if it is only to try men’s hearts, to make them earn their place with God. There must be a reason that I’m drawn to you, even if it is only so that I resist. But I no longer know what is truth, or what to believe.”

  “There can be no light without darkness,” he heard her say quietly, as if to herself.

  He laughed shortly, bitterly. “And that you say something similar makes me doubt it the more.”

  From beside him came a flash of moonlight against steel, the clang of metal against stone. He spun around, tensed for her attack, but she’d only slammed his knife onto the sill. “You think Michael led you like a lamb to the slaughter?” A mocking smile curved her lips. “You are no lamb, Sir Pup. I do naught but sow the seeds that have already been planted: jealousy, lust, and greed.” Her gaze skimmed the length of his rigid form. “Wrath.”

  His hand clamped down over hers, and he pried his knife from her fingers. The knowledge that she let him take it made his stomach tighten: were all in the castle acting by her leave? Was everything dictated by the whims of these demons and Guardians?

  Her brows lifted, and she nodded toward the weapon. “Would you use that on me now?”

  Nay, he could not defeat her with it. Its threat held no sway.

  She stood close; he could feel the warmth of her body, the brush of her exhalation against his skin. She was tall, her lips only inches from his.

  ’Twas no effort to close the distance between them, to fist his hand in her hair and seal her mouth with his. Did her lips part in surprise or protest? Surely not encouragement, for there was no kindness in the way he tasted her, none of the gentleness with which he had touched her before. He’d meant to use those against her, but lust fueled him the moment her lips met his.

  Her mouth was hot, and she tasted like cream and subtle, exotic spice. He delved more deeply, and she lightly suckled his tongue in return—a sweet, delicious pull that conflagrated the ache into exquisitely painful arousal. He pushed her against the wall, pressing his length tightly against her.

  She’d spoken true; there was nothing innocent in him, in the ache that spread through him as she opened herself to his kiss. Would that he could blame his desire on her, on her temptation and wiles, but it was his own.

  A shudder ran through him, and she laughed softly into his mouth.

  He stepped back, shaken. He would have turned away but for the hint of sympathy in her dark eyes, the clenching of her jaw that told him, despite her laughter, she was not unaffected.

  His breath came sharply. “Can you not leave us? If our sins lead us to destruction, why do you need to help them along?”

  “I have a role to play, and I must play it. Humans have the luxury of free will; demons do not, for a singular choice made long ago.”

  “I cannot accept that,” he said quietly.

  “ ’Tis not for you to accept.”

  He wanted to grasp at her explanation as a way to exonerate her, but could not. She enjoyed what she did; he’d seen her amusement at human folly, the pleasure she took in exposing their flaws. Whether she thought she had a choice did not signify as much as her willingness to accede to her role. “Why does Michael not kill you?”

  “Because there are many things worse than I stalking the night and preying on man.” She transformed suddenly, into a pale, hairless creature. Towered over him, her ears ending in points, fangs protruding over thin red lips. “Those who abstained from choosing a side in the First Battle were cursed with a bloodthirst and an intolerance to daylight. The nosferatu can kill humans, and they follow none of the Rules set down for Guardians and demons; Michael hunts one now.” She watched him for a moment, as if searching for signs of fear, then sighed and regained her form.

  He frowned, shook his head. “But the presence of other—worse—creatures is not reason to let you live. Is he allowing you to play out your role? An acknowledgment of light allowing—needing—the dark?”

  “Nay.” A shadow moved across her features. “ ’Tis guilt.”

  “For what—”

  “You venture beyond the boundaries of our bargain, Sir Pup,” she said. Then her voice softened, and she added playfully, “Unless you wish to enter into another?”

  Did he? Perhaps his desire to do so was an indication that he shouldn’t. He could little trust himself near her. Shaking his head, he walked back toward the bench, but did not sit down.

  “I cannot conceive a way to stop you,” he said. “If I pursue the truth with Father Geoffrey, I will soon be called mad.” He glanced at her beseechingly. She had remained by the window; with moonlight behind her, he could only discern her silhouette and the eerie scarlet glow of her eyes. “Is there no way to appeal to the part of you that must yearn for goodness, the part of you that once called itself angelic?” She did not respond, and he wondered if he could trust any answer she gave; if truth were no longer required by the bargain, would she speak it? Could she speak it? Or did acknowledgment of life before a demon’s fall from Heaven resemble vanity—did Lucifer consider both an insult to his rule?

  “I was never a denizen Above,” she finally said.

  He did not mistake the bitter humor in her voice. “What are you?”

  “I sprang fully formed from Lucifer’s head.” Once, he would have immediately dismissed such a statement as fantasy—no longer. But he could not determine from her tone if her claim was a jest, and she gave him no opportunity to ask. “I’m one of his plans—a failed one. His daughter, conceived of a brilliant idea, embodied in a worthless form.”

  “And you intend to prove your worth by damning us? Does that not approach ambition? Surely he forbids that as well as vanity.”

  She laughed and hopped onto the sill in an easy, lithe movement, folding herself into the window’s small space. “You do not understand; Lucifer always speaks with doubled tongue, and always has a plan.”

  “To what end?” But no matter what else he’d learned—had to relearn—he did not think Lucifer’s nature would change.

  “To gather souls for his armies Below. To torture them. To bring Hell onto Earth and to rule the world of man.” She waved her hand, a gesture that encompassed the castle around them—casually, as if what she suggested had little import.

  He resisted the urge to leap forward, to pull her back into the room as she leaned out the window. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Do not come near me again if you wish to succeed; I will defeat you, one way or another.”

  Her eyes dimmed. “You will try,” she said quietly and fell over the side.

  His heart dropped to his stomach though he knew she was not in danger—knew before he heard the flap of giant wings and saw the figure that flew past the window.

  The sound of the entertainment in the hall faintly reached his ears; he did not rejoin them, but made his way through the darkness of the stairs, blindly spiraling down.

  Thinking of a demon who was both monster and woman—and neither.

  The end came swiftly, as it always did.

  Sitting atop the peaked roof of the keep’s southwest tower, Lilith watched Isabel venture across the bailey. The lady’s head was down, her hood up, and she’d dressed in a washerwoman’s clothing as a disguise.

  That had been Isabel’s idea, inspired by some troubadour’s tale. Lilith would have preferred that Isabel march through the bailey in her fine gown, leaving no doubt to her identity, but she had to appreciate the girl’s ingenuity. In the darkness, no one bothered to look past the rags, and the lady reached the wall steps unmolested.

  Isabel would have to b
e quick; from within the keep, Lilith heard the suspicious note in d’Aulnoy’s voice as he inquired of his wife’s whereabouts.

  She wrapped her arms around herself to make a smaller silhouette, though none but Hugh would look for her in that spot. And if someone caught a glimpse of her outline, they would never think it a demon come to observe the results of her labor.

  Isabel’s betrayal. A husband’s jealous rage. A knight’s folly. None immediately damning, but the events of this night would eat at their souls, twist them into something . . . unclean.

  Lilith knew the feeling well.

  Though she wasn’t cold, she scrubbed her hands over her arms. The wait for Isabel to climb the stairs to the allure seemed interminable.

  Was this all there was to this new role? Waiting? Endlessly waiting and living among them, letting their humanity seep into her with a touch or a word of kindness?

  Far better, what she had been before. The targets were already damned, and she had only to secure their souls by arranging their deaths. If they committed suicide or were executed before they could repent, they were hers.

  But it would take many years before Hugh would be hers—and there was always the chance he wouldn’t be destroyed by this, just as Isabel or Robert could make peace with their betrayal and rage.

  That was if they ever did anything to make peace with. She tried to laugh at herself, her impatience—Lucifer must have known this waiting would seem like punishment.

  She tried to laugh, but she could not look away from Hugh.

  He had not yet noticed Isabel’s approach. Leaning with his elbows on the parapet, he looked out over the valley, his head bent. Thinking of a way to thwart her, most likely. It should have made her smile, but she could see the invisible weight that lay across the line of his shoulders.

  Ridiculous, that she should want to ease it. That she would have traded herself for Isabel at that moment. That she yearned to appear before him—not as the demon, Marie or Isabel, but as she’d been once, before she was Lilith.

  But that was forbidden, as was the envy rising in her heart as Isabel lay her hand on his forearm.

  Hugh turned, saw the woman beside him, and did exactly as Lilith had known he would: he assumed it was a demon, come to torment him.

  And now Lilith laughed softly, bitterly, because she realized had Isabel not worn the commoner’s garb, Hugh might have paused. For there were reasons a lady might be on the allure with a knight, and he might have waited until he was certain’twas not a demon. But, given his belief that Isabel was all purity and innocence, he could not conceive of her betrayal. Could not imagine she would appear before him wearing deception.

  “Isabel,” he said with enough sarcasm and disrespect that the lady hesitated.

  But she did not lack courage, and bolstered by weeks of Lilith’s encouragement, did not retreat. Her words poured forth in a rush, a declaration of love and devotion, of fate and fancy.

  Lilith heard the lady’s nervousness, the effort it took for her to say those words; Hugh heard a demon playacting.

  “You have come to pledge yourself to me?” he asked, affecting surprise, but with an unmistakable edge of anger beneath.

  Isabel mistook it—for passion or something else, Lilith couldn’t say. “Aye.” Suddenly shy, she lowered her head and stared at his hands. “If you would have me.”

  “If I would have you?” he echoed, then laughed. “I would die to have you. And then, perhaps—if Robert would oblige us—we could marry.” His voice deepened, exuding a lazy sensuality. Lilith’s skin seemed to tighten and prickle; he intended that voice for her, and it promised heat and a slick tangle of limbs.

  And it promised violence. The sensuality was a thin veneer; he was furious.

  Isabel raised her face, tears glittering in her eyes. “I do not think we will be allowed to consecrate our love with vows.”

  “Nay!” His eyes widened dramatically, and he grasped her hands, pulled her against him. “Perhaps we could kill him then. As a widow, you’ll need a new husband.” He ground his hips against hers, and Isabel gasped, tried to tear herself away. “We could consecrate our love every night.”

  “I . . . I do not think—” Sudden fear broke her voice.

  “Come now, my lady. Let us seal our promise of love with a kiss. ’Tis nothing, a kiss. All of this is nothing.”

  The last was said bitterly, and the ache that had threatened beneath Lilith’s breast bloomed into full. Hugh kissed Isabel hard, ignoring the beating of her fists on his shoulders.

  Lilith looked away, her throat tight. It might have been a good plan, if he meant to punish Lilith with such a kiss. If he meant to hurt the demon who’d proved susceptible to his touch.

  In the courtyard below, d’Aulnoy and Mandeville began a slow, deliberate trek toward the tower post. Their swords were sheathed at their hips, and she could hear the weapons’ soft swaying with every step they took. The baron radiated jealousy and disbelief, Mandeville cold satisfaction.

  Aye, she had sown the seeds well. Wait, Lilith thought, but couldn’t give voice to the word. You are fools to have listened to me.

  Isabel’s frightened gasp sounded loud as a scream, and Lilith shot to her feet as Hugh bent the lady over the parapet. But he did not toss her to the ground; his hand pushed her skirts up, his fingers roughly sought her femininity. Isabel sobbed as he shoved himself against her.

  “If he throws her over the wall, thinking she is you, her death will be more than you planned. Is this what you wanted?”

  Lilith startled and tore her eyes away from the scene; Michael stood next to her. “Aye,” she whispered, but she shuddered as she looked back.

  Hugh had stopped as if frozen, staring down at the woman in his arms. At the tears streaking her cheeks.

  “I think you lie,” Michael said.

  “Isabel? My lady? Nay.” Hugh groaned the denial, staggering away from the countess. The lady collapsed in a heap. He stared at his hands, at the glistening moisture on his fingers. “Oh, God help me.”

  Lilith sprouted her wings, but Michael clamped his hand over her shoulder before she could jump from her perch. “You cannot interfere.”

  She halted, her breath coming in sharp pants. “You can.”

  He shook his head.

  “You won’t.” She called in her sword. Robert was running up the stairs ahead of Mandeville.

  “It is too late,” Michael said. “Are you not proud of what you’ve done, Lilith?”

  It was not only me, she thought, but could not voice her automatic response. Not when ’twas obvious that, had she not interfered, human thought would never have become action. Not when Hugh pleaded for help.

  But did she help him, Lucifer would have no mercy.

  Perhaps d’Aulnoy would. She wavered and waited again. Her success depended on the baron’s rage, but perhaps he could forgive what met his eyes as he climbed onto the wall walk.

  Though his expression was tormented, Hugh straightened and stood with squared shoulders as the baron took in the scene, as he recognized the lady in the washerwoman’s rags. Lilith recalled Hugh’s description of d’Aulnoy: He is a good man. Would he see the clothing, understand what Isabel had tried to hide? Would he think she sobbed from Hugh’s rejection of her adulterous advances?

  Indeed, the confusion on the baron’s face gave Lilith hope.

  “My lady,” the earl said, his voice tight. “Can you explain why you are dressed thus?”

  No mistaking the guilt that trembled over her features. She took a deep, shuddering breath, wiped the tears from her cheeks. Aye, no weakling she. Lilith wanted to slap her. “I sought Sir Hugh’s company and did not want to be noticed.”

  D’Aulnoy flinched as if struck. “For what purpose?” It was clear he yearned for any answer than the one he suspected, but Lilith knew Isabel would not be other than honest.

  Lilith glanced at Hugh; he stood rigidly, but his gaze was not on the baron or young countess, but directed atop the keep. At her.<
br />
  Lie, she urged him silently. Convince him she seduced you but you resisted. You owe me a lie.

  A half-smile curved Hugh’s mouth, and he spoke before Isabel could answer. “I took advantage of the friendship my lady and I cultivated while in France, my lord. Then I brought her up here—nay, forced her here—with a threat on your life. She attempts to protect you by claiming this was of her own volition.”

  Isabel shook her head. “Nay! Only after I came did you threaten—”

  “Do you see?” Hugh laughed. “Marie de Lille and I have been planning to reach this moment; we were so successful that, even now, Isabel worries that you will challenge me for daring to force my touch upon her and fall before my sword.”

  “What madness is this?” Lilith whispered.

  Michael’s smile could have been carved from stone. “He is saving his lord and his lady from your scheming. Rape, treason, and murder? Justifiably punishable offenses. The baron will feel no guilt after, and the lady will eventually make peace with her part in this—for obviously, ’twas all a terrible plan of Hugh’s and yours from the beginning. He believes he is saving their souls.”

  “I can smell her sweetness on my hands,” Hugh continued. “She is ripe for the pluck—”

  D’Aulnoy’s fist shot out, catching Hugh’s jaw and knocking him back against the parapet.

  His hand rested upon his sword hilt, but he did not draw his weapon. He turned to his wife, his chest heaving. “My lady, is what he says true? Did he touch you with force? Did he threaten my life? Did another lady convince you to come here?”

  Isabel looked from her husband to Hugh; he clung to the low wall, clearly dazed. “Aye, but—”

  “Take his sword, William. And his mail. ’Twas an honor he never deserved.”

  He was stripped of his rank. Lilith sank onto her haunches, letting her relief ease the tension that had held her motionless. He would be exiled, then, as had many of the barons who had been called traitors to their liege.