Demon Angel

by Meljean Brook

  The nosferatu did not have much skill with his weapon; it was as if he had not used it for centuries. Still, he was strong, quick—it took all of Hugh’s concentration to match each of its blows.

  But the killing stroke did not come from his sword. His eyes widened as the creature’s head was lopped off in front of him, rolling across the ground to stop at his feet. The old woman?

  His heart skipped—no frail woman that. The nosferatu’s psychic odor disappeared with its death, and he could smell, feel, taste the demon before him. Had he not guarded this part of the country because of its small connection to her?

  “Lilith,” he breathed. “I have looked for you.”

  Her eyes began to glow, that eerie scarlet he’d not been able to forget. She shed the old woman’s form, became the demon he remembered from the castle tower—and attacked him.

  Laughing. How could he be laughing as her sword clashed against his faster, ever faster? Yet she was, too—perhaps it was madness that had taken them both.

  He tripped. And she was on him, a whirlwind of teeth and wings and naked crimson skin. She could have killed him but she kissed him. He stiffened beneath her, unprepared for the onslaught of lust and pleasure. Like Enthrallment, but from one source. Then pain, as her fangs cut his lip—and she scrambled off him, put the point of her sword to his throat, wiped her mouth with her free hand.

  For a moment she stood, her chest heaving; then her gaze fell to his suit of armor. “I see you have made something of yourself, Sir Pup.” Her teeth flashed as she smiled. “Though you shine so brightly you could be a target for a blind woman.”

  He flushed. The armor had been the first thing he’d created, when he’d learned how to make clothing for himself, to dress with a thought. The polished metal did shine, aye—but as befitted a soldier from Caelum. “Or an old woman.”

  “Aye.” Her grin widened. “To change one’s shape is a fine trick, is it not—yet you do not use it for yourself. You appear as ridiculously young as ever. Or perhaps you have not mastered the ability?”

  “I have.” But he had no need for deception, as she did. His natural form was not terrible to look upon.

  Though it was difficult to think it terrible when her form was so strong—so appealing.

  “And what of your Gift—have you yet received it?” Her head tilted as she studied him. “I have heard a Guardian’s unique power reflects him as he was in life. Perhaps your Gift shall be the ability to leave a man’s prick limp and useless. For certain you never succumbed to the temptations of the flesh while human.” Her sword rattled over his armor as she trailed the tip from throat to groin.

  “My Gift has not come upon me,” he admitted, then stiffened as she slid the sharp point into the armor’s vulnerable joint between his torso and thigh. Beneath the metal, blood trickled over his hip. “Will you slay me now?”

  Her brows rose. “Slay you? I made you.”

  “Aye,” he said. “Strange that you did.”

  Her sword vanished, and her eyes narrowed on his face. “Not strange at all, Sir Pup. I have paid for, but have not yet gotten the use of you.”

  He rose to his feet. “What purpose could I serve for a demon—except that I could slay you?”

  “I’m not likely to ask for that,” she said.

  “Then let me save you.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then burst into laughter. “Oh, you cannot save such as me. And I serve a better purpose than you.”

  He frowned. “You cannot believe that.”

  Pointing toward one of the small wooden huts, she said, “In there sleeps a man who murdered his brother and his brother’s wife so that he could have a bit more barley for supper. I am his mother—though she died ten years ago. I harangue him day and night, until his guilt will drive him to confess, or take his own life. What do you plan to do, to make certain he pays for his crime?”

  He could do naught. “This is why Michael did not slay you. You provide justice we cannot.”

  She smiled slightly. “There are more reasons than that. Will you stop me, Guardian?”

  “It is my duty,” he said. “Those condemned souls feed Lucifer’s armies Below; perhaps if you do not kill them, they will repent. Given time, a murderer can become a saint. So, aye, I will stop you.”

  She grinned in full. “You can try.” Turning, she began to walk away.

  “Lilith,” he said. The amused glow of her eyes as she looked over her shoulder made his body tighten. “Thank you for giving me this.”

  Her amusement faded. “Don’t thank me yet, Sir Pup. It wears thin.”

  Wallachia

  November 1461

  It should not have shamed her that he saw her this way.

  She did not look at him as he got her down, and rolled away from him when he would have held her and offered comfort.

  And she willed herself to heal quickly, so that she would not look weak.

  Hugh did not appear weak—not in that gleaming armor. Giant wings sprouted from his back; she was not accustomed to seeing him wear them, but they had been necessary for him to reach her. He was beautiful and did she look much longer, she would begin to weave silly dreams around him. She closed her eyes, rested her cheek on the snowy ground.

  He lowered to his heels next to her. “I sought you tonight, but I did not think I would find this. Who was it?” No mistaking the rage in his voice.

  She would have replied, but he would have known the lie. When she was healed, she could tell him whatever she pleased. But her shields were not strong enough yet.

  Then his Gift hit her, forcing truth. “Demons.” Her laughter was hard, bitter. “You use it against me when I am like this and cannot resist?”

  “Belial’s?” He sighed when she remained silent. “Lilith, please.”

  Her body did not pain her as much now, and it did not hurt when he used his Gift, but still the admission came through clenched teeth. “Azzael. One of Lucifer’s lieutenants.” And she had to continue when he asked the reason, “I was sickened by the Impaler’s offering to Lucifer. The prince courts my father’s power and invited us to witness it. My father was not pleased by my response.” Release, and she quickly asked, “Why did you seek me?”

  He hesitated but for a moment. “I cannot kill Prince Vlad; but if anyone deserves the justice you offer, it is he.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “I do not think he has a conscience to work upon.” Opening her eyes, she looked up at him. “I could not anyway. Humans have proved unreliable allies in the past, but my father tries again—attempting to gain Earthly power by pulling a prince into his service.”

  “That is what this series of massacres has been? Vlad courts him for vanity, power—immortality? But for the last, he could not have them and still serve.”

  “Aye.” She smiled, but it held no humor. “And he will not succeed. He values himself too highly or lacks sufficient belief in Lucifer’s power. He sacrifices others, never himself—all that he makes is display. A worthless, bloody display; but one that Lucifer enjoys, even if Vlad fails to offer that ultimate sacrifice.” She sighed. “Either way, Lucifer surrounds him with his lieutenants, who protect him. I would be no more successful than you even should I try. And did I try, this punishment would be nothing in comparison.”

  He nodded, bowed his head. “This is a tyrant.”

  “Aye.” Sitting up was possible now, and she folded her legs beneath her so her eyes would be level on his. What had it taken him to approach her, ask this favor?

  “And there is naught I can do to stop him.” Resignation, anger in that statement. His armor disappeared. A brief flash of naked skin, before he covered it with a brown robe, such as those she’d seen in monasteries.

  Surprised, she touched the coarse material. “What is this?”

  “Humility. To remind myself that I serve.” He remained still for a few moments, then his fingers brushed her face. “What will save you, Lilith?”

  “Do not ask me,” she
said. “For I also have to serve.”

  He sighed, and then his mouth drew into a tight line. “Where is Azzael now?”

  “In Vlad’s fortress.” Studying his features was no hardship, and she looked long before she said, “If you kill him, do not say it was on my behalf. I dare not revenge myself; I will owe you.”

  “No, Lilith.” His voice was cold. “You owe me nothing.”

  She lifted her brows. “I thought we’d established that ‘nothing’ is a kiss.”

  Finally, warmth in that blue gaze. But she called in her sword; though it was nothing, better to have him earn it.

  London, England

  September 1666

  Lilith found Hugh atop St. Paul’s Cathedral, standing on the roof and staring out over the city.

  “Even you cannot stop its approach,” she said, landing lightly beside him.

  He gave a half-smile. Soot covered his skin; the edges of his robe had been singed through. “Aye, it will burn.” Flaming debris fell around them; none had yet caught on the peaked iron roof, but it would not be long before the timbered scaffolding would. The recent restoration would be for naught. He slanted her a curious glance. “You have not yet drawn your sword.”

  “I have decided it will be far more entertaining to watch you attempt to maintain your countenance in anticipation of my attack,” she said. A buttress arced from tower to roof; she hopped onto it and perched. The air around them shimmered with heat. To the southwest, St. Andrew’s-by-the-Wardrobe collapsed in an eruption of smoke and fire. “It cannot be a surprise if I immediately engage or kiss you every time. I should hate to become a bore.”

  “You could not be that.”

  She grinned, but it faded as she turned to study his expression. Exasperation, humor—she was accustomed to seeing those. Not the careful scrutiny he subjected her to now, as if he were trying to probe her mind’s darkest recesses.

  “Is it thus Below?”

  She searched his eyes, but could not see the purpose behind the question. No reason not to answer, though. “In part. Rivers and lakes aflame.” She waved her hand toward the Thames. “But our cities do not burn. Nor are they constructed of wood, and infested with a plague-ridden population. Perhaps,” she mused, “this destruction will be of some benefit; purify the city of that which keeps it corrupted, diseased.” She raised her amused gaze to his. “Below, we are the plague, and cannot be purified by fire.”

  He did not laugh. “Aye, it might release it from corruption. But at what cost?”

  Acrid air filled her lungs as she drew a sharp breath. Did he ever think of aught but saving her? She pretended to misunderstand him. “The cost will not be dear; how many did you and your students save this night? When they make a history of these days, will it not be with amazement that more did not perish?”

  “I saw you carrying children from their homes,” he said quietly.

  Grateful for her red skin and the orange glow of the fire that hid her embarrassment, she grinned and said, “It is difficult to tempt people who are not living. I fully intend to return later, and lead them to eternal damnation.” Pursing her lips, she added, “Only do not tell Lucifer. He will not like that explanation, and would have preferred death and grief. I do not think he would consider it a service.”

  He shook his head. “I imagine not. Why do you still serve him?”

  The question and the powerful thrust of his Gift took her unawares; she dug her claws into the buttress and held herself still. But his attack struck when her resistance was low, and she could not stop the words from tumbling from her mouth. “I am bound by my bargain.”

  He froze. “A bargain?”

  “Yes,” she hissed. Her sword glinted in her hand. “I will kill you if you do that again.”

  His lips tilted, but the smile held no warmth. “You will try. Why do you need a bargain to serve?”

  Again that wave of power; she was prepared and leapt forward. His blade met hers, but he never halted the flow of his Gift. Impossible to fight and resist it—it was likely what he’d planned, to provoke her so that she was so busy with her weapon she could guard neither her mind nor her tongue.

  Only him—why did he have to be Gifted with truth, the one thing that could destroy her? She had to hide it even from herself; if she failed in her bargain, her Punishment would be more terrible than any Lucifer had given her before. And it would be an eternal Punishment, not simply a hundred and fifty years of torture.

  She transferred her strength to her shields, and fell.

  His body was heavy atop hers as he held her down on the steep roof, his sword at her throat. His Gift smashed into her mental defenses, and she gasped as she felt them begin to crumble. No, no. She lifted her hips, trying to dislodge, trying to arouse—but there was no hardness in him except of muscle and bone.

  There hadn’t been since he’d become a Guardian—since she’d been able to test through the flimsy barrier of his monk’s robe. Why would there be, now that he knew what it meant to be a demon? Yet still she tried to distract him with touch; once, it had been his weapon against her—but with his Gift, one he no longer needed.

  “Tell me. The others put him on the throne Below, swore their fealty. But you say you were never an angel—that, like the hellhounds, Lucifer created you; you should have no obligation to serve. Yet you do.”

  Her scream was of anger and fear. Desperation. She called in her heaviest sword. It was impossible to bring it from her cache directly into another body, or anywhere but empty space—she had to hold it separate from other objects. Yet she could place it a hundred feet into the air, directly above him.

  Any lower and it would not have enough force from the fall. It would likely pin them together in death, but she would be fighting . . . if she did not fight it would be a betrayal of her service.

  He must have heard the whistle of air across the sharpened blade; he rolled, taking her with him. Not fast enough; it sliced her side as it embedded deep into the softening roof.

  His face whitened beneath the mask of soot, his skin drawing tight. His left hand still pinned her wrists, but he vanished his sword to staunch the flow of blood with his right. “Lilith?”

  She laughed, though the metallic scent filled her lungs and she’d rather have vomited. Yet another weakness, this sickness. That he saw her this way was worse than the injury. He created a length of linen cloth, held it against the wound.

  Why must he be kind? It made her more vulnerable than truth, than blood.

  His Gift surrounded her with unrelenting force; combined with his gentle touch, she was defenseless. “Aye, I was created by him. I serve through the bargain—but I must serve, regardless,” she said. “There has to be one who reigns: to enforce the Rules, to administer Punishment or destroy any demons who think to deny humans their free will, or to bring death to them.”

  “Aye, one must lead. But why not Belial?”

  She laughed again, bitterly. “He would be no different, though he promises much. He says we would all rule, and it would be equal; but that is a lie. It may be better to reign in Hell, but only one truly can—the rest serve. And I am bound to Lucifer.”

  “What happens if Belial wins the throne?”

  “I will be destroyed, as have the rest of my caste.” Surely Belial would not tolerate the presence of a halfling; their creation was Lucifer’s evil, a corruption of the demon race. She closed her eyes, and Hugh finally relented. The crackling roar of the fire grew ever closer; the southern part of the roof was aflame. “Do not ask me these things, Hugh. There is nothing that can save me.”

  “That is a lie,” he said quietly. Her wound had healed, and he vanished the cloth. He stood, pulled her to her feet. “You will not tell me.”

  She smiled bleakly. “I cannot tell you.”

  “And that is truth.” He sighed, ran his hand through his hair. “I have something for you.”

  Her gaze dropped, and she forced humor into her voice. “Do you?”

  With the
tips of his fingers, he tilted her chin up. “Nay, it isn’t that. I know you could not enjoy that; demons do not feel what humans and Guardians do. You only tease me to torment me.”

  She looked away, out over the glowing sky darkened by smoke. The roof beneath their feet was hot, melting; the interior of the cathedral must be burning. “Yes.”

  He was silent for a moment, then he said, “I found this in a library; I did not think it so wrong to take it. It would have been destroyed had I not.” A bound quarto volume appeared in his hands. “It is Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus.”

  Her heart thundered. “You would give this to me?”

  “You haunted him mercilessly. As you did Milton, playing his amanuensis after his eyesight failed. Shakespeare and Donne. There was hardly a poet or playwright in the last century you did not torment with your stories.” His gaze pierced her. “Why?”

  She couldn’t tell him she was the last halfling left. Impossible to say that her destruction weighed upon her with every passing year, her inevitable frozen end. And so she only laughed and said a partial truth, so that he would not ask again. “I seek a second immortality; I’m too greedy to settle for only one.” She affected a pout. “Yet they always twist it, make it a male demon or villain . . . or Lucifer. Their quills and the printing press erase my sex, remove my identity, and destroy me more efficiently than a sword.”

  There, a true smile from him. “Will you take it?”

  They staggered as the roof buckled and caved; a hole opened yards from where they stood. Flames shot up, sparks showered down around them. Yes, it was much like Below. What would Lucifer do, should she have such a gift in her possession? She wouldn’t be able to hide it, or excuse it. It was not a theft—was not something she could cover with a lie.

  She clenched her hands by her sides, tempered her shields, and forced the words through the tightness in her throat. “No. I want nothing so worthless.”

  His features hardened, and his gaze dropped to the book. He slid his palm reverently over the tooled leather cover.