Demon Angel

by Meljean Brook

  Just as the exercise had done nothing but delay the inevitable. It had certainly not kept the thoughts that plagued him at bay.

  He turned away from the window; nothing was out there. Not now, anyway. It was considered a quiet neighborhood, and four in the morning was one of the few times it matched the description and was truly quiet.

  How long would it last?

  Amidst the pile of sheets and blankets, Emilia woke, stretching her paws to accompany a long, feline yawn.

  He shouldn’t have been so grateful for the distraction. “I doubt very much that you’ll be hunting today,” he told her. San Francisco’s generally mild weather had been temperamental of late; instead of fog, the city had been covered with heavy rain clouds. Nearly every day for the past month, Hugh had taken his morning and afternoon runs surrounded by cold and wet. “The forecast was incorrect. For all their technology, men are no better at predicting the future than the crofter and his gouty leg.”

  She lifted her head and glared as if to chastise him for his inane conversation, then launched into a rolling purr—designed, no doubt, to lure him back into the bed so that she could take advantage of his body heat.

  “You have been sleeping well without it for the past two hours.” His feet had warmed the floor where he’d been standing, but the floorboards were cold as he crossed the room. The mattress gave under his weight as he sat, and he scratched her ears fondly when she crawled into his lap. Her claws pricked his skin as she kneaded his leg in appreciation.

  There was always a price for kindness.

  For cruelty, too, he thought, though the ones who paid it were often not the same as those who paid for kindness.

  Sighing, he picked up a slip of paper from his nightstand. Nightmares of his cruelty—kindness?—had left the phantom odor of blood and dirt on his hands; perhaps it was better not to be left to his thoughts in the midst of silence. Better he could not sleep.

  And it was not the sort of call one made during the daylight hours. Nor was it a call Hugh wanted to make, but he found himself dialing.

  The slip of paper he held had an address written beneath the phone number. Perhaps it was cowardly to ask this way. But it would be foolish to delay longer in order to visit in person, particularly as Hugh did not know who he would find there. What he might find.

  But there was no mistaking Colin’s voice when he answered. “Savitri Murray. What a delightfully mixed-up ethnicity you must have, and how delightfully foxed you must be to ring the wrong number at four in the morning. I must confess, I love nothing so much as exotic women who drink excessively.”

  Hugh pinched the bridge of his nose and rested his elbows on his knees. Caller ID. Careless, to have forgotten that Colin might trace the call back to Savi. He wanted her to remain completely distant from the vampire. But it was done; the rest should be done quickly, as well.

  “I am—unfortunately—sober,” he said.

  Silence reigned for a moment.

  “Hugh. You must have seen the news footage of the fire at the club.”

  “Yes,” Hugh said. Emilia jumped down and twined between his legs. Absently, he reached down and rubbed beneath her chin. Her soft purr eased some of his tension, made the question less difficult to ask. “Do you require assistance?”

  An edge of astonishment sharpened the vampire’s laugh. “Do I want you to fulfill the vow you made two hundred years ago and try to protect me against the horde of nosferatu that has descended upon the city?”

  Hugh’s breathing stilled. A horde? Was it that dire, or did Colin exaggerate? Difficult to determine truth without seeing the person; he preferred to observe faces, expressions—not to guess from tone and inflection. “Do you need help? Or protection?”

  “No.”

  Strange, to feel disappointed in Colin’s answer when it was the one he’d hoped for. Ridiculous, that his urge to offer the strength of his sword dwelt so long on his tongue. It was for the best; the only weapons he owned now were a pair of decorative Japanese swords Savi had given him years before. He scrubbed his hand over his face. Forced himself to remember the last time he’d seen his sword: buried hilt-deep within the Earth, the handle left exposed to mark Lilith’s gravesite.

  Did she rest easy?

  His stomach clenched, but his voice remained even. “Very well. Good evening, Colin.”

  “Good eve—ah, hell.” Colin’s formality broke. “Are you well? Who is Savitri? Is she beautiful? Have you become entrenched in suburbia, lost your boyish charm and half your hair?”

  Hugh grinned despite himself. “Yes. Good-bye, Colin.”

  “We should speak,” Colin said quickly.

  “Of things past? I think not.”

  “Things past have a way of presenting themselves in the present.” He paused, and his voice lightened. “Well, that was a bloody awkward way of saying: I have much to tell you. Meet with me tomorrow. During the day, if you no longer trust me; I’ll not likely chase you into the sun if you need escape. Bring your Savitri, and we’ll have lunch.”

  “Better to protect her from creatures such as you.” Hugh shook his head, smiling.

  “Beautiful? Sartorially exquisite? Witty? Aye, creatures such as I are a menace indeed.”

  “Dangerous.” Hugh pushed away the temptation to meet with Colin; it would do him no good to revisit the past, to reenter a world he was no longer a part of. His curiosity was just another symptom of the restlessness that burned within him of late.

  But was it curiosity or sense when Savi might be in danger—not from Colin, but from the nosferatu? Why not gather information from this source? “Have there been any human deaths?”

  “Only vampire,” Colin said. “They seem intent on exterminating us. There were seventy or so at the club; the community elders thought there would be safety in a group.”

  Hugh nodded slowly. It wasn’t surprising; in the last hundred years, as the nosferatu neared extinction, the creatures had been unable to endure the combined insult of the destruction of their kind and its corrupted continuation in the diluted, human form. They had begun killing their vampiric offspring, and the vampires had little protection against the stronger, older nosferatu. But as the number of nosferatu decreased, the danger to vampires had been slight.

  Until now.

  “What protection have you?”

  Colin seemed to choke. “A dog.”

  Hugh frowned. “Colin—”

  “I’ll explain tomorrow. After six? You choose the location.”

  Withholding information was an old bargaining tactic, and one Hugh had always been susceptible to. “No.”

  “She’ll kill me, but it’s time you knew.” She? The vampire forged ahead before Hugh could question him. “Oh, and Hugh—I read your book.”

  The dial tone cut Colin off mid-laugh.

  Hugh slowly replaced the phone. Emilia licked her paw and stared up at him. “A menace,” he told her, feeling a bit as if he’d fought three invisible demons and come out the loser. Miraculously alive, and unsure of what the hell had happened.

  A light knock at his door was followed by Savi opening it and poking her head through. “I heard your voice, and broke in,” she said. They kept the door connecting her upstairs apartment to his house unlocked, but she always insisted on making her visits sound like a crime. Her way, Hugh assumed, of adding excitement to a rather tame living arrangement—a tame life. “The team in Mumbai just finished the code on the update. Since you’re awake, want to play? I need a beta tester.”

  He groaned and dragged his hand through his hair. “No.”

  “No fun.” She pretended to pout, but her quick eyes focused on the paper in his hand. “Did the number reach who you thought? Were you speaking with him?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” He crumpled it, and tossed it into the garbage bin, then picked up his glasses from the nightstand. He slipped them on, grateful that her presence would keep him from dwelling on his conversation with Colin—and the reason he’d been awake to begin with
.

  She shrugged and stepped half inside the room, leaning against the doorjamb. Her short black hair had lost some of its spike, but otherwise she looked fresh, alert. “I’m always up for a quasi-legal search of government databases.” She cocked her head. “The London address you had was fifty years old. I went into the IRS records—followed that trail from Ramsdell Pharmaceuticals. The grandson is the major shareholder now, but it was like the same man . . . don’t give me that big brother look. You may have only asked for contact info, but you know I’m nosy. So it’s your fault.”

  He only stared at her.

  She grinned. “Food then? I’ll meet you downstairs; I have to burn the new version onto a disc first. And then you can watch me as I kick the demons’ asses. And they’re bigger and badder than ever.”

  Bigger and badder than ever. Hugh rewound the video, paused as the camera panned across the crowd. The fire flickered across the features of those who had gathered to watch Polidori’s burn, but only two faces had caught Hugh’s attention the night before.

  To the casual observer, they would only have seemed to be large men who had taken body modification to an extreme. It was not unheard of—particularly in the Goth community—to have undergone cosmetic surgery that lightened the skin to such a degree, pointed the ears and removed any trace of hair. Fangs could be dentures, or implants. Their appearance might be remarked upon, remembered, but no one would assume they were truly inhuman—particularly outside a club famous for its vampiric theme. Very few knew the vampires inside had often been real, but even those humans who might have known would be hard-pressed to tell the difference between a vampire and a human in costume.

  Not so the nosferatu. Along with an inability to shift form, they had long been denied the ability to move through society without their physicality exposing them to human disgust and revulsion. But now, in a culture where plastic fangs could be purchased at a local drugstore, their difference was noticed—but accepted.

  What a blessing it must seem to them, an era in which they could walk amongst humans without facing pitchforks and burning torches.

  And how dangerous it was for man.

  Hugh frowned, studying the screen. The nosferatu should have been dead. That one nosferatu could have gone unnoticed and unchallenged for any amount of time seemed impossible—and yet there were two, standing in a crowd of humans as if they feared neither notice nor challenge.

  Where were the Guardians? Or, at the very least, the demons who should have hunted and killed their former brethren?

  “You’re looking at those freaks again? You’ve developed an obsession.” Savi dumped a plate of chips onto the oversized ottoman that served as a coffee table, then crossed over to the entertainment center and pulled a disc from the pocket of her loose pajama pants. “Do you mind if I . . . ?” She tilted her head toward the game console.

  He thumbed off the recorder. “Go ahead.” There weren’t answers to be found, anyway. Only questions.

  Savi pushed her chair closer to the television, and Hugh obligingly shoved the ottoman alongside it. She flopped into the deep cushion and crossed her legs beneath her, wires trailing across the floor. “Ah,” she sighed, and scooped up salsa with a chip. “A game and munchies. My life is excellent.”

  The smile that had formed as he’d watched her settle into her gaming ritual faded, and he suddenly could not tolerate the idea of sitting, of being still. He pushed to his feet, but she stopped him from leaving with a wave of her slim brown arm.

  “You have to see this new opening sequence. The First Battle.”

  Angels and demons warred against the backdrop of the cosmos; Hugh didn’t watch. With her back to him, Savi wouldn’t see and feel slighted by his inattention, the way he restlessly skimmed his gaze over the room, searching for something—anything—out of place so that he’d have an excuse to move. But everything was in meticulous order; nothing cluttered the end tables or shelves, and the Spartan furnishings had clean lines. Except for Savi’s chair, there were no pillows or loose cushions to straighten. He’d chosen them for that reason; he disliked the smothering, sinking sensation of too-soft furniture, but now it left him with nothing to keep him occupied.

  “Cool, yeah?”

  He glanced up as the scene faded to black. “Nicely done.”

  She chattered on about the features of the game, but trying to drum up matching enthusiasm proved impossible. His perfunctory responses didn’t satisfy her; after a few minutes, she gave an exasperated sigh and fell into silence. Her fingers jabbed at the control buttons, and the demon slayer on-screen whirled in a dizzying pirouette, swords and fists flashing through the air.

  Except for practice, it had never been that choreographed. Battles had been fierce, quick. Never a dance. The only sparring with that much give-and-take had been verbal.

  And with Lilith, often playful. Sensual.

  For a moment, the yawning darkness within him seemed to open wide and swallow him whole.

  On leaden feet, he forced himself to walk across the room toward the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the far wall. Like the rest of his house, his books were neatly arranged, but there would be something to distract him, to keep his mind busy even if his body was not.

  But it was not the books that ultimately drew him.

  He’d placed the swords Savi had given him on display beside the shelves and had barely looked at them since. Seventeen years old and a devoted manga fan, she’d thought them the perfect gift when he’d received his doctorate. He glanced back, at her complete involvement in the game, at her character’s choice of weapons. Smiling, he stroked his fingers over the hardwood sheath of the longer sword.

  It was lighter than he’d expected. His broadsword had been brutish in comparison to the elegance of this blade. The katana had a thicker handle—to his surprise, it allowed for easier handling. A looser grip and greater maneuverability. Not effective against mail or plating, but for drawing and slicing flesh. He rotated it in his hand: excellent balance, and the air fairly whistled around the razor-sharp edge.

  He eyed the shorter sword. Perfect for defense, for blocking a blow from an opponent while keeping the advantage of the longer sword on the leading side. And in close quarters, better for a disemboweling slice, or a strike to the heart.

  “Where did you learn that?”

  His hand stilled, and he realized he’d been absently spinning the sword. He slid it back into its sheath with a dismissive snap.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “You were twirling it. Really quickly. Did you just happen to run across Ninja 101 at Berkeley?”

  Normally he enjoyed her sarcasm. Normally he would have insisted he didn’t twirl anything. And though she didn’t deserve it, he couldn’t keep the ice from his voice as he repeated, “It’s nothing.”

  Her face hardened. “Fine.”

  He replaced the sword with more force than necessary. They’d be useless against the nosferatu anyway. Difficult to disembowel a creature that moved more quickly than a human could see.

  “By the way, Nani’s pissed at you.” From her tone, he could hear the too. Her felt her gaze burning into the rigid line of his back, but he didn’t turn. She added in Hindi, “ ‘Ungrateful, worthless boy! More interested in his books and his papers. If he insists on making such a long day at work, he should have become a doctor as I instructed him!’ ”

  He had to chuckle at her perfect imitation of her grandmother, and some of his unreasonable coldness faded. Turning, he leaned against the shelves and crossed his arms over his chest. She never remained angry for long, at anyone or anything; indeed, she looked at him now with a mixture of amusement and concern.

  “You’re lucky she then launched into another tirade about my dropping out of college, and I didn’t get a chance to tell her the truth.”

  “Which is?” he asked softly.

  “You don’t sleep. You get up within hours of going to bed and have since I moved in six months ago. I hear you.”
/>   He stiffened. “You hear . . . what?”

  “Your damn gym is right beneath my office. Three o’clock: clank, clank, clank. Five o’clock, I hear you leave to run.” She snorted. “Imagine Nani’s reaction if I told her it wasn’t just work, but that you spent five hours a day deliberately driving yourself to exhaustion.”

  He bit back a sigh of relief, and the moment’s fear that he’d been crying out during the nightmares. “I sleep.”

  She looked pointedly at the clock on the VCR. “I’m up because much of the development team is half a world away. You have classes to teach in four hours; unlike me, you don’t make up for it during the day. So what’s your excuse? Chronic insomnia?”

  “I’m fine.” It was almost a growl.

  “You’re not.” Her mouth firmed, and she began counting off his flaws on her fingers. “You’re withdrawn. Moody. Cold. Granted, not as cold as when—”

  She broke off, and his stomach sank. “Savi—”

  “In the hospital, and the two years after I got out, you remember? Except with Nani and me, you were the coldest bastard I’d ever seen. And while Nani and I loved you—adored the boy who’d come from nowhere to help us out in that awful time, who spoke Hindi and every other language anyone spoke—everyone else thought you were an emotionless psychopath.” She raised her hand when he would have interrupted. “I was only nine, but I remember . And I don’t want you to be that again.”

  His eyes stung. Dipping his head, he rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of how to respond.

  She saved him. “And now that I know you have ninja skills, I definitely don’t want you to be a psychopath.”

  He laughed, but found he couldn’t assuage her fears. The restlessness within him did not abate, and he would not make promises he couldn’t keep.

  Instead, he approached her, touched his lips to her forehead. “I’ll try.”