Demon Angel

by Meljean Brook

  “Thank you, sir. Good day, sir.” She clapped her heels together and saluted because it amused her and left him shaking his head in disapproval.

  Feeling quite jolly, she paused at the front desk, inquired after SAC Smith, and heard the same reply she’d been given all morning: he was in a meeting, and taking neither calls nor appointments.

  The prick. Unfortunately, she couldn’t determine the veracity of it; his office and the conference room had been soundproofed, even against hearing as acute as hers, and his psychic blocks were impenetrable.

  Oh, well. She had other ways of finding out information about the nosferatu.

  “Hey, Dr. C! Dr. Castleford!”

  Hugh tested the padlock to make certain his bike was secure, then looked up, squinting against the bright morning sun. Jason Willis jogged toward him, holding his neon orange board shorts up at the waist, his book bag swinging against his hip.

  “Dr. C. What’s . . . up?” Too winded to say more, he dropped his bag to the ground. It landed with a solid thump. His freckles had been nearly lost amidst a deep tan, and Hugh wondered where he’d managed to take in so much sun since the last time he’d seen him.

  Hugh glanced at the sky. “I was just thinking that gouty legs make fine barometers, after all.” Accustomed to the look Jason gave him—at one time or another, almost all of his students stared at him with similar expressions on their faces—he paid it no mind and unbuckled his pack from the bike frame. Slinging it over his shoulder, he nodded toward Jason’s overstuffed bag. “My office hours are in ten minutes, but I won’t make you carry it back to the Humanities building. I haven’t seen you in class lately.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what I was coming to see you about.” Worrying the beaded leather thong around his neck, he explained, “My mom lost her job, and I’ve been working odd hours at the video store; that’s why I’ve been gone a lot. But my schedule’s worked out, so I wanted to make sure I could still catch up.”

  The kid was a terrible liar.

  Hugh sat down on a bench, slipped off the elastic he’d used to keep his pant leg from catching the bike chain, and considered his options. Though he no longer had his Gift, centuries of being able to feel truth, to force it, had left him with the ability to read it in the most accomplished of liars. Jason, though he clearly wanted Hugh to believe what he’d said, was barely an amateur in comparison to the demons he’d known.

  But pressing Jason for the reason behind the lie wouldn’t serve a useful purpose; no matter the cause of the absences, if he thought he could make up the work, Hugh wouldn’t prevent him from doing so.

  He wouldn’t make it easy for him, though. “You still have your syllabus?”

  Jason nodded, clearly relieved by Hugh’s response.

  “Catch up within two weeks; and by the end of the semester I want two extra journals. Next week’s paper should be on time.”

  “I will.” With a mixture of chagrin and relief, he hiked up his shorts again and leaned over to grab his bag. “Thanks, Dr. C.”

  He wouldn’t be feeling quite so grateful once he realized how much work he’d have to do over the next two weeks. “My pleasure,” Hugh said, and waited until Jason backed up a step before adding, “In the future, when you decide to take a vacation in the middle of the term, you’d do well to e-mail your professors first.”

  “Oh, man.” His blush at odds with his grin, Jason began walking backward. “Did Ian tell you?”

  Hugh shook his head. “I haven’t been to Auntie’s in a month or so.”

  “You gonna be there tomorrow?”

  “Yes.” After Savi’s outburst that morning, it seemed the best way to mollify both women. Auntie would appreciate the visit, and Savi could hardly call him withdrawn if he sought the company available at the restaurant.

  “Where tomorrow?” A tall blonde sidled up to Jason. Tanned, athletic; Hugh would wager anything it hadn’t just been surfing that had pulled Jason from classes. They shared a long, deep kiss, and Hugh grinned as he finished unrolling his cuff.

  Had he ever been that young?

  “We were talking about playing DemonSlayer at Auntie’s,” Jason told her after she released him.

  “That card game you tried to teach me?”

  Jason turned to Hugh. “I couldn’t teach her.”

  “I like the video game, but the other . . .” She flashed a brilliant smile. “I always get to the succubus card and want to try out the powers myself.”

  Hugh should have been used to it by then. He watched them saunter off, arms around each others’ waists, and experienced a second of chronological vertigo.

  It wasn’t the frank sexuality of the modern era that unstead-ied him, but the lack of shame that accompanied it. How different it was from the rigid moralizing he’d known as a boy; and later, from what he’d observed on Earth through the centuries. But now he saw everywhere what he’d only regularly seen in Caelum . . . and Lilith, who had been shameless in all things.

  It had always been one of her most admirable—and frustrating—traits.

  One of her more distinctive ones, as well; when she’d operated in her typical servant’s disguise, it had often been her unapologetic mien that had led him to suspect her true identity. Over the past sixteen years, the instinct to search every face for Lilith underneath had faded, and it was only when a certain expression, a mischievous laugh, or the tilt of a woman’s head reminded him that he was struck by these instants of recognition.

  There were worse things, he decided, than having unexpected flashbacks to his centuries as a Guardian or nightmares that left him sleepless for months at a time. He wasn’t certain if he should bemoan or rejoice that his life had become so uneventful that the most exciting episode that week had been a forecast without rain—but it was better than an existence permeated by a lack of faith in his role.

  And his memories of that time were not completely unwelcome.

  A light breeze picked up as he walked across the quad. A pair of students—engineering, Hugh judged by the spill of books on the grass—began an impromptu game of Frisbee, and he had to duck as the plastic disc whizzed by his head. They shouted an apology; he grinned to himself, and mentally adjusted that week’s tally. Exciting moments: two.

  He might not have a Guardian’s reflexes anymore, he mused, but as long as he came out of a Frisbee incident unscathed, his life wasn’t so terrible.

  As he drew closer to the Humanities Building, however, the heavy sensation that had grown so familiar of late returned to his stomach. Not dread, but something akin to it. Unable to define it precisely, he’d suppressed the feeling.

  Given that Savi had noticed it, he’d not suppressed it well enough.

  He took the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor, where he shared an office with Sue Fletcher, another adjunct professor. At least he could be certain that it wasn’t his occupation; he enjoyed teaching, and as he paid little attention to the politics of academia, the bureaucracy did not engender the same negativity in him that he witnessed in many of the other faculty.

  But if he could not ascertain the root of the problem, no matter—whatever the feeling was, it would eventually pass. Given enough time, everything did. Perhaps he just needed to meet with Colin, engage him as a fencing partner. The vampire would be safe acting as a target for his restlessness, and Hugh would be hard-pressed to find a more experienced opponent.

  Or one who would remind him of everything he wanted to leave behind.

  No; it was better to forget Colin’s offer. Better not to get involved with problems that, as a human, he couldn’t solve.

  Not that he’d been particularly successful solving them when he’d been a Guardian.

  By the time Hugh reached his office he was brooding, though he was careful to keep his dark mood from his expression. He hadn’t scheduled any appointments, but it didn’t surprise him to find two people waiting outside the office door: a tall, barrel-round man, pushing fifty; and a woman—the male’s younger, vibr
ant opposite—her short auburn hair and tailored navy suit neat and efficient. Judging by the man’s bearing and gray suit, probably law enforcement, though not quite clean-cut enough for FBI.

  If they’d come to question him about Savi, they’d have been federal; a visit from local officers was unusual, but it wasn’t alarming.

  He supposed if he turned around and ran, it would cause another exciting moment—but it would hardly do to act in such a manner just to ease his ennui.

  He shook himself, frowned. Where had that bit of nonsense come from?

  Better to get this over, before another ridiculous notion could occur to him.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Professor Hugh Castleford?” Her inflection made his name a question, but Hugh didn’t doubt they knew exactly who he was. She smiled; her eyes remained flat and cool. “We’re Detectives Taylor and Preston of the SFPD.” She indicated herself first, then her partner.

  “Detectives.” Hugh nodded his acknowledgment as he slid his key into the knob. “What can I do for you?”

  They came in and took in everything with a single glance. Hugh scrutinized them as quickly as he put down his bag and seated himself behind his desk. They moved in tandem, the familiarity of a long partnership. Taylor sat in the chair facing his desk, her feet placed neatly in front of her. Preston dragged the visitor’s chair from Sue’s side of the office, whirled it around and straddled it. “We’re looking into a missing person’s case,” he said. “Javier Sanchez. He’s in one of your classes?”

  Hugh easily pictured Javier: quiet, intense, bright. “He was in Composition last term.” He studied the detective’s solemn countenance and unease settled across his shoulders. Would they have come in person to question him about a missing college student? Or did they suspect worse?

  “But not this semester?” Taylor flicked a glance at her partner.

  Hunching his shoulders in his worn jacket, Preston asked, “Have you seen him since your Comp class?”

  “Several times; the latest was a month ago Friday. At Auntie’s, on Irving Avenue.”

  “Your aunt’s?”

  Taylor’s demeanor warmed slightly. “It’s a restaurant, Joe. Southern Indian,” she said. The corners of her mouth tilted in amusement. “You’d be popping antacids like candy.”

  Preston grimaced; though the expression seemed to age him ten years, his sharp gaze never strayed from Hugh’s face. “How would you characterize Mr. Sanchez’s behavior?”

  “Normal.” Silence followed his succinct description. Hugh recognized the tactic, and obliged them by adding, “A few of my current and former students meet at Auntie’s every Friday night to play DemonSlayer. It’s a CCG—a collectible card game. Javier is one of the regular players. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary when I spoke with him.”

  The detectives didn’t look at each other, but he felt the undercurrent that passed between them.

  Tight-lipped, Taylor flipped open her notebook. “Will you give us the names of the other attendees?”

  Hugh recited the list without hesitation. When he finished, Detective Taylor nodded and tucked her notebook away. “Thank you, Dr. Castleford. You’ve been helpful.”

  He hoped that would prove true. “I’ll be available should you have any more questions.”

  Taylor stood, then paused when her partner was slow to do the same. The hint of mirth Hugh had seen before appeared again. “Ask him, Joe.”

  With a sheepish grin, Preston reached into the inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a slim paperback. “I wondered if you would sign this for me.”

  Hugh automatically accepted the book, and stemmed the shout of laughter that always rose whenever he saw the red cover and embossed silver lettering that spelled his name. The black font used for the title seemed to drip blood, and the ‘T’ resembled a silver dagger.

  Lilith.

  It had never been intended for a public audience, but two years after he’d written it, Savi had found the file while rebuilding his computer and assumed Hugh had been a stereotypical English grad student cum frustrated author.

  She’d been fifteen years old when she had used an Internet translator to transform the Latin text into English and had it printed at a vanity press as a gift. She’d also had access to a large bank account and contacts with online distributors. The print run had been two thousand copies; of those, Hugh had received twenty.

  His narrative ability was mediocre at best, and the translation awful. The final, terrible product had become infamous among Hugh’s colleagues when he’d been studying at Berkeley; and later, among his own students. Fortunately, when he’d applied for his position at San Francisco State, the department heads thought he’d intended it as an ironic statement about the corruption of language over time. He continued to let them think so.

  The copy he held now had been well-worn: dog-eared, spine-creased and the pages splotched with coffee stains.

  “It’s my stakeout book,” Preston explained.

  His partner sighed heavily. “No offense. But . . . he reads it aloud.”

  “None taken.” Hugh opened to the title page, wrote a brief message and his signature. “I can obtain a new copy for you; this one is ready to fall apart,” he said as he slid it back across the desk.

  With a wry glance at Taylor, Preston said, “I’ll keep that in mind.” Without checking the dedication, he pushed the book into his pocket and gave it a protective pat, then rose to his feet. He rolled the chair over to Sue’s half of the office, paused and looked at her political posters and haphazard stack of papers and books. “Professors today aren’t nearly as stiff as I remember them.”

  Hugh glanced down at the shirtsleeves he’d folded back over his forearms and his khaki cargo pants, and silently agreed.

  Preston continued, “Although from your accent, I suspect yours were. The U.K.?”

  The detective was making a rather broad guess; Hugh’s accent was almost imperceptible—certainly too slight to pinpoint an origin. His first language most closely resembled French, but they wouldn’t have recognized it as such now. “My formative years were spent traveling throughout Europe. And my tutors were, indeed, very strict.”

  He felt Detective Taylor’s penetrating gaze on his face before she turned away. “Let’s get started on these names. Thank you again, Dr. Castleford.”

  “When you find him, I should be relieved to hear from you,” Hugh said. His tone spoke for him: alive or not.

  “I’ll let you know.” Preston touched his pocket. “Thanks again.”

  Hugh sat quietly long after their footsteps receded down the hallway. They were very good; they hadn’t given away much between them, but Hugh was certain they thought he had been involved in Javier’s disappearance. How deep their suspicion went, he couldn’t guess, but it was enough to take his fingerprints by asking him to autograph the book.

  He couldn’t resent their surreptitious method of collection; if it eased their doubts about Hugh and led them in the proper direction toward Javier, then it was for the best.

  The detectives would find little to act on. The few items in his past that skirted legality—the birth certificate and school records Michael had provided Hugh after he’d Fallen—had been tested seven years before by the FBI, when they’d been investigating the fake identification Savi had been creating for her underage friends.

  No, the only real secrets Hugh possessed were laid bare in the book they’d used to collect his fingerprints.

  An irony, he mused, that only he could appreciate; to every other human, his story would remain fiction. From the date of his Fall, he’d determined not to share the truth about his past. A strange decision from a Guardian whose gift had been Truth, perhaps, but honesty would serve no purpose.

  Who could believe his tale? Even Savi, who considered him as close as an older brother, would look at him askance if he told her he’d been born during the reign of King John. Could Savi, for all her brilliance and trust, really understand the steps he’d t
aken from a castle in Britain to her side when she’d been a young girl?

  No. Nor did he want to place the burden of trying to believe him upon her; he would continue to isolate his history from those closest to him.

  And in the end, seeing the book in print had done what writing it had not: put his past into its proper perspective. The gaudy cover and horrible prose were silly; so had been his attempt to recreate Lilith.

  He looked around his office, suddenly struck by the institutional paint, the economical furniture, the windows no wider than an arrow-slit. So different than Caelum—but had he simply traded one comfortable institution for another?

  His stomach tightened, heavy beneath his chest.

  He recognized this feeling: futility. It will pass, he reminded himself. But he picked up his keys, and walked out.

  With the sun and physical exhaustion, it always passed more quickly.

  Lilith found the body near the edge of the southern lake.

  When she’d followed the nosferatu’s trail through the park, she’d caught the scent of human death and had expected to find a mutilated corpse. But this . . .

  Death held few surprises anymore, but this one stunned her. For several minutes, she stared with frozen recognition at the arrangement of flesh and bone with her head bowed and her hands fisted in her pockets. She knew the ritual that had been performed here. God, how well she knew it.

  Lucifer must be connected. What bargain had been struck, that the nosferatu also had knowledge of this ritual?

  Dread knotted her stomach and rose like bile in her throat.

  What had they done?

  The crunch of bicycle tires along the recreation trail shook her out of her numb reverie, and she quickly dropped into a crouch to avoid being seen. The remains weren’t far off the path, but had been hidden from easy sight by patch of willow scrub. Fewer than twenty-four hours old, they hadn’t suffered significant decomposition or putrefaction, but it wouldn’t be long before they were discovered. Though this portion of the park wasn’t as heavily visited as others, it was typically used by joggers and bicyclists; she hadn’t changed her clothing since leaving the federal building, and her suit would be memorable in these surroundings.