Demon Angel

by Meljean Brook

  The sound of the bicycle faded, only to be replaced by the light, quick tread of a runner. Lilith breathed a sigh of frustration. Why couldn’t these idiots be like normal humans: their asses on a sofa, eating potato chips and staring vacuously at a television?

  Growling a little, she thought about jumping out of the bushes in full demon mode to see just how fast the jogger could run, but the idea didn’t cheer her. She turned her attention back to the remains instead, and examined them with an objective eye.

  The ground had been cleared, creating a circle of dirt almost three feet in diameter. The victim had been dismembered—not a surprise, as nosferatu often tore their prey apart—but the symbols carved into the skin across the torso were not as usual. And in the middle of his chest, a name was spelled out in a grisly, flowing script.

  Moloch.

  She frowned. That didn’t make any sense. The victim’s new, demonic name should have been written there, not that of a nosferatu—and instead of death, there should have been a transformation. Had the ritual failed?

  On the trail, the runner’s steps slowed and came to a halt on the other side of the scrub. She heard the catch and pause in his ragged breaths as he recognized the scent of death. Fuck. Nothing to do now but slip away before he saw her.

  And then he sighed. It was a simple exhalation, full of resignation and disappointment, but its familiarity sent a shiver racing along her skin. Hardly daring to believe, she reached out with a psychic probe.

  Hugh.

  She closed her eyes against a creeping sense of inevitability, and Lucifer’s voice rang in her ears: His death will be yours to give, or your soul mine to keep.

  Could it be a coincidence that he should happen upon this scene? She knew it couldn’t be; somehow, between the nosferatu and the ritual and Hugh, she was certain that Lucifer’s long-held plans were finally coming together, and the pieces were falling into place.

  Where would she fit?

  She should flee, and keep Hugh unaware that she lived; her father depended on her to play a part. A demon worked under concealment, creating temptation by using the target’s ignorance against him and manipulating with lies. Hugh was no longer the Guardian she’d known, but a human. He was nothing to someone like her.

  She opened her eyes, saw the ruin that had once been a man.

  And waited.

  CHAPTER 12

  The sun shone low and warm at her back; it cast her shadow across the clearing and must have prevented Hugh from immediately recognizing her. He narrowed his eyes against the light, and she rose to her feet.

  Age had roughened the soft perfection of his youth, broadened his slim form. His golden skin was bathed in perspiration from his run, the sheen catching the sun and highlighting strong cheekbones and dark, slashing brows. His mahogany hair was cut short, erasing any hint of curl. The line of his jaw had once been smoothly curved, as if an artist had tenderly formed him from alabaster; time had proved a less patient sculptor, but the straight, clean angles were in as beautiful proportion.

  His clothing, she noted, was as atrocious as ever, but afforded a much nicer view than his brown robe. The thin blue T-shirt—sleeves torn away, a faded rainbow emblem on the front—clung damply to the muscular planes of his chest, and his loose navy sweatpants had small holes at the knees. Only his shoes were in decent condition.

  No paunch, no thinning hair. He’d gained weight, but no fat. His bare arms looked as taut and defined as the day she’d first seen him practicing swordplay in a castle courtyard.

  Wanting to berate herself for caring, but unwilling to miss the moment of recognition, she searched his expression and waited . . . for any reaction. Surprise, hate, joy: she would take anything.

  His firm, sensuous lips parted slightly. Surprised, then. She would have been satisfied with that, but there was more: doubt, in the minute wrinkling of his brow; violence, in the clenching of his right hand, as if he wanted to materialize a sword.

  Of course he doubted, she thought. He’d killed her, and because all demons could shape-shift, he assumed that someone intended to deceive him. She considered pinning him to the ground and stealing a kiss as she had so many times before, but the gruesome scene between them kept her where she was.

  “Hello, Hugh.”

  If he’d been trying to convince himself that she was just a human with an uncanny resemblance to a demon he’d once known, she’d shattered that by knowing his name.

  A muscle in his jaw flexed. His breathing had eased into a deep, even rhythm, and his eyes were cold. “You aren’t worthy of that face. Shift into another.”

  His voice had deepened over the years. Lower, with a rough timbre. Pleasure rushed through her, tinged with delicious irony. “I can’t.”

  The human form that she’d hidden from him for years was now the only one Hugh would see. It wouldn’t be long before he deduced that she wasn’t everything she had once been.

  She sobered quickly. “No demon would take on this appearance, Hugh. Mine is not a popular visage Below.”

  He remained silent, returning her comment with a flat stare. Finally he looked away from her, and turned toward the macabre arrangement on the ground.

  “Two nosferatu,” she said. “Last night.”

  “No blood,” he murmured, then glanced at her sharply. “Two?”

  She nodded, thinking about the blood. If the ritual she knew had been performed, it would have been everywhere: coating the remains, soaked into the ground, congealed into puddles. “Together, in the northern end of the park.” A grin flashed over her lips. “I killed them both.”

  “Good,” he said softly.

  She shrugged. “It was fun.” Hearing a pair of bicycles along the path, she eased into a crouch.

  His gaze slid down to her neck, and she knew he wouldn’t miss the faint pink of healing skin at the front of her throat. His fingers clenched again. “You were hurt.”

  The concern and anger in his tone that he tried to hide, but couldn’t, sent a thrill down her spine. She grinned. “I knew you still cared.”

  Humor lit his eyes, but it quickly faded and he stood in silence, watching her. He used the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, revealing a tight, rippling abdomen and smooth golden skin above the low-slung waistband of his sweats.

  “I thought you’d be fat,” Lilith said, her gaze fixed on his stomach.

  The corners of his lips twitched. “I thought I had slain you.”

  “You did. My father brought me back.”

  He frowned, his brows drawing together. He swallowed before he said, “I cut through your heart.”

  And it would have killed any other demon—Lilith had thought it would kill her, too. “Imagine my surprise as well. Perhaps it is one of the benefits of being Lucifer’s creation, rather than one of his brethren—you ought to have removed my head.” No amount of blood would have revived her if she couldn’t drink it.

  “I should have,” he agreed.

  Had he not bothered, assuming that the injury through her heart had been enough—or had he not been able to mutilate her form in that way? But she had no time to ask.

  “There are two bicyclists coming. Get down or they’ll see you.”

  He turned toward the path. “I need to ask them if they have a cell phone, and call the police.”

  Growling low in her throat to capture his attention, she darkened her skin to crimson, and curving horns sprouted from her head. She licked her lips with a forked tongue. “Get down, or I’ll let them see me.”

  He barely spared her a glance. “You told me the same thing in Paris, after the revolution. You were bluffing then, and you are now.”

  If her skin hadn’t been red, he might have seen the blush spreading across her cheeks. She hated recycling her tricks; being caught doing it was worse. Not that it was exactly the same—her threat in Paris had been intended to blackmail him into bed—but it had been a ruse he’d easily foiled by calling her on it.

  But circumstance
s were different.

  She stood. The bicyclists were still out of sight, past a deep curve in the path.

  Hugh eyed her with amusement. Apparently, he thought she would drop to the ground at the penultimate moment. “Your wings will add authenticity.”

  “My suit is real.” She grimaced, thinking of the holes her wings would tear in the fabric. Her charcoal three-piece pantsuit had been tailored to hide the bulge of her gun, and lay immaculately over her lanky form. “And my salary is pathetic. I don’t want to buy another.”

  “Your salary?” He shook his head, as if to clear sudden cobwebs. “You have a job?”

  “Everything has changed since you’ve Fallen.” She took a deep breath. “Give me five minutes, Hugh. Then you can call the police. There’s more going on here than just two nosferatu killing a human.”

  His brows rose. “No attempt to bargain? My time for yours?”

  “Bargains don’t have the same allure as they used to,” she said. Feeling him waver, she added, “Please.”

  He’d become soft, Hugh thought as he sank down onto his heels. A murder had been committed, he’d found a demon hovering over the kill, and he was letting her convince him to wait because she’d said “please.”

  That word alone should have shaken him out of the madness taking hold of him—this couldn’t be Lilith. However, despite his painfully vivid memory of her death and his certainty that she’d never deigned to say “please” before, his instincts said she was who she appeared to be.

  Her laughter, the wicked tilt to her eyebrows as she perused his body, the fluidity of her movements, and her habit of positioning herself so that she was ready for combat in an instant— they told him the truth, impossible as it seemed. This was Lilith. A subdued version, perhaps, of the demon he’d killed sixteen years before, but another demon couldn’t have imitated her so well. Their egos prevented them from completely disappearing into another personality.

  And those Below might have known Lilith and he had shared a singular rivalry and planned to use their history against him, but they couldn’t have known to choose the form she currently wore, nor realized its significance. Only Michael had been present the night she’d called for the Guardian to save him. Only Michael had known that Hugh had thought her an angel when she’d bent over him.

  Her skin paled and the horns slid back into her skull; he regarded her steadily, conscious of the odor of death in the air and the ache of sudden inactivity settling into his leg muscles. She’d pulled her midnight hair into a high, tight queue, and the severe hairstyle emphasized the arch of her eyebrows, her Mediterranean-olive skin, and angular cheekbones.

  He resisted the urge to reach out, to trace the beautiful line of her features with his fingertips and ascertain they were real.

  Hugh had only seen that face once again, in Seattle. He didn’t know why she’d chosen a human form to die in instead of her demonic one. Perhaps she’d hoped to inspire pity and mercy in those last moments? Or, considering her acute sense of fatalism and her flair for drama, maybe she’d simply thought it appropriate, bringing them full circle from that first night.

  He rested his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together instead. “Two minutes,” he said.

  Expecting her to triumph over his capitulation, he was surprised when she said without humor, “You need to walk away, and pretend you never saw me, or this.” She gestured toward the massacred body with her head, but her gaze never left his face. Her irises were dark brown, almost indistinguishable from her pupils, and her expression grave.

  He sighed. “You know I can’t.”

  She sucked in a breath between clenched teeth and continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I will erase any evidence that you’ve been here.” She glanced down; the ground was soft from the weeks of rain, and his shoes left clear impressions in the soil. “You’ll remain outside the investigation, and anything that follows. Just walk away. Now.”

  He shifted to ease the stiffness developing in his legs, and her face brightened. She thought he was going to go, he realized. Shaking his head, he said, “I won’t leave him here; nosferatu and demon influence over him ends now.”

  “He’s dead.” Her voice shook with frustration, and he wondered at her vehemence. “It’s a corpse, not a human.”

  “If it weren’t for the nosferatu, he still would be human,” he said quietly. “Why does it matter if I’m the one who finds him?”

  His question seemed to puncture the intensity he had sensed building within her; she exhaled deeply, closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, as if warding off a headache.

  Momentarily taken aback by the gesture, Hugh stared at her. She’d never seemed so human as in that second; demons couldn’t develop headaches, and yet she’d performed the movement as if it was familiar, natural.

  Guardians kept their habitual gestures long after they’d been transformed. He tried to remember if she’d done it before, and couldn’t; but there had been thousands of other actions, small and large, that had seemed as human. He’d always attributed them to her acting skill, and the length of time she’d been living with mankind—nothing about it felt artificial now.

  He pushed his uneasy thoughts aside when she lowered her hand and glanced up at him with a wry smile. “You’ve always been a stubborn ass, Hugh. I hate free will.”

  Meaning that if she could, she would force him to leave—by carrying him away, most likely. When he’d been a Guardian, she might have tried; now, she was hampered by rules against interfering with a human’s will.

  She stood before he could respond. “My two minutes have passed,” she said.

  Surprised that she’d adhered to his time limit, he absurdly wished he’d taken her offer of five minutes. He hadn’t learned more about the occupation she’d mentioned, or any of the changes she’d said had occurred.

  He shouldn’t want to know—he’d deliberately left all that behind.

  She turned to go and hesitated. That should have warned him, but it wasn’t until she looked back over her shoulder and he saw the mischievous gleam in her eyes that he realized her intent.

  He didn’t have time to make a decision, or protest. A Guardian could compensate for a demon’s speed; Hugh could not. Between one moment and the next, she was across the clearing, bending down and covering his mouth with hers.

  Anticipating a forceful kiss, he began to resist, but his tension drained away when he felt the difference in her touch. She’d done this before, but never so gently. Her hands remained at her sides; with light pressure, she ran her tongue across his bottom lip. She exhaled softly in pleasure, and her breath filled his mouth with heat.

  And he was the one who reached up, clasping her nape to pull her more tightly against him. Who sought her tongue with his, suddenly starving for the taste of her. Lilith. How did she affect him so deeply, and after so long? Could not time have dimmed this, too? But no, it was as fierce as ever; need for her burned through him—and he had no defense against it now.

  He pulled away and fought for control, forced himself to recall where they were.

  She watched him with dark eyes and a small, knowing smile. “You never let go.”

  He laughed, and it sounded harsh and bitter. “I have.”

  “I remember.”

  Silence fell between them. Finally, Lilith straightened. “Go away, Hugh. I killed the two nosferatu, but the city is overrun with them. Lucifer is involved—with the nosferatu, with this death—but I don’t know how. I do know that your being here isn’t an accident.”

  He waited, sensing that she wanted to say more. When she didn’t, he said, “My decision to take a run this afternoon was an impulsive one, Lilith.”

  “I won’t be able to convince you it wasn’t a coincidence then.” She sighed. Pausing, she looked away from him. Her nostrils flared delicately. “When was the last time you spoke with Colin? With this many nosferatu in the city, he must be in danger.”

  He frowned, wondering at her familiari
ty with the vampire. “Last evening.”

  Her body was rigid, her eyes alert as she skimmed the area surrounding them, but she sounded almost grateful as she said, “You are protecting him then?”

  “No.”

  She glanced back at him. “Why not?”

  At her admonishing tone, defensive anger slipped into his reply. “And how should I protect him? I have neither Guardian strength nor speed.”

  “You must be pleased to have such a compelling reason to shirk your duties.” She backed up a step.

  Her retreat when they’d just begun to argue jolted him out of his anger. She never ran from a fight with him; she might delay it to gain an advantage, but never leave in the middle of it. She was deliberately provoking him, but not for his sake.

  She wanted someone—probably not human—to think all connection between them was gone, that everything but antipathy had vanished.

  By all rights, it should have.

  “This is nothing,” he said, watching her expression closely. “Only sixteen years. I managed to shirk my duties for eight centuries by not killing you, and I had far less compelling reasons.”

  The corners of her mouth turned up, but no trace of humor tinged her voice as she spoke. “And, observe: I still live. Your restraint was for naught, as was slaying me.” She scented the air again, took another step back. “You know, Hugh—the outside looks better than ever, but inside you’ve become a worthless, self-pitying wimp. What a fucking waste.”

  She stalked away, throwing over her shoulder, “Don’t worry your pretty head about Colin; I’ll protect him tonight.”

  And she was gone.

  Hugh stared at the space where she’d been standing, his stomach heaving as if he’d been sucker-punched. Attempting to fight off the nausea by taking deep, cleansing breaths only filled his lungs with death and rot.

  That she’d said it to deceive another didn’t make it any less true.