Unlike her emotions, Ash’s curiosity remained strong. Right now, Nicholas had piqued that curiosity. She wanted to know more—especially if learning about him told her more about Rachel.
“You seem to be a cold, vengeful, unfriendly sort of man, Nicholas.”
“You noticed.” His tone suggested boredom and his attention remained on his computer screen, but Ash suspected that he’d focused completely on her. “Will you tell me now that I shouldn’t be obsessed with revenge?”
“Why would I care about that?” How strange. Whether he pursued revenge or not wasn’t any business of hers, except that now she was bound to help him. Other than that, it didn’t matter if he did. “I want to know more about Rachel. So I wondered if she liked you, even though you’re not very likable.”
He glanced up then, his gaze assessing—as if calculating his response, Ash realized. What would he come up with?
To her surprise, he came up with an answer. “No. She didn’t like me, not at the beginning. Madelyn told her too much about me.”
“Madelyn told her lies?”
“No, the truth. Madelyn told Rachel that I intended to destroy Wells-Down—and destroy her—in any way that I could.”
“So you were just as bent on revenge before Rachel died as you are now,” Ash observed. “And just as unlikable. But you changed Rachel’s feelings toward you.”
Icy amusement touched his mouth. “I can be charming.”
Ash didn’t doubt it. Though he was cold now, she thought Nicholas St. Croix could probably pretend to feel something when it was convenient. He’d know how to flatter a woman, to make her feel special. He’d calculate her every reaction, and add her response to a reservoir of data that he could use to further his agenda.
“She loved you.”
Though the icy amusement didn’t leave his expression, Ash sensed a hardening within him, as if he’d put another lock on the door separating her from his emotions. That, she thought, was his true response. He showed her one reaction, and although the hardness didn’t feel any warmer than his amusement and she had no idea what lay beyond that barrier he’d erected, the very act of strengthening that barrier told her enough. Some deep emotion lay within him, and he felt a need to hide it from her.
“Yes,” he said easily. “She did love me.”
“I suppose she must have. The police report said she threw herself in front of you.” That sounded like love—a rather dramatic, soap-opera sort of love, at least. Ash had her doubts. “What really happened? Who really fired the gun? You said that Rachel blocked Madelyn’s shot—but I can’t believe Madelyn tried to shoot you. It would break the Rules.”
His eyes narrowed. “You think I lied about not killing Rachel?”
“Yes.” Ash could almost feel Madelyn’s strong fingers digging into her arms, shaking her. Don’t break the Rules. Don’t! “Madelyn warned me not to kill anyone. It’s one of the few things I remember from before Nightingale House. So I can’t believe that she’d be foolish enough to shoot you.”
“I see.” He gave her that assessing stare again before abruptly continuing, “Madelyn didn’t break the Rules when she fired the gun. I gave her permission to shoot me.”
What? Ash hadn’t expected that. Astonishment leapt through her, new and intriguing. But as much as she wanted to concentrate on the feeling, his admission proved more fascinating.
“You told Madelyn to kill you? Why would you do that?”
“When I swung by Madelyn’s house that evening to pick her up after work, Rachel invited me in. Madelyn was still in the office upstairs.”
“Did you know Madelyn was there, too?”
His thin smile could have been a yes or a no, and Ash couldn’t decide which was more likely: She believed that Nicholas would have relished the confrontation with Madelyn, and she believed that Nicholas hated his mother enough that he wouldn’t have entered the house if he’d known she was there.
In the end, she supposed it didn’t matter. He’d gone in.
“Madelyn and I argued, of course.” He said it casually, setting aside his computer and sitting back, as if settling in for a comfortable chat. “Madelyn drew a gun from her desk, and I told her: Shoot me, then. You’ve wanted to get rid of me for twenty years. So do it. She did, but Rachel got in between. Then they disappeared.”
So he had given permission. But why? He’d been determined to destroy Madelyn, not himself.
“You didn’t think she’d really do it,” Ash guessed.
“No, I didn’t. Pulling out that gun seemed like a rash, hysterical move, but Madelyn isn’t impulsive—everything she does is calculated. She’d lose her company if she murdered me, and Madelyn wouldn’t risk that. So I assumed she only meant to frighten me.”
“So you egged her on.”
“Yes. Now I know that a demon wouldn’t resist a free pass to kill a human. Getting rid of the evidence would be easy—and it would have been her word against Rachel’s.”
But Rachel had thrown herself between them, instead. Sacrificing herself wouldn’t have been the same as giving Madelyn permission to kill her—and so Madelyn had still broken the Rules, Ash realized. Was that why they’d disappeared?
“What are the consequences if a demon kills a human?”
“The consequences before the portals to Hell were closed, or the consequences now?”
“What portals to Hell?”
As if her question frustrated him, his jaw clenched. “The Gates between Earth and Hell,” he said. “They closed three years ago.”
After Madelyn had shot Rachel and broken the Rules. “So what should have happened to Madelyn six years ago?”
“She’d have been either punished in Hell or killed.”
“And now? What if I deny a human’s free will?”
“Are you planning on doing that?” He must have thought she wouldn’t; he didn’t wait for her answer. “With the Gates shut, you can’t be taken back to Hell, so Rosalia and her partner would hunt you down. They’d have a psychic lock on you as soon as you broke the Rules, and they wouldn’t stop until you were dead.”
Punished or dead. With those as her only options, it was best just to heed Madelyn’s warning, and not break the Rules.
Not that Ash felt a particular urge to break them, anyway. Strange, wasn’t that? As a demon, shouldn’t she be plotting how to kill or maim him?
At the very least, shouldn’t she be trying to make him cry?
What would a demon do? Ash couldn’t answer that. Nicholas didn’t seem to subscribe to the “demons are rebels with a cause” interpretation that she remembered from several books and movies, so she must be the “utterly evil and corrupt” variety. But if that were so, shouldn’t every step she took and word she spoke all be designed to bring about Nicholas’s eventual destruction? Shouldn’t it be instinctive?
Or was Nicholas completely wrong about demons?
She frowned at him. “If I’m a demon, why aren’t I plotting your downfall?”
“Because we have a bargain,” he said. “If you don’t help me, you’re screwed.”
“But why aren’t I already making plans for after we fulfill our parts of the bargain?” If Ash could have been disappointed in herself, she would have been. She obviously suffered from a severe lack of initiative. “I must be a shortsighted demon.”
“Good.” A spark of genuine humor seemed to flash across his expression before he added, “But I’ll assume that you’re only saying that to mislead me.”
“To lure you into complacency?”
No doubt of his amusement now. He smiled, just a tilt at the corners of his lips, but it didn’t seem cold at all.
“Yes,” he said.
So, a demon misled men to make them feel safe. She’d have to use that tactic after she recalled how to be a demon.
How did her amnesia fit, anyway? “Do you suppose my memory loss is part of an elaborate demonic scheme?”
“Yes,” he said—still smiling, but Ash could see that
he meant it. “I’d have to be an idiot to believe that everything a demon said and did wasn’t designed to fulfill some other motive.”
“I must be an idiot demon, not to have some other motive.”
Nicholas arched a brow, as if in silent agreement that she might be an idiot. Ash arched hers in response, and felt her mouth curve. Smiling, if only a little.
Oh. She knew this emotion: amusement. A pleasant feeling, really, even when it seemed so thin and light.
Nicholas’s gaze fell to her lips, then to the dress on her lap. His expression cooled again, leaving a smile that wasn’t pleasant at all.
“Leave those things on the plane. The dress, the shoes. I’ll arrange for their return to the hotel in London.”
“Why?” Didn’t he travel with them?
“They aren’t Rachel’s.” He met her eyes, and she saw the satisfaction in his gaze, as if he’d just proven something. Whether he was proving it to her or to himself, she couldn’t guess. “I took them from a rack of luggage in the elevator.”
He’d stolen someone’s clothes? How fascinating. What made Nicholas St. Croix break a basic human law?
And did the theft mean everything Ash thought she’d learned about him was wrong? Guilt, driven by a dress and underwear. But that didn’t fit now, did it? Did he even have anything of Rachel’s aside from the passport, or had he tossed it all six years ago?
“Why?” she asked.
“Do you truly think I’d give a demon anything of hers?”
“I obviously shouldn’t have,” Ash said. The passport had seemed to legitimize the other items. He hadn’t faked or stolen that. “Why give me the identification?”
“You needed the passport to board the flight. It was necessary. I’d never have given you anything of Rachel’s for any other reason.”
That didn’t surprise her. She wondered, “So you do have more of her things?”
“Yes.” He lifted his computer again and focused on the screen, effectively dismissing her. “But they’re not for you to ever touch.”
Because he’d cared for Rachel and hated demons, Nicholas would apparently break human laws while seeking his revenge . . . or just to play a game on a demon who’d lost her memory.
Well, now. Ash’s smile widened. That was so much more interesting than guilt.
CHAPTER 4
Nicholas ignored her for the remainder of the flight, but Ash didn’t mind. She passed the time watching the attendants; one of them hated the other two, yet spent hours pretending that she didn’t. Why the hatred? Ash didn’t care enough to ask. Simply observing the attendant proved to be an intriguing study: The woman concealed her feelings, yet so desperately wanted the others to know how she felt.
The others weren’t completely blind to it. Unease and uncertainty coated Ash’s tongue in their vinegary flavors when a smile became too brittle, a laugh sounded too shrill, or a gesture appeared too abrupt.
Yet each time, the other attendants shrugged their unease away. Why? Didn’t they trust their perception? Or was it just simpler to pretend they didn’t notice?
Whatever their reasons, people were endlessly fascinating, Ash decided. And the man across her probably only seemed all the more fascinating because she couldn’t read him as easily. Perhaps, unlike humans, demons didn’t like everything to be simple.
Perhaps it was only Ash who didn’t.
She turned her attention to Nicholas again, trying to sense beyond his emotional barriers. Did he have to consciously maintain those after erecting them? She waited, but they held strong—only cracking once, when the plane shook through a spat of turbulence.
Even then, she barely sensed anything from him other than mild surprise, followed by expectation. No fear. No dread. He only met her eyes and said, “If it’s Rosalia, I hope that you’ll catch me.”
Rosalia, the woman he’d spoken to on the phone earlier—the one he’d called a Guardian. Did he truly think she’d attack a plane, or was he playing with the amnesiac demon again?
Ash decided that he was jerking her chain when he told her, “Or it could be a dragon.”
Sure. Ash gave him a disbelieving look. He smiled that unpleasant little smile and resumed his work. By the time one of the flight attendants came over to assure them that the turbulence would pass soon, the cracks in his emotional barriers had closed again.
But the cracks had been there. His expectation had been real. And he had said something about demons having wings. Guardians might, too.
Did Ash have wings? She hoped so.
Ash didn’t know if she’d bother to catch Nicholas St. Croix, though.
Fortunately for him, he never needed her to. The plane landed without incident in New York shortly afterward. Ash pretended to be Rachel through customs, where, despite the story she’d prepared in anticipation of questions about Rachel’s disappearance, the officer spent more time reminding Ash to update her passport photo to include her tattoos than asking about the years she’d spent in England. After they verified her status as a U.S. citizen, she followed Nicholas to their waiting rental, a black luxury SUV.
Outside the terminal, the air hit Ash with an icy blast to her face, far colder than London had been. She gritted her teeth and shoved her hands into her pockets, only to yank them out again when Nicholas tossed the SUV’s key fob at her. She caught it and stared at him over the hood of the vehicle.
He moved to the passenger door. “You know how to drive?”
“Yes,” she responded automatically. But did she know how to?
She supposed they’d soon find out. He got in, and after she climbed into the driver’s side—yes, all the controls and pedals felt familiar—he reclined his seat and closed his eyes.
“You don’t need sleep. I do. So you drive.”
So he knew Ash didn’t need sleep. How much more did he know but hadn’t yet told her? Maybe she’d catch him, after all.
And she had to admit, he did look tired. Nicholas St. Croix couldn’t conceal everything he felt. Shadows darkened his eyes and stubble roughened his jaw. Though it was only just past midnight in New York, given the time change, he’d essentially remained awake until dawn.
“All right.” Ash turned the key. With a few beeps and chimes, the dashboard computer started up.
The screen had a map. She didn’t know how to use that.
“Where do I go?”
“West on Interstate 80, then north to Minnesota. We’ll stop in Duluth before we head up to her parents’ house.”
It would take a full day to drive that distance. “Why not just fly there?”
Nicholas opened his eyes and scanned her expression, as if to determine whether she was serious. He must have realized she was. Tiredly, he scrubbed his hand over his face and closed his eyes again.
“Why not just e-mail our destination to the Guardians and save them the trouble of trying to find us?”
Ah, yes. The Guardians. He hadn’t had time to tell her about them before, but they had twelve hundred miles to kill now—and a tired man could still talk.
She checked traffic and pulled out into the lane. “So who are the Guardians?”
“Warriors with angelic powers. They were all human once, but they were transformed after sacrificing themselves to save someone else. I don’t know the full story—I just know what matters: Guardians kill demons.”
Oh, fun. They sounded almost as likable as Nicholas. “I can’t wait to meet one,” Ash said dryly.
A low, rough sound made her glance over. Was that a laugh? She hoped he hadn’t hurt himself.
He caught her look. The laugh receded into a wry nod of acknowledgment. “I’m tired.”
“I’ll remember that exhaustion makes you more vulnerable.” Just like a good demon would, surely. “So, Guardians kill demons. Why?”
“Because you’re determined to destroy everything human.”
Ash shook her head. “But I’m not. I don’t recognize anything of myself in that description.”
�
�Your memory—”
“That doesn’t mean anything. I don’t remember learning to drive, either. But some things feel familiar—and destroying humanity doesn’t.”
He rubbed his face again. “Look. This is what I know: Demons are evil. You were angels, but you rebelled, went to war in Heaven, and got your heads smashed in by the good angels. After that, you were transformed into demons and thrown into Hell. Now you all fuck with human souls, trying to damn us to the Pit, and follow Lucifer.”
Lucifer.
Memory surfaced, hot and sharp as a blade. A dark figure. Raging pain. I name you Ash—
Then he’d ripped her apart. Lucifer had ripped her apart.
Terror closed her throat. She remembered that. His horrible voice. Ah, God, she could almost hear it now. Shredding everything she was, everything she’d been.
A scream clawed inside her chest. She bit it back, suppressing the tremors, her hands clenching on the steering wheel.
“Does it sound more familiar now?”
Nicholas’s voice dragged her out of the memory. She glanced over and found him watching her, his eyes tired, but just as sharp.
Ash struggled for breath to reply. It took several tries. Finally, she admitted, “A little.”
The Special Investigations warehouse in San Francisco housed their official law enforcement offices and less-official novice training quarters. Though Guardians could travel directly from Caelum using a Gate that led into the hall near the gymnasium, most of them avoided it—which was probably why Rosalia hadn’t used it, either. The Gate had been created after a Guardian had sacrificed herself to save one of the novices a year ago; her death was too fresh for most of the Guardians here, and using the Gate seemed to trample on her memory.
Fortunately, Michael still allowed Taylor to teleport to Special Investigations—and if not for Michael, she’d have likely been living at the warehouse full-time, along with the other novices. Taylor could fight, she could shoot, but her skills were nothing against the abilities and speed of a demon . . . until Michael took over.
As frustrating as that was, Taylor had to be grateful for it, too. She’d have gone mad, cooped up in the warehouse instead of working in the field. Most Guardians had trained for a hundred years before they’d been allowed to fight a demon. Now, because they were so strapped for manpower, a Guardian might start working after only four or five decades of training, but that was still too long to wait.
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