Guardian Demon (GUARDIAN SERIES)

by Meljean Brook

  Michael hadn’t, either. “Bring in Hugh, then, so that we can be certain.” While Lilith opened the intercom, he looked to Jacob again. “Did you also try to find Brandt?”

  “Yeah. I can’t jump to him.”

  “I can’t, either,” Selah said.

  A thoughtful frown creased Andromeda’s brow. “Demon or human, he was careful. He never said anything about Guardians or vampires, which would make everyone instantly dismiss the warning and send him straight into an institution. But terrorists? Infections? Government cover-ups? People will worry and some will believe him. Some conspiracy theorists will want to believe him.”

  “For good reason. There is a government cover-up,” Lilith pointed out.

  “Yes,” Michael said. “And we knew it might come to this.”

  “So we did.” Lilith looked to the young Guardians behind him. “Pim, Becca—you two go through the warehouse and put everything into your caches. Strip everything down to the drywall, then get into the conduits and wires. Don’t leave any sign that we’ve been here. But leave the tech room for last. Jake, I need you to start tracing the source of that video.”

  “I’m already on it. But I could use Savi’s help.”

  “It’ll be about twelve hours before you get it. Do what you can before that.”

  “How widespread is this video?” Andromeda asked.

  “It’s popping up on every online distributor,” Jacob said. “Some blogs have picked it up, but everyone is treating it as entertainment, not news. And it’s gaining views—about a hundred thousand so far—but not much serious chatter.”

  Not yet. This was only mischief. Demons preferred to damage. That would come next, and Michael knew what form it would take. The demon had already announced it: I suspect that I will die exposing them as well.

  They needed to find Mark Brandt before he was murdered. And if it was too late, they needed to find his body before any humans did.

  Familiar footsteps passed Rebecca’s and Pim’s in the hall. Hugh’s gaze went to Andromeda as he entered the conference room, reading her mood. Everyone would have heard about her desire to Fall. Hugh had Fallen himself, and had never regretted it, but Michael knew that he would be sorry to see Andromeda go. She was an asset, no matter her poor skill with a sword.

  “Play the clip for him,” Lilith said.

  “My name is Mark Brandt—”

  “Lie.” Just as quickly, Hugh realized the rest. “They exposed us?”

  “Yes.” Lilith turned to Michael, her eyes hard. She knew what the demon’s next step would be, too. “Find Brandt. Take Taylor with you.”

  Andromeda shook her head. “He doesn’t need my help. I’ll stay and assist Jake in the tech room.”

  “Uh,” Jacob said, then grabbed Alice and teleported away.

  A wise choice. Michael looked behind him, where Selah laughed quietly into her hand. Find other Guardians and make them aware of the video, he signed. Ask if they have heard anything new regarding Mark Brandt.

  With a nod, she vanished, too.

  “For fuck’s sake, Taylor,” Lilith snapped. “Half an hour ago, you whine about being useless and unskilled, and now you whine when you’re given the one task you can do better than any other Guardian. We’re trying to find a missing human, not hunt down a demon. You’re the detective here.”

  “And Michael can’t figure out how to find him? He’s a million years old.”

  “Not quite,” Michael said.

  Lilith spoke over him. “And he also can’t tell you the color of the sofa in my living room, even though he’s been there fifty times. Even though he was there an hour ago.”

  Michael frowned at her.

  Blinking in surprise, Andromeda glanced up at him. “You’re color-blind?”

  “No. He just doesn’t see it.” Lilith looked to him and challenged, “Well?”

  With a sigh, he pictured the room. Saw the open spaces. The places to hide. The locations where Lilith had stashed weapons. The painting on the wall and the swords on the shelf. He could have drawn the layout with precision. He would know if she moved the sofa.

  Lilith arched her brows. “No answer?”

  His teeth clenched. No, he couldn’t recall what color the sofa was. Michael didn’t care that he couldn’t. He was only irritated because Lilith had known that he’d never paid attention.

  “The sofa sits in front of the painting of Caelum,” he finally said. “Which is blue and white.”

  All of this irritation was worth the bemused look that Andromeda gave him. “So you don’t remember what you see?”

  “I do.” When it mattered.

  “So what was Becca wearing a few minutes ago?”

  Michael could answer this. “A tight knee-length skirt and a sleeveless shirt.”

  “He knows that because it told him Becca’s range of motion,” Hugh told her. “And because he could have used sleeves to restrain her temporarily. He approved of the shirt and refrained from telling her to change into something less restrictive for her legs, because he knew I would mention it as soon as our sparring session began. He also noticed her hairstyle and the type of shoes she wore—all for the same reasons.”

  That was true. Hugh looked at others the same way. And Michael saw and would remember Andromeda’s smile now. This amused her.

  “But you’re wearing a toga,” she said. “That’s loose and easy to grab.”

  “Not as easy as it looks. And I can shed it without hampering my movements.”

  “Don’t shed it now,” Lilith said. “But at least change into pants before you go looking for Brandt. And, Taylor, I wouldn’t foist Michael onto you without reason. No one deserves that. But you might run into a demon, so having him around is handy. Just make him stand in a corner while you work.”

  He watched her struggle between the impulse to refuse his protection and the need to search for Brandt. The struggle ended almost as soon as it began. The job won. With Andromeda, it always did.

  She nodded. “We’ll go look.”

  * * *

  Earlier that morning, Taylor had ended up with too much time to dwell. Now she had no time to process. They teleported—high in the air over Mark Brandt’s town house in Columbus, and Taylor had a dizzying, bird’s-eye view of neatly manicured lawns and a quiet, tree-lined street before the hard press of Michael’s mind pushed against her shields.

  Not trying to get into her head, she knew. He was performing a psychic sweep, searching for demons whose shields weren’t solid. The sweep would give away Michael’s presence here, but if any were nearby, he could jump again and slay the demon before it got away.

  There must not have been any. An instant later, Taylor wobbled in a living room with Michael’s arm around her waist.

  She braced her hands on her knees, tried to steady. “I’m all right. Check the rest of the house.”

  He left her to wobble alone. She didn’t think he’d find a body. The deep breath she drew didn’t carry the odor of death or rot. Instead the place smelled slightly stale, as if closed up for a few days.

  Fighting the disorientation, she lifted her head, looked around. The town house had a basic, open floor plan. Nothing too fancy, but still on the upscale side as furniture and decorations went. Hardwood floors stretched from the living room to the kitchen. A breakfast bar separated the two areas. Stainless-steel appliances, granite counters, and everything sparkling. Only a small round table anchored the dining section.

  He probably didn’t do much entertaining here, then. Most of his schmoozing and politicking probably took place in restaurants or at the senator’s home. Any visitors would be more intimate. Friends, family.

  Not family, Taylor remembered. After his father was killed in Seattle, Brandt hadn’t had any close relatives left. Still, she’d need to find out if there’d been any visitors of late. And if there hadn’t been, whether that was unusual.

  A handful of envelopes had piled up below the mail slot in the front door. Still not trusting her leg
s to move, she read the postmarks on the envelopes from her position at the center of the room. The three that were visible had been mailed locally the previous week, on Wednesday and Thursday. Assuming one or two days from drop to delivery, that door hadn’t been opened since Friday afternoon.

  Today was Monday. Lilith had already tried to call Brandt at work. He hadn’t been in, but Lilith’s impression from the receptionist was that they’d expected him. So only absent from work one morning so far.

  Not long enough to be considered missing. Nobody had been in here looking for him yet.

  Feeling steadier, she texted Jake. When was the video published?

  Earliest uploads are Friday afternoon.

  The sound of the refrigerator opening in the kitchen turned her head. Michael stood in front of it, looking inside.

  She hoped he wasn’t looking for a body in there. “Hungry?”

  “Always.” That flat statement was followed by “The milk expired seven days ago. A cheese has molded. A take-out box of rice has, too.”

  That didn’t match up. She’d seen moldy food in refrigerators before, but not usually in houses this neat. And someone had been collecting the mail until Friday. But they hadn’t opened the fridge in a week or more?

  Because a human hadn’t been living here, she realized—and Michael had known what to look for. Maybe he wasn’t accustomed to searching for humans, but he knew how to look for demons.

  “So you’re not as blind as Lilith thinks.”

  “Not always.”

  Okay, but what did it mean? “If Brandt has been gone since before Friday . . . the demon must have been impersonating him at work. For about two weeks, judging by that milk.”

  “Yes.”

  So where did the real Mark Brandt go? Her gaze swept through the kitchen, the dining room, the living area. No TV. A politician would watch the news, so that was probably upstairs. Maybe an office, too. She might find info there.

  A little cabinet sat near the door. She opened up the small drawer, rifled through extra keys, batteries, a package of gum. “Is his car in the garage?”

  “Yes.”

  He’d left some other way, then. She’d call the cab services, check out the public transportation. Hopefully a demon hadn’t flown him away. That didn’t leave much of a trail.

  In this case, though, the lack of a trail would suggest that was exactly what had happened.

  “Andromeda,” Michael said, “what would you like me to do?”

  “At the top of the list? Stop calling me that name.”

  “It is how I think of you.”

  Great. So he thought of her as a helpless woman tied to a rock and about to be eaten by a monster.

  No, thanks to that. “We had a good twenty minutes. Don’t piss me off now.”

  He looked to the heavens. “I suspect that is inevitable.”

  “Probably.” Not really. Her irritation had vanished with his response. Was he making a joke? She couldn’t quite tell. “Go knock on doors, ask the neighbors when they last saw Brandt, if he’s had any visitors, and if anyone picks up his mail. And ask if they saw him leave in another car or taxi at some point in the past few weeks. No toga. You need a suit.”

  She pulled out her phone and texted Jake. Any recent CC charges for airline tickets or transpo?

  Her fingers went slack when she glanced up again. Holy shit.

  Michael wore a three-piece in dark gray, with a white shirt and black tie and a vest that emphasized the width of his shoulders, his hard stomach, and his lean hips. Oh, Jesus, that just wasn’t right. Any guy his size should resemble a square block in a suit like that. But he just looked long and strong and utterly gorgeous.

  But far too rich. “Your suit says money, not federal agent.”

  “I’m an independently wealthy federal agent.”

  She snorted. That was definitely a joke. Gold stashed away, and the shit pay and shittier hours were just for fun. Right. “You need to change.”

  “No.” His gaze warmed. “I like the way you look at me when I’m wearing it.”

  Damn him. And she couldn’t think of a good lie to get out of it. She’d almost dropped her phone when she’d seen him. She couldn’t be more obvious than that. “Okay, you got me. I’m a sucker for a three-piece. But you’re still all wrong. Your hair is more military than fed.”

  “It will do.”

  Oh, she knew this one. “Because if it was longer, someone could grab it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to tell me to cut mine?”

  Not many of the other female Guardians did, though. Irena’s looked as if she chopped hers off with a dull ax, but long hair and braids abounded in the others.

  But they all used a brush. Taylor hadn’t even looked at herself in the mirror since she’d gotten out of bed. She knew her hair was tangled; she couldn’t sweep her fingers through. Six years before, she’d kept it in a neat bob, blowing out any hint of curl every morning until she was the picture of the sleek detective. She hadn’t done that in a long time.

  She didn’t really want to do it now.

  “You don’t need to cut it.” His eyes were pure obsidian. “Beauty can be a weapon, too.”

  Then he was a freaking nuclear missile. Her phone vibrated in her hand. Grateful for the distraction, she read the message.

  No CC activity for two weeks. Regular purchases before that. No flights since his last trip from D.C. to Columbus. That was two days before CC charges stopped.

  “Okay, Michael, you need to really push for info about how Brandt left a few weeks ago,” Taylor said, and this time she was prepared when she glanced up at him. “You have a badge and ID?”

  “Yes.”

  “What name did you get?”

  Savi usually made the identification. If a Guardian didn’t use his real name, the one she gave him ended up being a joke about his powers.

  “Michael Smith.”

  Damn it. “Savi choked. You must intimidate her too much.”

  “I doubt that.” His eyes faded to amber again. Not quite human, but he could pass. “Should you encounter a threat, open your shields. I’ll come immediately.”

  Yeah, that was going to happen. She glanced toward the stairs, intending to head to the second floor, when Michael started walking to the door. She stopped. What the hell?

  Everything had changed. Michael was still Michael. But he wasn’t.

  “Hold on, Michael. Hold on.” She stared when he faced her again. His brows lifted in query. She shook her head. Even that was different. “What did you just do? Two seconds ago, you weren’t an agent. You were Big Warrior Guardian. Now, even with the hair and that suit . . . you look right. But you don’t look any different.”

  But he was different. His smile was now slightly crooked as he approached her. His walk suddenly held a bit of swagger. The way he tucked his left hand into his pocket. The casual slant of his shoulders, as if he were completely at ease.

  Michael’s usual “at ease” looked more like I can easily kill you with my big toe.

  “That is the mistake that demons make when they take on a new role, Agent Taylor. They lack commitment. I don’t.”

  His voice had altered, too. Not the harmony, not the echoing abyss of his dragon form, but a man’s voice. Deep, with a touch of New England. But not just the sound was different; even his words and their rhythm had changed. Taylor searched his features, his expression, searching for a hint of Michael the Guardian. She couldn’t find one.

  That was . . . weird. She was used to Guardians shape-shifting and looking completely different. She wasn’t used to a different man inhabiting the same skin. And she wanted the real Michael back.

  That was weirder. “So who is Michael Smith?”

  “Now that’s a question. You could say I’m from a wealthy family, that my parents were influential in the community, that I had all the advantages of money and class. And I did have it easy. I coasted through school, got my JD—”

  “Yo
u’re pretending to be a lawyer?” Taylor had to laugh.

  “No. I never got any further than my degree. Because around that time I realized that I should serve the people I came from, give back something. So I joined the corps for eight years, saw action around the world. In the meantime, my parents died and my sister broke under the pressure of being so damn good all of the time, so I came back and put everything in order. Then a few years ago, I was recruited by a shadowy law enforcement agency called Special Investigations. I’m not sure about them yet, and I know they aren’t sure about me. But I like the work.”

  So this was Michael. But the condensed, human, alternate-universe version of his life. It kind of made sense. And she suddenly didn’t mind this version so much. “This is the story you’re taking with you to knock on doors—a background to inform your personality?”

  “Yes.” He stepped closer, forcing her head to tilt back. “But I’m taking more than that. Because ever since I moved to San Francisco, I’ve been butting heads with a local detective. And I’ve tried to ignore how she’s gotten under my skin—but yesterday I ran into her again, and one second she’s telling me to stay the hell out of her face, and in the next second my mouth is all over hers and I never want to stop kissing her.”

  Oh, real subtle. “So she punched you.”

  “No,” he said softly. “She kissed me back. And that’s my problem now. I should be focusing on this case. But as I’m walking from door to door, I’m remembering how her lips softened beneath mine, and the way she smelled like red wine and smoke, and how fucking hot her mouth was. I’ll be thinking of seeing her again tonight. And I’ll be wondering if I’m the luckiest bastard in the world, or if I’m completely screwed.”

  Jesus, he was good. With a few sentences, he’d taken her into that kiss, until she could smell and feel and taste him. She barely had enough sense to say, “I think you’re screwed.”