Demon Marked (18 page)

His expression froze, and she realized that either her confession or her smile had surprised him. He recovered quickly, with a mocking grin and an arid tone—a defense, Ash recognized.

“Demons also like torturing animals. So coming from you, that's hardly a compliment.”

“What would be a compliment, then?” Something evil, she supposed. “Oh, Nicholas, you're looking so coldhearted and sardonic tonight, as if you're dreaming about punching a baby.”

She saw it—the beginning of a laugh. Heard it in his sharp intake of breath. But he forced it back, his strong fingers digging into her shoulders.

“Don't,” he warned.

Yes, God forbid. Oh, and she knew this emotion welling up within her now: irritation. She felt the change of her teeth, the odd pointed pressure of fangs against her lips. She saw the wash of red light across his skin, the pink glow on his white collar. Suddenly, she
hated
that he could hold her here like this.

“I've got an idea,” she said—
hissed
. “Why don't you give me permission to smash your balls in with my knee? I guarantee you wouldn't like me after that, and wouldn't have to stop yourself from laughing.”

His eyes narrowed. “That bothers you?”

“Yes.” She couldn't lie. Nor could she hold on to the irritation and anger. They'd already faded—yet she still liked him. Why didn't that go away? “It also bothers me that my fangs apparently give me a lisp, and I don't know how to make them appear so that I can practice.”

Nicholas didn't respond, and she couldn't read his expression again—which meant that he was thinking something that she could use against him. But she saw the moment when his thoughts turned to something that he didn't mind her knowing: That cold little smile formed again and his gaze dropped to his hands, still holding her shoulders. Icy satisfaction bled though the shield over his emotions.

“What is it?” she asked. No doubt more about how evil demons were, rinse and repeat.

“I was remembering what Rosalia once told me: Fill a room with hundreds of demons and Guardians who can each fly and throw city buses around, then add one human . . . and that one weak person would be the most powerful being in the room.”

That was far more interesting than evil and lies. “Because of the Rules?”

“Yes. A demon has little physical power against a human. But a human can do anything to a demon.”

Suddenly, though he'd loosened his grip until it would take little effort to step away from him, Nicholas's hold on her seemed like a threat. Was that what he wanted her to feel?

“You want me vulnerable?”

“I don't know if
vulnerable
is possible for a demon. I just wanted the upper hand—and I almost forgot that I've always had it.” He let go of her shoulders and stepped back. His gaze swept from her head to her toes. “So do what you like, demon. Try to lure me into bed, try to make me laugh. It won't matter in the end. The only power you can ever have over a human is an emotional one, and I'll
never
care for you.”

Oh. Well, she already knew that.

It was strange, though. He'd let her go, but she
did
feel suddenly vulnerable, experiencing the brief impulse to cover her naked chest, to back away from him. And she didn't know whether the sharp stab of disappointment came because he'd stopped touching her or because of his declaration that he'd never care for her . . . but she felt that, too.

Then those emotions passed, and she could only be vaguely dissatisfied that she had, once again, somehow messed up this whole demon thing. He'd just admitted to worrying that he'd lost the upper hand, and she hadn't even realized it or taken advantage of the situation.

Really, she needed to step up her game. The plots he imagined her forming were much better than those she came up with herself.

Except for the last plot he'd imagined. That was just dumb.

She watched him return to the table, distracted for a second by the fit of his trousers over his ass and the broadness of his shoulders. Only a slight dampness at his collar ruined the tailored perfection of it all—and she'd have loved to run her hands through his wet hair, messing up the neatly combed strands, then dragging him down to the floor to strip away every bit of clothing.

“You really thought I invited you to have sex so that you'd begin to care about me?”

He sat, looked at her over the top of his newspaper. “Didn't you?”

“I have amnesia, not a rampant case of the stupids. I'd have to be an idiot to think that any man mistakes sex for affection.”

His short exhalation sounded like the precursor to a laugh, and she felt his grin down to her toes.

“So you would,” he said. “What is your plot, then?”

“To tell you about all of the dried semen in this room. I'm hoping that it makes you feel skeevy enough to take another shower, and gives me another chance to see you naked.”

He didn't seem that concerned. Slowly, he folded his paper, studying her all the while.

Finally, he asked, “Why do you want to see me naked?”

“Because you
don't
want me to see you naked. I want to know why.” Though if she was completely honest, there was more to it. “I also think that I'd like looking at your ass, and I want to see whether you lied about your not-monstrous genitals. For all I know, the truth is that you really only have one leg, but you prop yourself up with a dragon-sized penis.”

Nicholas closed his eyes. He seemed to choke out his reply. “I don't.”

“So you say, but it's difficult to trust humans who aren't bound by a demonic bargain to tell the truth.”

He gave a short laugh and opened his eyes. “So noted.”

She couldn't detect a hint of coldness in his amusement. Good enough for now.

She turned away to collect her shirt, aware that he still watched her. Aware that her body reacted to that look.

Porno time, then. She could have a fresh memory of both responses, and better compare them.

He still watched her as she retrieved a recently laundered blanket from the closet and spread it over the love seat facing the television. She sat and picked up the remote.

“My chair?” Nicholas asked.

She didn't look around. “You'll notice I didn't sit with you during dinner.”

He joined her on the love seat a moment later, newspaper in hand. He read steadily through the opening credits, but by the time the grunting and ass slapping began, his fingers had crumpled the paper's edges. Not even once did he glance at Ash.

A round of perfunctory sucking and moaning finally pushed him over the edge. With a muttered “Fuck,” he rose and stalked into the connecting room. Shortly afterward came the sound of undressing and the spray of the shower. Ash would have bet anything that he'd turned the temperature to cold.

She switched off the video. Her test hadn't worked well; she still didn't know if the movie aroused her, or if her sexual tension had been created because she'd imagined doing everything she watched with Nicholas.

She liked to think that he'd been imagining the same. If so, her plot had worked, somewhat. She didn't see him naked, but she'd learned that he'd walk away from a sexual situation with her . . . which meant that despite his upper hand, she affected him more than he could tolerate.

That knowledge could be useful. So she'd had a productive evening, if a little evil.

And she'd enjoyed the hell out of it.

Until Nicholas stopped at a bed-and-breakfast on the outskirts of Duluth, Ash forgot about his plan to mislead the Guardians by abandoning everything in the hotel room and remaining checked-in. When he'd mentioned paying for the new room in cash, she'd expected them to pull up to a flea-bitten motel, but the converted Georgian Revival mansion sat on two picturesque acres of snow-covered fields surrounded by a wrought-iron fence.

Maybe Nicholas saved the flea-biters for when he was truly desperate, and not just hiding from angelic warriors who'd cut off Ash's head the moment they saw her.

She waited in the rented SUV while he went inside, and listened to him spin a tale about hotel bed bugs, stolen credit cards, and lost luggage, charming the innkeeper into a quickie reservation. As it was winter, and a slow period for tourists, he might have gotten a room anyway, but the week he paid in advance probably helped his cause.

To pass the time, Ash counted the money left in his briefcase. It took her longer than she'd expected. No wonder he'd willingly abandoned a few thousand-dollar suits at the hotel. With this stash, he could buy and abandon them several times over.

Strange that she felt no urge to steal the cash. Once again, her demonic nature failed her. Now she only had to decide whether her impatience to travel north and meet Rachel's parents was rooted in some demonic need, too . . . or a human one.

Finally, Nicholas returned to the SUV. His gaze dropped to the open briefcase. Ash lifted her brows, inviting him to accuse her, but he only said, “There's always more.”

Dammit. If he cared so little, she
should
have taken some. Next time.

Just north of Duluth, Ash tried to shape-shift again. When her face remained the same, she admitted defeat and climbed into the back, mentally urging Nicholas to drive faster. Perhaps it was best that he didn't, though. Even a Minnesotan deputy might question the number of weapons in the long black duffel on the backseat. Ash shared space with it, hunkered down below the windows.

Nicholas was probably right that she'd be easily recognized when they neared Rachel's home. The township numbered only a little over two thousand residents, the population distributed along four rural roads. Rachel's parents lived a few miles past the center of the township. Ash held her breath as they drove through, her heart pounding with anticipation, her throat tight and chest full.

She
knew
these roads. Outside the window, she only had a view of the pointed tops of pine trees, their limbs drooping beneath a heavy blanket of snow, but she could picture the two-lane stretch of pavement. She could almost see the dirty snow pushed to the side by the plows. And even before Nicholas began to slow, she knew that the turn onto the lane shared by the Boyles and their neighbors was coming up. When he did turn, she anticipated the crunch of gravel beneath the tires, because she knew the Boyles and their neighbors paid a private contractor to plow and sand the driveways after each heavy snowfall.

Her gut-deep excitement boiled over. “We're almost there.”

Nicholas threw a glance over his shoulder—probably to check that she was still hidden. “How do you know?”

“It's familiar. It's
all
so familiar.” She had to force herself to stay down. In just a few moments, the Boyles would be able to look out of their living room windows and see the vehicle approaching. She still couldn't picture their faces, but she could visualize the house. “It's the Craftsman with the red door. The driveway is marked with a gated entrance between two brick columns—but the gate is always open, and there's a concrete garden gnome on top of each column, because . . . because . . .”

“Because?”

Disappointment pierced her excitement. “I can't remember why. They mean something, but I don't know what. Will you ask them?”

He didn't answer for a moment . . . and then several moments. Ash tried to recapture her anticipation. They were driving closer, closer—but no, something was wrong. Something was
un
familiar.

Nicholas began to slow. Ash shook her head.

“No, this is wrong. You've passed the house—”

“On purpose. Now sit up and take a look before it's out of sight.”

Ash turned in the seat. Through the back window, everything appeared as she'd expected: the columns flanking the driveway and the snow piled around them, the gnomes, and farther back from the lane, the house and the red door.

A red door cordoned off with yellow police tape.

Her fingers tightened on the back of the seat. “What happened?”

“I don't know.” His voice had lowered to a murmur. As soon as the house was hidden behind a stand of pine trees, he stopped in the lane and cut the engine. “Can you hear anything?”

Only his heartbeat and hers and the ticking of the motor and a few winter birds and the cracking of branches beneath the ice and snow and the wind through the pine needles and the snuffling of some animal out in the woods and a neighbor's dog scratching at a door and the tumbling of an electric clothes dryer—

No. She could focus. She
had
to focus on the Boyles' house.