Demon Marked (25 page)

“Yes.” He pulled the box of shotgun shells toward him. “I'll fix these up for you now. We'll begin practicing tomorrow with regular ammunition so that we don't waste the venom, but when we aren't practicing, I want you to keep the gun with you and loaded with the poisoned shells. You keep it with you at
all times
, either right next to your hand or in your cache, when you figure out how to use that. All right?”

“Yes.” Her very own boomstick. She liked it. “Thank you.”

His gaze locked with hers. “Don't let a demon close to you again.”

Her chest tightened, like a strange little coil straight through her heart. She didn't know what Nicholas had felt when the demon had been dragging her around like a rag doll. Afterward, he'd never asked if she was all right.

But she knew now that he never wanted to see it happen to her again.

“Thank you,” she said again, even though “
I won't”
might have been a more appropriate response.

He nodded, stood. Her chest still caught in that sweet ache, she watched him cross to the bedroom. He'd left, but not because of sexual frustration this time. Would he hate for her to know that he cared? She thought he would.

He returned a moment later with a set of scales and a small, dusty machine. Except for the empty bottles on the top that fed into a steel tube, it resembled a standing car jack. A lever handle jutted from one side.

“What is that?”

“A reloading press. To seal the shells after I poison the shot.”

“You didn't bring that with you?”

“No.”

“But you've used it before.”

“Yes.” He glanced up from the press. “Why?”

“You've been here before, then—after you were old enough to handle guns, ammunition.”

“A few times, in the summer after I came to America.”

“So your grandfather wasn't a complete hermit.”

“No.”

He set out a line of empty cartridges—a perfectly straight line, she noted, that he gave his full concentration. But that wasn't
just
focusing; he was focusing on
not
looking at her.

Was he lying? Hiding something? She couldn't be certain, but she thought so.

She had no idea what he could be lying about, though. Perhaps he was just trying to conceal that he cared about someone again—but this time, that he cared about his grandfather.

“It took a while to hear back from him,” Nicholas surprised her by offering. “He only checked his mail twice a year: at Christmas and tax time, in April. I finally heard back in May, and spent my sixteenth summer here. Chopping wood, mostly. Dropping about forty pounds.”

“But you didn't stay?”

“Revenge isn't easily served while hiding at a cabin in the woods.”

So he'd left to destroy Madelyn. “Wouldn't revenge also have been staying here, and completely forgetting about her? By proving that she hadn't destroyed
you
?”

His brows snapped together. He looked up from his line of cartridges. “She didn't. But she did fuck me up pretty well. Pretending she didn't wouldn't be proof of anything—it would just be denial. And sticking my head in the sand sure as hell wouldn't make her pay for any of it.”

He had a point. And the demon had killed his mother, his father, and his girlfriend. Maybe forgetting about her
wasn't
enough. Ash wouldn't soon be forgetting about Steve Johnson; that was for damn certain.

The heat left his voice. “Anyway, whether I live or die, she doesn't care. Before I left England, I was kicked out of school, arrested for heroin possession, all kinds of shit. Whether I was first in my class or expelled, none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered to Madelyn was Wells-Down, and so the only way to get back at her was by taking it.”

“And you did.”

“I did. And then I found out she was worse, that the business wasn't enough.
She
has to be destroyed.”

“And that's all you've done, all these years. What will you do when she's dead?”

Nicholas blinked, then stared across the table at her with an expression she'd never seen on him . . . but she recognized what it was. He was at a loss. A complete loss, as if he'd never even considered the question before.

“I don't know.” His lips twitched, as if in sudden humor. “Eat a slice of pizza, probably.”

Ash laughed, and his smile widened into a grin.

“Maybe two pieces,” he said. “And I'd run for thirty minutes instead of the full hour, do half as many sets.”

He could do zero, for all that Ash cared. “I'd still want to see you naked.”

“If you end up helping me slay Madelyn, I'll shake my ass for you.”

“
Naked
ass.”

His eyes narrowed. “You drive a hard bargain, demon.”

“I do.” And she was relieved that despite the naked talk, Nicholas was still amused, still playing along, instead of putting distance between them. “Though I didn't ask for Reticle yet. Will you begin working again afterward?”

“Probably. I enjoy it. Though with Madelyn gone, I'd probably focus on more speculation, less takeover.”

“Oh, speculation. I think I'd enjoy that, too.” Just as she enjoyed reading financial journals. Just as she surfed to the stock listings the moment she got onto a computer. “So if you ever decide that you don't want to work anymore, you can pass the reins to me.”

“I see.” He sat back. “This is your plot, isn't it?”

“Taking over your company and making you a ton of money? Eeeeevil.”

His laugh shook right through her chest, seemed to loosen pieces of her there. Was this how emotions deepened? They rattled everything apart, then rebuilt on a stronger foundation?

She didn't know. She only knew that her emotions were growing all over inside her now, like climbing vines that rooted deep and twisted around every available surface. There was contentment, as she sat and watched him drip a small amount of venom into the birdshot and stir it around. A hint of surprise when she smelled the venom's fragrance, sweet like a peach. And trepidation when she remembered that he'd said it affected demons.

“Does the venom work on Guardians?”

“No. That's why we'll also start working on your hand-to-hand, and I'll teach what I know of fencing.”

Sword fighting? She
really
preferred her boomstick. No need to get near anyone, no chance of being cut into pieces.

Her doubt and fear must have shown in her expression. Nicholas glanced up, studied her for a long moment. “All right. We'll work on a little hand-to-hand now—and start with what will probably benefit you the most: avoidance and getting away.”

She looked around the small room. “Here?”

“We won't need a lot of space.” His chair scraped back as he stood. He held out his hand. “Come on.”

She could get up on her own, but she couldn't pass up the chance to touch him. His fingers wrapped around hers, and he tugged Ash to her feet.

And let go.

That wasn't enough. She clenched her fingers together, trying to hold on to the feel of him.

He faced her in the center of the room. “You're a demon. That means you're thousands of years old, if not older. You fought in a war with Heaven—and this will come back to you, just like remembering that security code.”

That made sense. That made a lot of sense. Her procedural memory
was
intact. If she'd ever known how to fight, she'd remember how.

Of course, she hadn't remembered how to fight when the demon had attacked her.

Nicholas raised his fists—a classic boxer's stance. She recognized that, at least. Maybe she wasn't a lost cause, after all.

“Wait. What about the Rules? How can I block you if I'm not allowed to touch you?”

A flat, icy tension moved into his expression, and she remembered: He'd been waiting for this.
You'll say, “Oh, Nicholas! I wish I could touch you, but I have to follow the Rules!”—and moments after I give you permission, you'll punch through my chest and rip my heart out.

“I won't rip your heart out,” she promised.

Some of the ice melted. “All right. I'll give you permission to block me, and to make a hit in return. A
soft
hit, by demon standards. Nothing that could seriously injure a man.”

Because a demon wouldn't pass up the opportunity to hurt one, if he gave her permission. Ash couldn't imagine it. And with her strength, it might be easy to make a mistake and hit too hard.

So she couldn't make a mistake. She had to be careful.

“All right,” she agreed on a deep breath. “I'm ready. What are we doing first?”

“Just avoiding me. It'll be easy for you—too easy, actually. But if you practice with someone slower, it'll still be more natural for you to react quickly if it's a demon or a Guardian.”

Building up her reflexes. “Okay. I'm ready then. Go for it.”

“Okay.”

But he didn't throw a punch. He looked at her over his fists. His mouth firmed.

Silence hung in the air for a moment.

Then he whipped around, shoving his hands through his hair. “Jesus!”

“What?”

“Even knowing what you are, that you can cross the room in a blink . . .” He shook his head, turned back, raised his fists again. Still, he hesitated.

She supposed he wasn't used to punching women. She liked him for that. “Are you going to dick around like this when you're up against Madelyn?”

His eyes narrowed. “No. I do wish you could shape-shift, though.”

“To look like her? No, thanks. You'd probably lose control and kill me.”

“Hardly.” He smiled a little. “All right. Are you ready now?”

Ash didn't point out that
she
hadn't been the one delaying. She only nodded.

His fist snapped toward her face. Oh my God,
so fast
. Her heart leapt . . . and his fist all but stopped. So he was pulling back anyway, throwing a little practice punch. It moved toward her at only a fraction of an inch every second or two—and okay, that was ridiculous. A baby could avoid that. Hell, a baby would be an old man before it hit him.

She frowned at Nicholas, wondering if he was just joking with her now. But no, he stared at her, his eyes and expression almost frozen. And she couldn't hear his heartbeat. She couldn't hear her own heartbeat.
What the hell?

Her mouth dropped open as she realized: It wasn't that they had no heartbeats. They were
between
heartbeats. Either time had frozen . . . or her perception of it had really, really sped up.

Incredible. How long did it take to throw a punch? A second? Yet his fist had only traveled three-quarters of the distance between them. She could have run around the room several times before it would touch her. Maybe outside to the tree line and back. Was the clock frozen, too? She glanced at it. The second hand didn't move. Maybe next time, she'd try to time everything.

Unless her perception was stuck this way now? Oh, God, she hoped not. Maybe it had just been an involuntary reaction, like a spurt of adrenaline into her system. A reflex, kicked into gear by instinct. If so, how long would it last? Would Nicholas be stuck like this for what felt like forever, or would
Holy shit he was going to hit
—

His fist smashed into her mouth. Ash's head snapped back, and she staggered into the table. Pain shot through her lips, her teeth. Blood spilled over her tongue.

Gross. And,
ow
.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” His heart pounding—and her perception obviously back to normal now—Nicholas reached for her, cupping her jaw in both hands and raising her face to his. Horror and shock whitened his face. “Jesus. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, but the blood she could feel spilling from her split lip must not have convinced him.

“Ah, fuck. Goddammit. Come here into the light.” Though his voice was rough, his fingers were gentle as he touched her lip, her teeth. “Why the hell didn't you move?”

Hot anger leaked through his shields. Not at her, though, she realized. Anger at himself. Guilt was mixed in with it.

“I meant to get out of the way, but I ran out of time.” She ran her tongue along her teeth, didn't feel any broken edges. “Is my lip bad?”

“No. No, it's already healed. You just need to wash it.” His gaze lifted from her mouth, but he didn't let her go. Still cupping her jaw in both hands, he said, “Don't do that again.”

“It didn't hurt much,” she said. “Either that or I can take more pain that I realized. And I didn't know how quickly a cut would heal. Now I do. It's better to know both of those things.”

She hadn't meant to this time. But maybe she should have. “I should have made it part of my plot: how to make Nicholas St. Croix feel bad.”

His fingers tightened. That familiar flatness moved across his expression, the coldness into his eyes, as if to say that
No, Nicholas St. Croix didn't give a shit whether he hit a demon.
But he couldn't say that, because they both knew he did.

“Just don't do it again.”

And now he wasn't talking about forgetting to move, she knew. He didn't want her to do anything that might reveal how much he cared.

She nodded.

He let her go, moving back to the center of the room. “What do you mean, you ran out of time?”

“My perception changed, all of a sudden. I was watching your fist come at me, and it was like in slow motion. It was strange. So I was looking around, seeing what else appeared different, trying to figure it out . . . and I didn't look back in time to miss your fist.”