Demon Marked (5 page)

Goddammit.
The woman was a demon.

Fortunately, he'd been expecting one—and kissing her had brought him close enough to the tall mattress that he could reach the modified Taser beneath the pillow.

He shocked her with enough juice to kill a human. The demon only seized once and shape-shifted. Her clothes vanished, revealing suddenly crimson skin. Gleaming black horns curled from her forehead around toward her ears; leathery wings snapped wide, the sharp talon at the left tip scoring a long vertical line on the wall. Nicholas released the trigger, cutting off the electric current.

The demon crumpled to the floor in a pile of loose, naked limbs. Her wings folded over her body like a blanket. She hadn't fully transformed: She wore skin instead of reptilian scales, her knees weren't jointed backward like a goat's hind legs . . . and her slack face still resembled Rachel's.

It didn't matter. He knew who this must be.

He'd spent years trying to find the demon who'd replaced his mother, destroyed his family, and murdered Rachel. At the beginning, Nicholas hadn't known how impossible it might be to find her. Hell, at the beginning he hadn't even known
what
she was—or that Madelyn could shape-shift to resemble any person she chose. But after he'd learned how unlikely his chances of finding her were, Nicholas hadn't stopped looking.

Though he hadn't found Madelyn, Nicholas had found a few answers—and enough information about demons that he learned
how
to look for her.

He'd learned that demons were creatures of habit who followed familiar patterns, particularly if those patterns had been successful in the past. So instead of searching for a woman who resembled Madelyn, he'd searched for a family who'd been ripped apart as his had been.

That search might have taken him forever, he knew—but he'd also learned that demons were vindictive and possessive. That suited Nicholas. He was vindictive and possessive, too, and his gut told him that if a new identity didn't satisfy her, Madelyn would eventually come for him and try to reclaim everything he'd taken from her.

So he'd prepared. He'd kept watch over the properties that she'd once called hers. That diligence had paid off three weeks ago, when someone had entered the house using Madelyn's old security code. He'd known it had to be her—probably returning to look at the items that she wanted to possess again. He'd been waiting for her to come back . . . and she had.

Finally, after almost six years of searching, Nicholas had her—and soon, he'd send her back to the burning pit in Hell where she belonged.

Except he didn't feel the elation he should have. He was only sorry the demon crumpled on the floor wasn't the woman she'd appeared to be.

Stupid, that he'd almost fallen for her trick. By taking Rachel's face, the demon had known exactly how to shove him off-balance. He should have known, dammit. He should have been prepared.

No doubt she'd try to get to him again as soon as she woke up. He should kill her now—chop off her head, cut through her heart.

He couldn't slay her yet, though. He had to make certain this truly was Madelyn, not some demon lackey running an errand for her. Even if it was Madelyn, Nicholas wouldn't kill her until he had answers. Unlike in the movies, a demon's spirit didn't take possession of a human's; a demon shape-shifted its corporeal form and physically took the human's place. When Nicholas had been eight, Madelyn had transformed herself into a duplicate of his mother—which meant that his mother must be out there, somewhere. He didn't have any hope that his mother was still alive, but he needed to know what had happened to her.

And he needed to know what had happened to Rachel's body after her lifeless form had vanished from his arms. At the very least, she deserved that for saving his life. For loving him.

Nicholas only wished he'd loved her back. She'd deserved that, too.

He'd continue to let this demon think he had loved Rachel, though. Growing up with Madelyn for a mother had taught him that emotion could—and would—be used against him. He'd pretend to have once loved Rachel and let the demon try to manipulate an emotion he'd never felt, rather than let her rip him open with the guilt he
did
feel.

He'd lock away that guilt, just as he locked away almost every emotion. If he thanked Madelyn for anything, it was that she'd given him the ability to conceal his feelings and to think like she did. Now he'd use that against her.

He tossed the crossbow to the foot of the bed. The weapon would be useful later, but first he had to make certain she didn't try to run—and a demon could run fast enough that he wouldn't have time to blink before she'd gone. He bent to haul her onto the mattress. Beneath his hands, her wings felt like old leather left out in the hot sun. Roughly, he pushed them aside and gripped her shoulders, dragging her up. Her head rocked forward, as if weighted by the horns.

No need to worry about waking her; she couldn't hurt him without breaking the Rules. When he held her, she couldn't even try to loosen his grasp.

He let her flop back onto the bed and shoved her legs up. She didn't stir, but he couldn't have much time left. With one hand locked around her left wrist, he opened the nightstand's top drawer, scanning the weapons there.

She wouldn't give him a chance to shock her with the Taser again. His pistol was useless against a demon. She could easily break the handcuffs. The darts filled with hellhound venom would paralyze her, but he needed her to talk. And though he could prevent her escape by holding on to her wrist, Nicholas preferred not to touch her.

The collar, then. A quarter-inch thick and constructed of steel, she wouldn't be able to rip it from her neck. Its heavy battery pack could be activated by remote to deliver another electric shock, briefly incapacitating her.

With the crossbow backing him up, “briefly” was all that he needed. He snapped the collar around her neck. Snagging his shirt from the bench at the end of the bed, he slipped his arms into the sleeves and waited, the remote in hand. Not long now—she was coming around. The crimson had faded from her skin; her wings had vanished. For the first time since he'd electrocuted her, she took a breath.

God, she looked so much like Rachel. Her gestures had been Rachel's, too. When he'd come into the room and she'd turned to face him, the way she'd swept her long blond bangs away from her forehead as if to get a better look at him had been
so
familiar.

Those red symbols weren't. He realized now that the tattoos didn't just cover the side of her face, but continued down her neck and arms. Hundreds more of the inch-high symbols were tattooed over her torso and halfway down her legs, and an elaborate, palm-sized glyph decorated the skin between her breasts.

Why was this demon wearing those markings if she'd meant to impersonate Rachel? Nicholas couldn't understand the purpose of it, not when a demon could imitate a person's appearance so precisely. He couldn't believe the tattoos were a mistake, not when she'd made certain to get the other details exactly right. Hell, the demon had even worn Rachel's favorite clothing: the black leather jacket she loved, the knee-high boots with their three-inch heels, the snug jeans.

Would Madelyn have known about that jacket, those boots? Rachel had never dressed like that around her. It hadn't been professional. Rachel had worn those clothes only away from work, and on the few weekends she and Nicholas had taken . . .

God.
Nicholas shook his head. He couldn't let himself do that. He couldn't go back to those few months when he'd cared for her, as much as he could care for anyone. It hadn't been love, but when this demon woke up, it would twist any available emotion, and those memories brought his guilt and his grief too close to the surface. So he couldn't think about Rachel.

And he had to remember that every word coming from a demon's mouth was a lie designed to mislead him—or a truth designed to fulfill some other destructive goal. He couldn't risk listening to her, or believe anything she said.

He only needed to know if this demon was Madelyn. If she wasn't, he'd slay her.

Or he'd use her to find Madelyn . . . then slay them both.

 

Three minutes later, the demon opened her eyes. Her gaze immediately found him standing at the end of the bed, his crossbow aimed at her chest. Without a word, Nicholas showed her the remote in his left hand, his thumb resting on the red activator button.

Her brow furrowed, but she caught on quickly. Her fingers flew to the heavy rectangular battery at her neck.

“It's an explosive collar,” Nicholas said. “If you move, your head is gone.”

Lies. It would only stun her and give him time to capture her again. He didn't mention that the broadheads of his crossbow bolts would detonate on impact. She'd discover that for herself if he had to use one.

She nodded and looked down at her naked form. No shock or embarrassment registered on her features. Rachel had always been a bit nervous when they'd undressed. This demon's lips tilted, but he wasn't certain if that faint smile indicated amusement. It didn't seem to indicate much of anything.

Of course, Nicholas's reaction to the beautiful woman lying naked on the bed wasn't his typical response, either. No thoughts of sex intruded—only a sharp awareness that this demon might have killed his mother and driven his father to suicide.

Unexpectedly, she didn't seem interested in trying to arouse him. She didn't adopt a seductive posture; he couldn't detect a hint of suggestion in her movements or her expression. Her clothes simply reappeared. She began to rise from the bed, but froze when he followed her up with the crossbow.

“I knew handguns were hard to come by in England,” she said, sitting at the edge of the mattress. “I didn't realize crossbows were easier to find.”

“A gun won't kill you.”

“It wouldn't?” She glanced down at her chest, as if imagining a bullet slamming into it.

Nicholas imagined it, too—all too clearly. This demon would bleed. It would feel pain. Then it would heal. Rachel hadn't. She'd thrashed and choked on her own blood, and
nothing
that Nicholas did to help had—

No.
Determinedly, Nicholas forced that memory away. Within seconds of this demon waking, he was already thinking of Rachel. This had to be what she'd wanted.

He wouldn't play her games. “You know a gun can't kill you.”

“No. I didn't know.” She tilted her head as if taking his measure.
Just like Rachel.
“If you know I can't be killed by a gun, then you know who I am?”

“You're not Rachel.”

“No, I'm not,” she agreed. “I don't know why I look like her. Or why I feel as if I
should
remember something. Perhaps this is her body, and there is an imprint of her memories in my brain? I don't know. I hoped that you would.”

Playing dumb. Six months ago, Nicholas might not have known what the demon was doing. Then he'd met Rosalia, a Guardian who could have given a demon lessons in extracting the information she wanted without offering any of her own. Thanks to Rosalia, he recognized this tactic: The demon pretended ignorance to discover how much he knew. She couldn't physically fight him, and so her only power came from possessing more knowledge than he did. So she was trying to figure out what lies to tell.

Nicholas was just as interested in seeing what lies she tried to spin when he didn't give her anything first. “What
do
you know?”

She answered more easily than he'd anticipated. “That almost three years ago, Madelyn St. Croix brought me to a private psychiatric hospital and left me. I don't remember where I was before that. I don't remember
anything
from before that.” If that frustrated her, she gave no sign of it. “And until a few months ago, I didn't care. Now I do. I want to know who I am, what I am. And I think you might have the answers.”

Weren't demons better liars than this? She'd barely gotten into her story, and already he saw holes in it.

“You have no memory, but you recalled Madelyn's name?”

“Not until a month ago. I looked up pictures of Rachel Boyle's associates online, and recognized Madelyn as the woman who brought me to Nightingale House.”

Nightingale House.
Jesus. No question that this demon either was Madelyn or connected to her.

When Nicholas had been a boy, she'd had his father committed to Nightingale House—and it had destroyed his business, his reputation, his life. It had been Madelyn's first step in driving him toward suicide.

Fucking demons. His finger tightened on the crossbow trigger. As if she heard the movement, her gaze fell to his hand.

“I'd be grateful if you wouldn't,” she said. “I'd rather not die.” Bullshit. She didn't sound grateful
or
concerned.

“What happens if you die?” He let curiosity lighten his tone, as if he was considering pulling the trigger just to find out. Let her sweat. “Do you return to Hell?”

“I don't know.” She watched him steadily. No sweating. Dammit. “Nicholas, I need your help. Somehow, I'm connected to Madelyn St. Croix, just as Rachel was. And your mother—”

“She's not my mother,” he stated flatly. The idea sent fury through his veins, but he wouldn't let her see that.

Her brows rose. “Then who is she?”

“A demon.”

“A demon,” she echoed. Something sparked in her eyes. Excitement ? Whatever it was, the emotion quickly vanished. “Is that what I am?”