Demon Marked (8 page)

“Ah.” Now the reason for Rosalia's journey to Caelum became clear. The Guardians' base of operations on Earth, Special Investigations, could help her locate St. Croix. “So you were looking for me, or you were headed to San Francisco?”

“I was headed to SI, but you might be able to make it all easier. Can you teleport to him?”

Taylor should have been able to. In the dungeon six months ago, his mind hadn't been well shielded, and she'd been able to sense his emotions. That made his psyche familiar to her, and she could teleport directly to anyone with a familiar, unshielded mind.

But apparently not St. Croix.

Rosalia grimaced. “I taught him how to block.”

“And you taught him very well, apparently, because I can't go to him. I'll save you the trip to SI, though.” Not much of a save, since “the trip” was only a single step through a Gate. “I'm headed there now. I'll let them know to start looking for him.”

“I'm grateful, thank you. That will allow me to return to Rome. Hopefully he'll show up there.”

“Do you think he will?”

“No. Partially because he trusts no one, but also because he knows that I'll look there for him.” Rosalia smiled. “But he also knows that I know that he probably wouldn't use the dungeon, so he might go anyway.”

It took Taylor a second to sort that out. “So twisty.”

“He thinks like a demon at times. So I will, too.” Rosalia turned to go, then paused, her gaze sweeping over the courtyard. “It's so empty. I forget. I turn around, expecting to see everyone . . . but they are all gone.”

“Not empty. I think Khavi's hellhound is running around somewhere.” A pet as big as a Hummer, straight out of Hell and Taylor's nightmares. She avoided the three-headed puppy as much as possible. “And hopefully, I'll be called to make more of us soon. Well, maybe not ‘hopefully,' considering that means someone has to die. But you know.”

Rosalia gave her another of those long, seeing-too-much looks. “You are not feeling inadequate in that way, I hope? Because it is beyond your control, Taylor.”

Yes, it was. That didn't mean Taylor didn't feel responsible. Along with the psychic connection, Michael had also passed to her the powers of the Doyen. She'd become the Guardian who transformed the humans who sacrificed themselves while saving someone else from a supernatural threat.

But Taylor hadn't been called, not in the year she'd been Doyen. Everyone told her that there had been times when a decade had passed before a new Guardian had been transformed . . . but those had also been the times when there had been thousands of Guardians to take up the slack. In five hundred years, the Gates to Hell would open, and the Guardian corps needed to be thousands strong again. They couldn't afford to have one month go by without adding a new warrior to their ranks, let alone twelve months.

There wouldn't have been any more transformed if Michael had still been Doyen, either. She knew that. The Guardians couldn't go out on a recruitment drive; everything depended on a human's sacrifice. Still, she did feel added pressure, because Michael was gone and the corps wasn't as strong without him. She
needed
to be transforming more Guardians. Their survival—every human's survival—might eventually depend on it.

“Let's just say that I know exactly how one of those oldtime queens felt, when everyone was expecting her to produce an heir to the throne, and years go by without one. Pretty soon, you know she's going to get beheaded and he's going to find another woman to make the babies.”

Amusement shone in Rosalia's eyes, a warm golden light. “I remember a few queens like that. The clever ones solved the problem by inviting another man to their bed.”

Oh, this metaphor was suddenly heading somewhere that Taylor definitely didn't want to go. Having Michael in her head was enough to become accustomed to, and she'd carefully
not
thought much about sex while he was in there. Mostly so that he wouldn't know that he figured prominently in those thoughts, but letting him see her imagining another man seemed just as bad.

“I don't think there's a good ‘another man' that works as a comparison.” The problem didn't come from Michael or any other Guardian. “The humans just need to stop shooting blanks.”

Rosalia's soft laugh didn't echo in the courtyard. Strange, but Taylor's did.

And even more strange, when her laughter faded and Rosalia had gone, she glanced back at Michael's temple again . . . and the hairline cracks in the marble had vanished.

She just hoped to God that if her laugh had sealed them, that it had helped Michael a little, too.

 

On the plane, Ash waited until Nicholas occupied himself with his computer before looking through the few items he'd had of Rachel's. When they'd stopped outside his hotel, she'd waited in the car while he'd retrieved Rachel's passport and his luggage—and he'd brought down another small packet with them. He'd claimed the things had been in Rachel's overnight case along with her identification, but Ash could have deduced that for herself. The packet contained a flat hairbrush, a toothbrush, a red silk dress, and strappy sandals. Tucked beneath the clothing lay a set of lacy lingerie, red and revealing . . . exactly the kind a woman might take on a special weekend away with a lover.

They meant nothing special to Ash. The items weren't even familiar. Rachel had obviously loved the shoes; the soles were scuffed, as if she'd worn them often. But although Ash liked the style, she had no urge to wear them or the dress. Had Rachel been nervous while she'd been packing for her weekend, or had she been excited? Had she wavered over what to wear, how many outfits to take? Ash didn't know. She'd hoped to sense some connection to Rachel's things, but she felt nothing, even though Rachel had surely chosen these items for a reason.

Whatever her reasons, they'd been lost when she'd died six years ago.

Six years.
Ash examined the items again, no longer looking for a connection but simply
looking
. Only a few wrinkles marred the smooth silk. No dust had collected on the hairbrush or the sandal straps. Instead of musty, the dress smelled faintly of dry cleaning.

These things hadn't been sitting in an overnight bag for six years. Nicholas had kept them
and
cared for them. Why?

She let the dress fall into her lap and looked up. Nicholas sat in the seat across from her, booking a hotel near Rachel's parents' home, finalizing their travel arrangements, or simply working—she wasn't certain. Ash hadn't paid much attention to him since he'd lowered his crossbow. He might be able to help her, but right now he had no idea who Ash was, so she had little use for him.

Little use for him
except
for his bank account. Now that she had identification, Ash could have eventually made her way to America, but his ability to place one phone call and charter a flight made the process much simpler. She appreciated that.

Ash also appreciated that he'd given her Rachel's things. He hadn't liked giving them up, however. He'd tossed the packet to her with an abrupt order to “see if these improve your memory.”

She knew he traveled often. What were the chances that he just happened to keep Rachel's clothes in a hotel room in London? No, he must bring them along wherever he went.

Had he cared for Rachel so much that he couldn't let these items go? Were they simply a daily reminder of his reasons to pursue Madelyn, or a statement of his guilt?

Guilt,
Ash guessed.
Kept alive by a dress and underwear—and a weekend getaway that Rachel never got to have.

She supposed some people were driven by less.

Did it bother him that a demon touched Rachel's things now? Trying to determine his mood by studying his features proved a futile exercise. Was he aware of her scrutiny, or did he simply sit stone-faced all the time?

Ash waited for a crack in his expression, but it didn't come. And she'd never
tried
to sense someone's emotions before, but that proved futile, too. The door he'd erected still blocked Nicholas's emotions from her. The flight attendants' and the pilots' feelings filled her senses with their various and ever-changing flavors, but she couldn't taste Nicholas's at all.

Without looking up at her, he said, “Did you learn anything from those?”

Ash glanced at the dress and shoes. “Not about Rachel.”

She'd only learned more about him. And though she had little use for Nicholas St. Croix aside from the money and information he might offer, that didn't mean she didn't find him . . . interesting.

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.”