Meljean Brook: Demon Marked

She had to try again. “Who am I?”

“Who else could you be but Rachel?” With a sudden, thin smile, he tugged a pale lock of hair forward over her shoulder, rubbing the long strands between his fingers as if considering their texture. “Who else but the woman I love?”

Love? No, that wasn’t what she’d tasted in that swelling burst of emotion before he’d closed himself away from her. Disappointment, grief, and rage—she’d sensed all of those. But not love.

His head lowered, his gaze holding hers on the way down. Would he kiss her? Curious, Ash let him. Firm and cool, his lips settled against hers.

Emotion burst from him, blasting through the door he’d shut—a feeling that wasn’t hot but bitter withering cold, and Ash recognized the hate behind it before he hid that from her, too. She should have moved then. The hate felt like a warning, and she disliked the cold, but when he opened his lips over hers, his taste was fascinating—mint, because he’d readied for bed, and there was something else that was familiar, so familiar here. She knew the touch of his mouth, the heat that slipped through her like a warm drink when his tongue sought hers. So she remained still, searching for the connection sparked by the kiss and lurking in her ruined memory.

She didn’t find it before Nicholas lifted his head. Ash wanted to follow him up to prolong the contact, but she remembered— don’t break the Rules, respect their free will —and waited, panting, not needing the oxygen but relishing the sweep of air over her lips, wet from his kiss.

She’d felt all of this before. She’d felt—

A cold prod against her throat. Ash’s eyes widened— this was surprise! —and she heard a click. Pain stabbed her neck. White-hot, it yanked her muscles taut and raced up behind her eyes.

Then, for the first time in three years, darkness fell over her mind, and she felt absolutely nothing at all.

The moment Nicholas had spotted the woman’s pale hair, hope had shot through him. Rachel had become a Guardian.

Even though the Guardians had told him that Rachel hadn’t been transformed into an angelic warrior, no one could explain to him why she wasn’t one now. After sacrificing her life to save Nicholas’s, she should have been transformed into one of their kind. So despite the demonic symbols tattooed over the woman’s face and her claim that she wasn’t Rachel, he’d hoped her sudden appearance meant the Guardians had lied to him.

He’d hoped . . . until the feverish heat of her mouth instantly revealed that she wasn’t a Guardian or human. Neither of those beings had such high temperatures.

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.

Madelyn.

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.