Meljean Brook: Demon Marked

“Because you love me.”

“No, because you love me . I’m coming to you a completely different man than you knew before. I shouldn’t expect anything, and you give me forever.”

“That’s what I want, too. Anyway, you’re wrong. You weren’t a man when we met. You were like me—essentially a child in many ways. Maybe a teenager.”

Nicholas shook his head, but she knew he wasn’t disagreeing. He knew himself too well. His life had stopped when he’d decided to pursue his revenge.

“The essentials are the same, though,” she said. “You sought revenge as a way to right the wrongs Madelyn did to you. Yes, you were myopic and obsessive and incredibly paranoid, but there wasn’t any cruelty in you, just as there isn’t now. And I like to think we grew up a bit together, that week we spent here.”

“You are amazing.” He bent and kissed her hard. “And fantasies in the warehouse, really?”

“Only once. What do I care, right? But apparently it makes everyone uncomfortable, so they told me about the spell that can keep anyone from hearing what’s going on inside a room. Did you offend the bears?”

“I didn’t. I don’t.”

“Think about me?” Impossible.

“All the time. But not . . . I can’t.” He turned away, set the lighter on its shelf. “I see Madelyn, walking in on me. Laughing.”

Oh. When he faced her again, his features were washed in red light.

“I’m so glad she’s dead,” Ash said, and he gave a short laugh of agreement. “And that reminds me, I have something for you, thanks to Jake the teleporting Guardian. Straight from a brick oven in New York, to his cache, to my cache, and now to your table—still piping hot. Now you can celebrate the end of Madelyn as you planned.”

The cardboard box appeared in her hands, bringing with it an explosion of scents: cheese, charred crust, tomato, and spices. Nicholas didn’t even allow her time to open the lid. He tossed the box aside, and it slapped against the floorboards. He hauled her out of the chair, his mouth all over hers, sweet possession, gratitude, and wonder filling his kiss.

He let her feet touch the floor again, following her down, his forehead against hers and his breath ragged. “I love you. I don’t deserve you, but I won’t let you go. Ever.”

Another voice answered him—a harmonious voice. “Make sure that you don’t.”

Khavi. Ash whipped around, boomstick coming to her hand. She froze. Khavi stood near the door, and she’d brought a hellhound with her. Not as big as Sir Pup, but it didn’t matter—the venom in Ash’s shotgun shells wouldn’t affect either of them.

Human in appearance except for brown eyes that never appeared so ancient in so young a face, Khavi looked at the pizza box. “Oh, I came just in time. You will be very, very glad not to have eaten first.”

“What do you want, Khavi?” But Ash feared she knew. Vanishing the boomstick, she said, “If this is about the frozen field, I am not exchanging myself for Michael.”

“I know. Your unwillingness has been noted, and adjustments have been made.” She looked at Nicholas, who watched her warily. “You are finally healed, I see. Strong. And I am very sorry—I intended to wait until your Gift manifested itself naturally, but I cannot any longer. He will pull it from you anyway, just to determine whether you’re useful. When he does, you’ll have to look deep, and see what I cannot.”

“What does that mean?” Nicholas pushed in front of Ash, shielded her. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because I have seen. But it must be done.” Determination replaced the regret in her voice. “You need to call Special Investigations, Nicholas. Now, because you will need their help.”

Dread filled Ash’s chest. “Why?”

“Because I’m taking you both to Hell and giving you to Lucifer.” Khavi sighed when Ash’s crossbow was suddenly in her hand, aimed at the grigori’s face. “No, no. Do not fight. It is no use—I will easily defeat you. I have already seen it.”

Ash staggered, fell to her knees in the hot red sand. The world tilted wildly. God. Her stomach heaved, and she heard Nicholas fighting the same dizzying effects of the teleportation. She drew in a deep breath, almost retched again. The stink. Rotten, burning flesh.

No more breathing. Not here. Just listening, making certain . . .

They were alone for the moment. No heartbeats nearby. Only his.

Nicholas’s arm slid around her. Though still not steady, he lifted her, waited until she planted her feet. “Are you okay?”

No. But there was no other choice to nod. “Next time, we’ll know better than to try fighting a crazy teleporter who can see the future. Are you hurt?”

“She never even touched me, except to bring us here. And—” He broke off. “Ash, look.”

She heard the bleakness in his voice, and didn’t want to turn. In the direction she faced, there was only an endless stretch of red sand, a bruised crimson sky. But she couldn’t pretend. Bracing herself, she turned.

Oh, God. Terror caught her throat, her heart in an icy, clawed grip. They stood at the edge of the frozen field. A few steps away, red sand bled into open mouths and eyes, a frozen carpet of faces locked in ice. So many locked together, with no space between. So many. She couldn’t see the borders on the sides, only Lucifer’s tower rising in the center like an enormous black spear. How long had she stared at that, screaming, screaming? Forever. And they were all there now, screaming, and she knew that there was no other sound, only silence, and just the tortured, endless screaming of the millions trapped—

Her knees collapsed. Nicholas caught her, drew her against him, and she muffled her scream against his chest, trying to hold it in, don’t let anyone know we’re here , but it had to come out before it ripped her apart inside.

She cried, hot tears. For herself, for Rachel, for all of them. All the same.

“I didn’t know.” His throat sounded as rough and broken as hers. “I didn’t know there were so many.”

Ash wiped her face, made herself look again. So many. “All like Rachel, just because of a choice. Maybe not even a bad choice, or an evil one.”

“Yes.” Khavi’s voice came from behind them. “It’s not like the Pit, where the judged go to be punished. And the majority of those in the field are demons—Madelyn is there, somewhere—and some humans who probably deserve it. But most of the humans, most of the halflings . . . They made the wrong agreement with a demon, and it doesn’t matter at all how good their intentions might have been.”

Ash shook her head. Through the ache in her throat, she still managed, “I’m not going back in there.”

Khavi pursed her lips, looked at Nicholas. “I made the call to Taylor using your voice. It was important. You should have done it.”

“Does your doing it change anything?”

“No.” Giving her hellhound a pat on its enormous head, she looked out over the field and said, “There’s Michael, by the way.”

Khavi pointed. Unable to help herself, Ash looked. When she didn’t see anything, she looked farther out . . . farther. Just visible on the icy horizon, a crowd of demons stood.

“Michael’s the entertainment,” Khavi said, and a rough note entered the smooth harmony of her voice. “Michael, and those from the Pit who are tortured with him. You cannot see, so I will help you see.”

Ash cried out as a sharp crack opened in her psychic shields, saw Nicholas’s suddenly white face. The image pressed against the backs of her eyes, every detail in clear focus: Michael’s shattered face with his eyes open, seeing, aware—and the human, stretched between two poles, stretched more than a human could, the razor wire, the hellhound’s thrusting haunches and bloodied jaws—