Company of Angels 02 - The Demoness of Waking Dreams

is sacred. If you want me, come and get me.
    She stood, pivoted her tall, slender body in a graceful turn. The rose-colored silk of her dress fluttered behind her. He knew he had no choice but to follow. It was a compulsion that was partly born from his duty to the Company. Partly born from the importance of the mission on which he had been sent. And partly to do with raw desire.
    His silent words of prayer ascended to the dome of the church, to meet the last burst of sunlight pouring down through the apertures above.
    Give me the strength to accomplish what I need to do.
    * * *
     
    In the same instant, the thought that ran through Luciana’s mind mirrored Brandon’s prayer exactly.
    The demoness’s prayer, however, was headed in the opposite direction.
    Beneath the noise of the pigeons, angel and demoness circled each other, their steps striking on the marble floor. Pivoting in sync as if partners in a choreographed dance, the energy of their bodies was as palpable as a magnetic force. Opposite poles ruled by an invisible current, as highly charged as electricity.
    The message, one to the other, was a challenge issued as plainly as a slap in the face: game on.
    Physically, there was no question who would win.
    He was well over six feet tall and all hard, lean muscle. In the set of his body, she read the movements of a warrior.
    Yet size was not the primary concern when it came to her hunting skills. She had taken down bigger prey before. Brigadiers, marshals, generals, admirals. Career soldiers often had the most vulnerable spots, if you knew where to push. Oh, there was so much more at play than mere physical strength.
    Luciana was an expert at seduction. She had other weapons at her disposal, but temptation was her weapon of choice. Centuries ago, she had mastered the one rule that all great seductresses, from Mata Hari to Madame de Pompadour, from Marlene Dietrich to Madonna, all knew. To truly seduce a man, you can’t just grab him by the cazzo… the cock… You’ve got to get inside his head.
    The demoness scanned her opponent, assessing. The energy radiating from him was raw and full of exuberance, but it was young energy that pulsed in the space between them. But there was more than that.
    Power.
    That was what made her pause.
    Power emanated from him, like the subtle presence of pheromones, intangible but sure, rising almost as visibly as the early morning mists that hung above the lagoon. It was there, innate in his stride. Built into his stance. It had nothing to do with wealth or materiality, and everything to do with attitude. A man could be as poor as a dirt farmer, yet still have power if he was his own man.
    Yes, power.
    Wherever he came from, whoever had sent him, this man had it. But his power lay beyond mere physical strength. There was a keen intellect behind his tough facade, those gray eyes sharp with latent intelligence. But not with experience.
    In human years, he might have been in his late twenties.
    In the ways that counted, he was a mere infant.
    “Barely a decade past your human expiration date, I’d guess,” she said.
    She took a step sideways. Across from her, he mirrored the movement.
    Are you alone, or are there others? she wondered.
    She goaded him a little, prompting, “You’re what they sent after me? Disappointing. Where’s the rest of your Company of Assholes?”
    He didn’t react, pacing toward her. Didn’t need to say anything—his face said it all. Do you really think I’d need help?
    “Are you mute on top of it?” She laughed. “How sad.”
    “I came to collect you, that’s all,” he said, a low growl, the intense focus of his gray eyes as cool and flat as the surface of a rainwater pool.
    “American!” she said, barely bothering to feign surprise. “You must be one of Arielle’s.”
    “I am American. But I don’t answer to Arielle,” he said.
    Ah, there it is, she thought. The edge to his equanimity, the tiny flint of an angry spark in the flatness of his rain-gray eyes. The trick was to feed that spark, to fan it into something that would burn.
    “Haven’t you ever heard of asylum?” she said, keeping her own voice as even as she could, although she could hear the tremor in it, a snag in its usual velvet. “You can’t arrest me in the house of God.”
    His answer was immediate and unflinching. “The doctrine of asylum arose in England, and it was never widely used in Italy. It certainly hasn’t applied to major crimes for centuries. Quit