Demon Angel

There was Lilith, who moved with uncommon swiftness. Who bargained for kisses and lies. Who indulged men's perversity. "Is that what you spoke of? How she intends to corrupt me?"
    Georges's eyebrows rose. "Nay. Indeed, if there has been an unbalancing, it has been hers. She informed me that she would do no work upon you, and focus on her true target."
    "Isabel." Hugh breathed the name, dread tightening his throat. "Why did you not kill this demon, if you are one of these Guardians?"
    "Ah, and now you charge me with failing in duties you do not believe in."
    Frustration, worry for Lady Isabel, fear—aye, fear, though he hated to admit to it—forced the words that burst from him. "You have given me nothing to believe! Only an impossible, blasphemous tale!"
    Georges's transformation was so swift that once again Hugh doubted his eyes. Then he accepted, and fell back; his breath rushed from him, and he stumbled, landing hard upon the stone walkway, his spine jarring from the impact.
    The knight stood before him, but no longer Georges. With close-cropped dark hair and features that seemed sculpted in bronze, wings of black feathers, and a body garbed in a loose, flowing garment that draped over one shoulder and gathered at the waist, he appeared an ageless warrior, terrible and deadly in his beauty. His eyes glinted like obsidian. "Do you see?"
    "Aye," Hugh whispered, sweating as if with sudden sickness, his stomach balled into a tight knot. His fingers automatically rose to his forehead, but he paused, uncertain. "Who are you?"
    "Michael."
    Unable to comprehend, Hugh looked away. His hand fell to his side. The stone pressed cold and hard against his back, but now he welcomed its solidity. Michael: the same name as the archangel, but the man before him claimed to have been human once. Did he also lay claim to the deeds that had been ascribed to that other, greater being? And if such an illustrious figure appeared before him, what manner of creature had Hugh seen speaking to Michael? Lucifer, in the guise of a woman? "The demon. Was it the Deceiver?"
    He transformed back into Georges and proffered his hand, but Hugh could no longer see his friend in that skin. He stood without help, refusing to lean against the parapet though the trembling in his legs demanded it.
    "Nay. Though the name fits her, in her fashion." Michael's arm dropped to his side. "Many things from Above and Below are not as they seem. You must learn that appearances are almost always deceiving."
    A wry smile curved Hugh's lips as his gaze skimmed over his mentor's changeable form. "I am well taught."
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CHAPTER 4
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    The castle readied for evening's entertainment. Servants folded tables and pushed them from the center of the great hall. Conversation accompanied the scrape of wooden benches against the floor as they were shoved and carried toward the perimeter of the room. Lamplight flickered, lit each corner and crevice, and danced over the ceiling's great polished arch.
    In the minstrel's gallery, a player struck a discordant note on his pipe, a short, piercing shriek that drew attention and laughter from the ladies gathered near the screen's passage.
    Hugh looked toward the group in time to see Lilith slipping away from the women, threading her way through the hall and disappearing behind the dais.
    Hesitating but for a moment, he moved to intercept her. He used the opposite entrance into the family chambers; his departure would not go unnoticed, but it was unlikely any observer would associate his leaving through one door with Lilith's exit through another.
    The partition separating d'Aulnoy's rooms from the hall did little to muffle the noise, and the chambers were dimly lit. Hugh waited for his eyes to adjust, uncertain of her direction.
    Instinct drove him through the archway that led to the newel stairs. Isabel's bower was on the floor above the chambers— and it was there that Lilith had managed to avoid Hugh for nearly a sennight.
    Hugh paused on the first riser; darkness filled the stairwell. Below, the faint glow of the torch lit the flight from the lower floors. It flickered against the curving stone near his feet, but didn't penetrate the shadows above.
    The air was laden with a thick, acrid odor, the heavy scent of a flame recently snuffed.
    He pulled his eating knife from his belt and briefly wished for his sword—but perhaps it was better this way. If someone should come upon him, he could more easily hide his dagger