Demon Angel

mouth; she wanted to taste him, but she slid her fingers over his instead, locking his palm against hers. It was cool and dry; his calm fed hers. Sir Pup nudged her back and leaned one of his heavy heads over her shoulder. She reached up and scratched his chin with her other hand.
    "They come," Michael said.
    So easy to fall into position: the Doyen in front, Hugh by her side, Sir Pup just behind her. Taylor and Preston flanked the hellhound, and the Guardians formed a semicircle behind the small human group, their weapons drawn. As per the wager, they would not engage, only protect.
    Hugh removed his shirt and threw it to Sir Pup. Lilith raised her brows, and he said, "Blood stains are difficult to remove, and I hate laundry."
    Her lips twitched, but she understood this, too; it was an unmistakable signal of his intention to submit. And despite his lean, hard strength, the nosferatu and Lucifer would look upon him as frail, defenseless. As she had once.
    "And we've ruined so many clothes this week. Very practical." She nodded sagely.
    She heard Preston's snort of laughter behind them, but her own smile faded.
    "You will be cold." Her voice was thick.
    He touched her face. "I'll trust you to be kind."
    She was holding his gaze with hers when they came, and she did not see Lucifer's display. She didn't miss it. It could never equal the intensity of emotion in Hugh's eyes, the beauty of the smile curving his lips.
    This was strength, too—and it steadied her.
    Perfectly composed, her psychic blocks as tempered steel, she faced the nosferatu. Ten yards away, they mirrored the Guardians' formation and were almost equal in number. In his demonic form, Lucifer stood with Moloch and two others who'd been transformed by the ritual. Behind them, the four boys stood wide-eyed with fear, silent.
    Lucifer had not brought his demons, but that did not surprise her. His vanity would demand that he appear alone, declaring a lack of fear and no need for assistance—or to bring many, and show his power by demonstrating his reign over the demons. But no one would question his reign, so it was more important to him that no one questioned his fear.
    And it would have been exactly as she'd wanted… had she the sword.
    His dreadful crimson gaze settled on Hugh, then moved to Lilith. "You should know how to use this, daughter."
    A machine appeared in front of Michael: an inclined bench lined with shackles and tubes, a cistern at the top.
    She shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. "Just the bench. He'll submit without restraints, and Michael will provide the method of collection. The blood is in the Guardian's possession until he releases it." This had already been stipulated, but apparently Lucifer had hoped to unsettle her with the device.
    Lucifer stared at her for a moment; finally, all but the bench vanished.
    Hugh immediately strode forward, and though her heart constricted, though she wanted to call him back, she walked with him. She knew he moved so quickly for her; no waiting, no drawing it out. She helped him settle onto the metal panel; half-standing, half-leaning, his weight supported by the jutting footrest. Her palms smoothed over his skin; he needed no assistance in this, but she needed to touch him.
    Michael called in the table and cups. A long table, so that each nosferatu could lift and drink at the same time—but also serving as a barrier between the two sides. Not an effective barrier, should the nosferatu attack, but its own symbol: do not cross.
    Lucifer approached the table and dropped a clay tablet onto its surface. "Cut these into him. Exactly like this."
    Lilith glanced down at the multitude of glyphs and drew her dagger. "Just these." She turned the tablet over, carved out a small series: Let the blood serve as the anchor, the Gate: follow the blood . Impossible to tell if he was surprised. "Any more are for his pain, and your enjoyment; he will not be your entertainment."
    "Michael gives too much away." A mocking smile twisted his lips. "Very well. It does not matter how many there are, so long as he bleeds. Then your pain shall be my entertainment."
    She shrugged, turned back to Hugh. He regarded her steadily, his expression unreadable—not to hide his emotions from her, but to keep others out. How long could he hold his blocks? It had to be at least until the nosferatu drank; not only did he have to hide her lies from them, but his plan.
    "Stay with me," she said quietly and lifted the knife. It