Demon Angel

She should have been grateful. Perhaps she would have, if she didn't feel so restless, as if she'd suddenly been caged.
    It was a familiar feeling, but it usually didn't make her angry.
    She crushed the ice between her teeth. Why was it so fucking hot in here?
    She lifted her hand and gestured for another, asked for a water to accompany it. The wounds on her palm had almost completely healed over; only a lingering stiffness remained. She examined the thin pink lines on her fingers. The blood sped healing—is that what allowed them immortality? Accelerated regeneration or cell replication, with no degradation over time?
    But wouldn't their hair grow more quickly if it was replication? Did it simply keep existing cells in perfect repair, not speed the manufacture of new ones?
    Why did it only heal humans when applied topically, or through a transfusion? And why was it safe? A transfusion would temporarily give a human some strength and healing ability, but it didn't last. Only through ingestion was there a danger—blessing?—of transformation.
    Was it the act of taking it in and the choice to drink that provided the power, or the blood itself? Before Michael could transform a human to a Guardian, the human had to agree to the change; she'd heard the same was true of a vampire—the transformation didn't take well if it wasn't voluntary. Could blood recognize choice and free will?
    The bloodlust supposedly did—except for the free will of the vampire it controlled.
    She felt Colin before she saw him; he stood next to her, leaning gracefully against the bar. His expression was unreadable, his gaze hooded. Even in the dim lighting, she could see the slight flush on his skin.
    She'd seen it before.
    Lifting her glass, she took another long drink. Licked the salt from the rim, from her lips, and forced a bright smile. "The redhead on the stairs?"
    His mouth tightened, but he gave a slow nod.
    She arched a brow. "You must lose a lot of clients if the ones you feed from leave bleeding."
    "She wasn't. And I don't often feed here; I prefer the hunt. Pursuit offers a challenge." He looked away from her toward the dance floor, his mouth pulled down in a grimace of distaste. "When it is readily available, it is merely scavenging."
    Her chest squeezed painfully. She'd not only been available; she'd thrown herself at him. "So the aristocrat surveys the unwashed masses, and finds them lacking," she murmured.
    And she was just a brown little girl.
    "They have their use during revolutions, but there is no rebellion here. Only a mess of conformity." His gaze met hers again. "But I do not care if they bathe, Savitri, as long as they bleed."
    The glass was slick with condensation; she wiped her palm across her forehead, hoping to ease the heat with cold and wet. "I thought, because of—" She paused, switched to Hindi. He probably didn't want anyone to overhear that he couldn't create other vampires. Surely his impotency embarrassed someone like him, and she wouldn't prick his vanity again. "Because of your incapability , that you couldn't heal me. I was wrong."
    He contained his emotions too well to interpret his response. "Yes. You also believed Castleford when he confirmed your assumption that I was gay."
    It had been easier; a woman had little defense against a face like that—except to believe it couldn't be hers. But she'd been mistaken in that, too. Gloriously mistaken, until it had turned into something… painful.
    "Did she tell you what you wanted to hear?"
    A mocking smile. "She screamed it."
    She nodded, drained her glass. "I'm going to go dance." Sweat out some of the heat boiling within her. Feel someone's touch on her skin.
    Anyone's but his.
    She'd known better.
    Before her family had been destroyed by a few bullets, Savi had been surrounded by stories—her mother had loved them.
    Both surgeons, her parents had limited time dedicated to Savi and her brother. But in those rare evenings when her mother had been home, fairy tales and fables had been standard bedtime fare.
    The music drowned out the voices of the men dancing with her, but she could still hear her mother's voice clearly—one of the advantages of a memory like hers.
    … and the girl came across a cobra curled up against the freezing night air. The cobra begged her to stop and carry him in her pocket until the sun rose in the morning, but she refused. "You will bite me," she said. But the cobra promised not to. "I will die here; if you save me, I will