Demon Angel

in her mouth, and she was slow to respond. "A bargain," she echoed finally.
    "Truth for truth."
    To enter willingly into a bargain, knowing… She laughed silently. Too certain of himself, he was. 'Twas not physical vanity that she could exploit, but his intellectual vanity. His conviction that he would not succumb to her, that he could remain separate from their dealings. Did he think to play with the demon's tools and not be worked on in return?
    Only fair that she should warn him.
    She didn't.
    She pretended doubt. "Truth for truth? You get the better bargain. My truth is valuable to you, whereas yours is nothing' to me."
    He raised a brow and smiled again, as if amused by her lie. Aye, he was too certain—but not without insight. A combination of imprudent bravery and cleverness.
    "Truth for truth," she agreed.
    He grinned as if she'd fallen into a web of his making rather than the reverse and took her hand in his. She allowed him to lead her up the stairs, circling round and round, feeling uncharacteristically dizzy and out of sorts—and excited, as if she were a girl following her lover to a hideaway. She stifled the urge to transform so her appearance would fit the sudden playfulness that overcame her: into a maid with a circlet of flowers in her hair and white gown, trailing velvet ribbons. What would he think, should he look behind him?
    Bemused by the fancy that took hold—resenting that bemusement—she became the demon. At the click of talons against the stone steps, he glanced back. The crimson glow from her eyes limned his features; his lips tightened, but he did not let go her hand. He continued up and up, allowing her touch though her fingers ended in claws, her wingtip scraped the wall beside them, and her form declared her a monster.
    What would bring comfort to a woman such as you? What would be kind?
    She blinked away that memory, absurdly grateful when they reached the top and entered the tower chamber. Moonlight spilled weakly through the shutters, illuminating the family's private chapel. Using the pale light to navigate, he led her to a cushioned bench on the far wall.
    "Father Geoffrey is in the hall," he said with a lift of his brows. "Despite the Lateran Council's rulings that suggest they avoid such entertainments."
    Pursing her lips, she glanced from him to the bench.
    He answered her wordless query with a laugh and a shake of his head. "The stairs are much too uncomfortable. It would be torture seeking truth there."
    "For you," she said. "The stairs suited me well."
    "Perhaps I could apply an iron rod to your skin during the questioning and make it equally torturous."
    Her gaze dropped to his groin.
    "The priests forbid that as much as possible, too," he said as he sat down. Leaning back, he crossed his ankles and linked his hands behind his head.
    'Twas a pose without easy defense; was it designed to lower hers?
    Unwilling to relinquish whatever unease her demon form created in him—and it must, no matter his relaxed posture—she hopped onto a stout table and perched, her knees against her chest.
    His eyes widened and he looked away from her.
    Her sultry chuckle drew his gaze back. He swallowed convulsively.
    "You expose yourself, my lady." His throat worked again. Abandoning his careless posture, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and pressed his head into his hands. "I'm only a man. Take pity." 'Twas a sound between a laugh and a croak.
    The note of arousal under his tortured plea, and the bulge that had risen beneath his hose soothed her pride; she relented and called in a hose and tunic that matched his.
    "Now we are equal," she said.
    His shoulders shook, and he gestured to his lap. "I don't see you with this problem, my lady."
    "I'm not willing to grow one for the bargain," she said, brushing a long black curl from her forehead and tucking it behind one of her horns. Trouble was, she did feel the arousal that their exchange had risen within her. A liquid heat and velvet tightness that settled in her breasts and belly.
    Bedroom games were a tool, a method of persuasion and power, or even pain. There was only the chase, the corruption, the attainment of souls. Only bargains and negotiations. A demon might take pleasure in those results, but not for herself.
    Never for herself.
    "What truth do you need?"
    If he was surprised by her abrupt question, that the humor had faded completely from her voice, he did not give evidence of it. His eyes met hers levelly,