Demon Angel

remained by the window; with moonlight behind her, he could only discern her silhouette and the eerie scarlet glow of her eyes. "Is there no way to appeal to the part of you that must yearn for goodness, the part of you that once called itself angelic?" She did not respond, and he wondered if he could trust any answer she gave; if truth were no longer required by the bargain, would she speak it? Could she speak it? Or did acknowledgment of life before a demon's fall from Heaven resemble vanity—did Lucifer consider both an insult to his rule?
    "I was never a denizen Above," she finally said.
    He did not mistake the bitter humor in her voice. "What are you?"
    "I sprang fully formed from Lucifer's head." Once, he would have immediately dismissed such a statement as fantasy—no longer. But he could not determine from her tone if her claim was a jest, and she gave him no opportunity to ask. "I'm one of his plans—a failed one. His daughter, conceived of a brilliant idea, embodied in a worthless form."
    "And you intend to prove your worth by damning us? Does that not approach ambition? Surely he forbids that as well as vanity."
    She laughed and hopped onto the sill in an easy, lithe movement, folding herself into the window's small space. "You do not understand; Lucifer always speaks with doubled tongue, and always has a plan."
    "To what end?" But no matter what else he'd learned—had to relearn—he did not think Lucifer's nature would change.
    "To gather souls for his armies Below. To torture them. To bring Hell onto Earth and to rule the world of man." She waved her hand, a gesture that encompassed the castle around them— casually, as if what she suggested had little import.
    He resisted the urge to leap forward, to pull her back into the room as she leaned out the window. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Do not come near me again if you wish to succeed; I will defeat you, one way or another."
    Her eyes dimmed. "You will try," she said quietly and fell over the side.
    His heart dropped to his stomach though he knew she was not in danger—knew before he heard the flap of giant wings and saw the figure that flew past the window.
    The sound of the entertainment in the hall faintly reached his ears; he did not rejoin them, but made his way through the darkness of the stairs, blindly spiraling down.
    Thinking of a demon who was both monster and woman— and neither.
    The end came swiftly, as it always did.
    Sitting atop the peaked roof of the keep's southwest tower, Lilith watched Isabel venture across the bailey. The lady's head was down, her hood up, and she'd dressed in a washerwoman's clothing as a disguise.
    That had been Isabel's idea, inspired by some troubadour's tale. Lilith would have preferred that Isabel march through the bailey in her fine gown, leaving no doubt to her identity, but she had to appreciate the girl's ingenuity. In the darkness, no one bothered to look past the rags, and the lady reached the wall steps unmolested.
    Isabel would have to be quick; from within the keep, Lilith heard the suspicious note in d'Aulnoy's voice as he inquired of his wife's whereabouts.
    She wrapped her arms around herself to make a smaller silhouette, though none but Hugh would look for her in that spot. And if someone caught a glimpse of her outline, they would never think it a demon come to observe the results of her labor.
    Isabel's betrayal. A husband's jealous rage. A knight's folly. None immediately damning, but the events of this night would eat at their souls, twist them into something… unclean.
    Lilith knew the feeling well.
    Though she wasn't cold, she scrubbed her hands over her arms. The wait for Isabel to climb the stairs to the allure seemed interminable.
    Was this all there was to this new role? Waiting? Endlessly waiting and living among them, letting their humanity seep into her with a touch or a word of kindness?
    Far better, what she had been before. The targets were already damned, and she had only to secure their souls by arranging their deaths. If they committed suicide or were executed before they could repent, they were hers.
    But it would take many years before Hugh would be hers— and there was always the chance he wouldn't be destroyed by this, just as Isabel or Robert could make peace with their betrayal and rage.
    That was if they ever did anything to make peace with. She tried to laugh at herself, her impatience—Lucifer must have known this waiting would seem like