Demon Angel

had been going to tell him. "If they come, there are ways to endure. Aye, you might be slightly mad by the end, but it is much easier to endure without full sanity."
    His sharp, pointed bark made her laugh again. "Not revenge, though I do dream of that. Revenge is not enough to sustain yourself. You must look forward to something." She stroked his coat, and it grew silky under her touch. Pleasure rushed through her; most often, hellhounds protected themselves with barbed, poisonous hairs or venom-tipped spikes. "You might imagine a field of werehares, I suppose, or pettings without cease." Two of his heads were snuggling into the crook of her neck, but he lifted the other and studied her.
    Realizing she could see him—not well, but it was vision— she grinned. "You're as ugly as your father. I often take his name in vain… or, rather, his male bits. I suppose you come from those bits."
    He panted, tongue lolling, and seemed to return her grin as his lips drew back against sharp, gleaming teeth.
    "Aye, I heal quickly. Though they'll take it all again soon, I suppose." She sighed, and he gave a questioning whimper and a doubled growl. "How do I endure? I anticipate the end, of course. When I can return to Earth and resume my duties. Though I doubt it will be the same role; I failed spectacularly. Lucifer was… displeased with my performance." The pup might have laughed at such an understatement; Lilith wasn't certain. Her voice softened as she admitted, "I look forward to seeing him again. His eyes are the same color as I've always imagined Caelum's sky. He must still be training there; he will train for one hundred years. There are endless Scrolls to read, did you know? There is naught like that here; Lucifer adores ignorance." She frowned. "But perhaps the century has passed? Perhaps he has already returned to Earth and is slaying demons and quietly dispensing moral advice to humans."
    She lay still for a moment. A scrabbling on the floor next to them was followed by a squeak. Calling in her sword, she twisted and stabbed, and the wyrmrat squealed and wriggled at the blade's end. She tossed it to the pup.
    "I would very much like to see what I've made; he will be entertaining. And that is all he will be. Whatever Punishment the victor in this war comes up with will surely rid me of any of those human emotions that got me into this mess," she said, and tried to persuade herself that she spoke true. The pup's three heads stopped tearing into the rat, and in unison gave her a doubtful look. She laughed, rolled over, and stood up. "Oh, I'll make his life a living hell, of course. What do you take me for?"
    Lille, France
    August 1389
    The scent of the nosferatu was strong; it nearly overwhelmed Hugh's senses. Though his Enthrallment upon first returning to Earth had not lasted for long, still there were moments when the sights and sounds of Earth overtook him, made him doubt he was seeing and hearing aright.
    Such it was for a man who'd been given the ability of an angel; it did not rest easy.
    There—a furtive movement. The nosferatu's pale skin glowed bright beneath the moonlight, and its psychic reek permeated the village. How many had it murdered? The odor of blood was thick in the night air.
    However many it had killed, it would not take another.
    Hugh made the vow, then cursed when a woman came out from one of the small dwellings at the edge of the village. Her gray hair and sagging form revealed her age, her slow walk her frailty. But blood was blood to the nosferatu; did not matter the source, old or young.
    And she was a temptation the nosferatu couldn't resist.
    It darted from behind a tree, soundless over the ground; Hugh called in his sword, created a suit of armor over his body and moved to intercept him. He barely had time to shove the woman out of the creature's path before engaging him.
    The nosferatu did not have much skill with his weapon; it was as if he had not used it for centuries. Still, he was strong, quick— it took all of Hugh's concentration to match each of its blows.
    But the killing stroke did not come from his sword. His eyes widened as the creature's head was lopped off in front of him, rolling across the ground to stop at his feet. The old woman?
    His heart skipped—no frail woman that. The nosferatu's psychic odor disappeared with its death, and he could smell, feel, taste the demon before him. Had he not guarded this part of the country because of its small connection to