Demon Angel

her?
    "Lilith," he breathed. "I have looked for you."
    Her eyes began to glow, that eerie scarlet he'd not been able to forget. She shed the old woman's form, became the demon he remembered from the castle tower—and attacked him.
    Laughing. How could he be laughing as her sword clashed against his faster, ever faster? Yet she was, too—perhaps it was madness that had taken them both.
    He tripped. And she was on him, a whirlwind of teeth and wings and naked crimson skin. She could have killed him but she kissed him. He stiffened beneath her, unprepared for the onslaught of lust and pleasure. Like Enthrallment, but from one source. Then pain, as her fangs cut his lip—and she scrambled off him, put the point of her sword to his throat, wiped her mouth with her free hand.
    For a moment she stood, her chest heaving; then her gaze fell to his suit of armor. "I see you have made something of yourself, Sir Pup." Her teeth flashed as she smiled. "Though you shine so brightly you could be a target for a blind woman."
    He flushed. The armor had been the first thing he'd created, when he'd learned how to make clothing for himself, to dress with a thought. The polished metal did shine, aye—but as befitted a soldier from Caelum. "Or an old woman."
    "Aye." Her grin widened. "To change one's shape is a fine trick, is it not—yet you do not use it for yourself. You appear as ridiculously young as ever. Or perhaps you have not mastered the ability?"
    "I have." But he had no need for deception, as she did. His natural form was not terrible to look upon.
    Though it was difficult to think it terrible when her form was so strong—so appealing.
    "And what of your Gift—have you yet received it?" Her head tilted as she studied him. "I have heard a Guardian's unique power reflects him as he was in life. Perhaps your Gift shall be the ability to leave a man's prick limp and useless. For certain you never succumbed to the temptations of the flesh while human." Her sword rattled over his armor as she trailed the tip from throat to groin.
    "My Gift has not come upon me," he admitted, then stiffened as she slid the sharp point into the armor's vulnerable joint between his torso and thigh. Beneath the metal, blood trickled over his hip. "Will you slay me now?"
    Her brows rose. "Slay you? I made you."
    "Aye," he said. "Strange that you did."
    Her sword vanished, and her eyes narrowed on his face. "Not strange at all. Sir Pup. I have paid for, but have not yet gotten the use of you."
    He rose to his feet. "What purpose could I serve for a demon—except that I could slay you?"
    "I'm not likely to ask for that," she said.
    "Then let me save you."
    She stared at him for a long moment, then burst into laughter. "Oh, you cannot save such as me. And I serve a better purpose than you."
    He frowned. "You cannot believe that."
    Pointing toward one of the small wooden huts, she said, "In there sleeps a man who murdered his brother and his brother's wife so that he could have a bit more barley for supper. I am his mother—though she died ten years ago. I harangue him day and night, until his guilt will drive him to confess, or take his own life. What do you plan to do, to make certain he pays for his crime?"
    He could do naught. "This is why Michael did not slay you. You provide justice we cannot."
    She smiled slightly. "There are more reasons than that. Will you stop me, Guardian?"
    "It is my duty," he said. "Those condemned souls feed Lucifer's armies Below; perhaps if you do not kill them, they will repent. Given time, a murderer can become a saint. So, aye, I will stop you."
    She grinned in full. "You can try." Turning, she began to walk away.
    "Lilith," he said. The amused glow of her eyes as she looked over her shoulder made his body tighten. "Thank you for giving me this."
    Her amusement faded. "Don't thank me yet, Sir Pup. It wears thin."
    Wallachia.
    November 1461
    It should not have shamed her that he saw her this way.
    She did not look at him as he got her down, and rolled away from him when he would have held her and offered comfort.
    And she willed herself to heal quickly, so that she would not look weak.
    Hugh did not appear weak—not in that gleaming armor. Giant wings sprouted from his back; she was not accustomed to seeing him wear them, but they had been necessary for him to reach her. He was beautiful and did she look much longer, she would begin to weave silly dreams around him. She closed her eyes, rested her cheek on the