Demon Angel

she'd rather have vomited. Yet another weakness, this sickness. That he saw her this way was worse than the injury. He created a length of linen cloth, held it against the wound.
    Why must he be kind? It made her more vulnerable than truth, than blood.
    His Gift surrounded her with unrelenting force; combined with his gentle touch, she was defenseless. "Aye, I was created by him. I serve through the bargain—but I must serve, regardless," she said. "There has to be one who reigns: to enforce the Rules, to administer Punishment or destroy any demons who think to deny humans their free will, or to bring death to them."
    "Aye, one must lead. But why not Belial?"
    She laughed again, bitterly. "He would be no different, though he promises much. He says we would all rule, and it would be equal; but that is a lie. It may be better to reign in Hell, but only one truly can—the rest serve. And I am bound to Lucifer."
    "What happens if Belial wins the throne?"
    "I will be destroyed, as have the rest of my caste." Surely Belial would not tolerate the presence of a halfling; their creation was Lucifer's evil, a corruption of the demon race. She closed her eyes, and Hugh finally relented. The crackling roar of the fire grew ever closer; the southern part of the roof was aflame. "Do not ask me these things, Hugh. There is nothing that can save me."
    "That is a lie," he said quietly. Her wound had healed, and he vanished the cloth. He stood, pulled her to her feet. "You will not tell me."
    She smiled bleakly. "I cannot tell you."
    "And that is truth." He sighed, ran his hand through his hair. "I have something for you."
    Her gaze dropped, and she forced humor into her voice. "Do you?"
    With the tips of his fingers, he tilted her chin up. "Nay, it isn't that. I know you could not enjoy that; demons do not feel what humans and Guardians do. You only tease me to torment me."
    She looked away, out over the glowing sky darkened by smoke. The roof beneath their feet was hot, melting; the interior of the cathedral must be burning. "Yes."
    He was silent for a moment, then he said, "I found this in a library; I did not think it so wrong to take it. It would have been destroyed had I not." A bound quarto volume appeared in his hands. "It is Marlowe's Doctor Faustus ."
    Her heart thundered. "You would give this to me?"
    "You haunted him mercilessly. As you did Milton, playing his amanuensis after his eyesight failed. Shakespeare and Donne. There was hardly a poet or playwright in the last century you did not torment with your stories." His gaze pierced her. "Why?"
    She couldn't tell him she was the last halfling left. Impossible to say that her destruction weighed upon her with every passing year, her inevitable frozen end. And so she only laughed and said a partial truth, so that he would not ask again. "I seek a second immortality; I'm too greedy to settle for only one." She affected a pout. "Yet they always twist it, make it a male demon or villain… or Lucifer. Their quills and the printing press erase my sex, remove my identity, and destroy me more efficiently than a sword."
    There, a true smile from him. "Will you take it?"
    They staggered as the roof buckled and caved; a hole opened yards from where they stood. Flames shot up, sparks showered down around them. Yes, it was much like Below. What would Lucifer do, should she have such a gift in her possession? She wouldn't be able to hide it, or excuse it. It was not a theft—was not something she could cover with a lie.
    She clenched her hands by her sides, tempered her shields, and forced the words through the tightness in her throat. "No. I want nothing so worthless."
    His features hardened, and his gaze dropped to the book. He slid his palm reverently over the tooled leather cover.
    Then he tossed it into the fiery pit beside them and walked away.
    Lake Geneva, Switzerland
    June 1816
    "This must certainly be the lowest point to which a Guardian has ever descended."
    Hugh felt Lilith's amused gaze, her psychic scent before she spoke. No, she no longer hid from him when she approached. So much easier when she had; he did not have to conceal his eagerness to see her when he'd no idea if she'd appear. But this waiting she forced upon him now, the anticipation—it was its own torment.
    He did not take his eyes from the scene before him. Frustration spilled from her before she closed herself away.
    Yet her frustration could be nothing like his.
    He stood stiffly, willed his heart to