Demon Angel

taking pleasure in the result?
    If there is going to be a result . She frowned as Thaddeus paused yet again. For a man who killed others so easily, he apparently considered his own life—and death—valuable. But his wavering kept her from what would likely have been an unsettling self-analysis, and relief slipped under annoyance.
    "Why do you hesitate, my love?" she said and grimaced. The my love was overdoing it—certainly none of his victims had ever called him that.
    Thaddeus didn't seem to notice; he stared at the highway below, and his voice held an awestruck tremble. "There's… an angel waiting for me," he said and dived.
    " An ang —oh, for fuck's sake!" Lilith leapt atop the railing just as the figure below—bewinged and dressed in a monk's robes—caught Thaddeus.
    Hugh.
    Though he obviously did his best to cushion Thaddeus's fall, the impact of the thirty-foot drop into Hugh's arms knocked the human unconscious. Which, in Lilith's opinion, was splendid— there would be no need to worry about the serial killer witnessing something he shouldn't. He'd have a nasty case of whiplash and a few unexplained bruises, but he'd remain unaware of her— and Hugh's—true nature and his brush with real immortality.
    Her sword materialized in her hand, and her blood thrummed in anticipation of battle.
    This was something she could take pleasure in.
    She couldn't subdue her delighted grin, but she disguised it by affecting a cry of outrage. "This is the last time you interfere, Guardian!"
    A flash of lightning accompanied the declaration, and her grin broke through. The more theatrical the confrontation, the better— and it looked as though nature was cooperating in the drama.
    Thunder cracked and rumbled as she waited for his response. Hugh tilted his head back to stare at her for a long, silent moment, and she greedily searched his features for a hint of regard. It usually lurked in the silky line of his bottom lip, in the crinkle at the corner of his eyes.
    Disappointment and anger settled in her chest when she could find no warmth in his expression, only the somber mask he used to hide his emotions. Her breath hissed through her teeth. Why did he always resist her? Why must he—
    "It is the last time," he agreed quietly.
    His tone startled her out of her anger. She considered deliberately misinterpreting his words, taking them as a challenge, but the weariness in his voice was too unfamiliar—and too unnerving—to disregard.
    Hugh didn't sound tired, but exhausted , as if something within him had burned out. A chill that had nothing to do with the rain sheeting upon them rushed under her skin.
    Her eyes dimmed, her sword lowered a fraction of an inch. "Why?"
    He glanced down at the man in his arms when Thaddeus shifted and groaned. "I have decided to Fall," he said, and carried Thaddeus beneath the bridge.
    She stared unseeing at the place he'd been standing, felt the nausea rise in her throat. Falling . For a Guardian, it meant a reversal of his transformation. A release from his duty and a renunciation of his role.
    It meant that he would travel a path she could no longer ambush.
    It took her a moment to recognize the cause of the yawning, hollow ache in her stomach: Pain. Loss. It only took another moment for her to twist it into something she could understand and use.
    Rage.
    She didn't remember jumping, but she must have remembered to break her fall with her wings; she landed silently on the concrete highway, her muscles coiled and ready. Thaddeus lay on the incline on the side of the roadway—Hugh was gone. A growl rumbled up from her chest. Opening her senses, she focused her anger into a searching sweep of the area. He wouldn't have left Thaddeus alone with her, couldn't have gone too far.
    "I made you!" she shouted into the dark. Her voice echoed in the concrete barrel of the overpass; knowing he could use the noise to cover his attack, she ground her teeth together and delivered her threat with quiet intensity. "I'm the reason you aren't a stinking, rotting corpse, and you think to become human again? I'll see you dead before I allow it."
    A whisper of movement. Instinct and skill proved too slow; he caught the wrist of her sword arm and bent it around, holding it immobile at her side. He yanked her back, trapping her wings between them and dragging her to the shoulder of the highway. Sharp, cold steel pressed against her throat.
    "I should have killed you in Lille."
    She felt the difference in