Demon Angel

the rasp of his voice into her ear, the tension in the taut form behind her: exhaustion, yes—but also something deeper, darker. A shiver ripped through her, and it was answered by a tremor in his hands, his breath.
    "You're on the edge," she realized. Jealousy dug its claws into her chest, and she welcomed the pain it brought. What— who—had managed to shatter his control, brought this heat from ice?
    It should be enough that he came to me, even if it was only to kill me . But it wasn't enough—she didn't like to settle. Humans could be happy with half of something; she could not.
    She arched her back and ignored the pinch at the base of her throat where his sword cut into her, the warm liquid slide of her lifeblood. "Are you to finish this, then?"
    She didn't think he would—didn't think he could .
    He inhaled sharply, and she knew he scented the blood by the way his grip shifted on his sword, easing its pressure without removing its threat. "I've already gone over and back again," he said.
    But not all the way back . If he had, she wouldn't be able to feel death still burning within him. And then the import of his statement sank in. She vanished her wings and turned in his arms to look at him in surprise, unmindful of the blade he held against the side of her neck.
    Hugh slew demons and nosferatu with barely a thought; something else—someone else—must have pushed him to this point.
    "You killed a Guardian?" Unimaginable. Whereas demons might destroy each other, the Guardians practically oozed brotherly love and kindness. It was disgusting, really. A wicked grin tugged at her lips. "Was it Michael? Because I'd love to see the golden boy's head on a pikestaff."
    His gaze dropped to her throat. She was certain the wound had already healed, and the rain had washed most of the blood away. Only a faint stickiness remained. "It was a human."
    "Don't be ridiculous," she said it automatically, because it was ridiculous, impossible; she could understand his being driven to kill a Guardian—applaud it, even. But he'd never slain her—as he should have—and so she could hardly believe he would have murdered a human. No matter the provocation.
    But Hugh never lied—and only moments before she had been certain he would kill her. It seemed inconceivable, but perhaps, after endless years of sameness, something within him had truly changed.
    Rain dripped from his lashes; she'd once thought his eyes must be the same blue as the sky in Caelum, and the only bit of that sacred place she would ever have. Now they were dark, and reminded her of the frozen faces Below, the blue of the tormented and the damned.
    "I became you," he said.
    Fear scrambled up her spine. She covered it with a laugh and tried to pull her hands from his grip. He held her fast. Pausing, pretending to submit to his strength, she said lightly, "You became me? If you'd wanted my body that much, you know you could have had it."
    A mistake. She realized it immediately, but it was too late. She should have fought him; he was different, but she wasn't: she had responded as she always had, expecting him to rebuff her suggestive playfulness.
    And this Hugh used her hesitation—and her weakness— against her.
    He leaned forward. "I became you," he repeated softly. "I didn't put the gun to his head, but I used my Gift against him and he did it himself. He couldn't face the truth, and he pulled the trigger." His lips were a breath from hers, and the gentleness in his voice—from him, whom she'd fought and fought for so long—disoriented her; he wrapped her in his Gift before his words registered.
    He'd used it against her before. He'd compelled truth and taken information, but it had always been in focused bursts of power—never this sweet persuasion that seemed to wind through her and steal her resistance.
    Because your resistance is a lie , her mind whispered.
    She caught the thread of that truth, used it to steady herself. Of course it was a lie; she was a demon. Demons were nothing if not brilliant liars.
    And truth was not a tool used solely by those Above.
    "So? That was his failing, not yours," she said, and tilted her head to indicate Thaddeus's prone form. Hugh's gaze didn't stray from her face, as she'd hoped. Relaxing her sword arm, she continued, "Truth is a weapon that can be easily twisted. If humans believe in something strongly enough, it can be used against them. It becomes a truth."
    "No, that is delusion."
    She smiled and shifted her