Demon Angel

ability to move through society without their physicality exposing them to human disgust and revulsion. But now, in a culture where plastic fangs could be purchased at a local drugstore, their difference was noticed—but accepted.
    What a blessing it must seem to them, an era in which they could walk amongst humans without facing pitchforks and burning torches.
    And how dangerous it was for man.
    Hugh frowned, studying the screen. The nosferatu should have been dead. That one nosferatu could have gone unnoticed and unchallenged for any amount of time seemed impossible— and yet there were two, standing in a crowd of humans as if they feared neither notice nor challenge.
    Where were the Guardians? Or, at the very least, the demons who should have hunted and killed their former brethren?
    "You're looking at those freaks again? You've developed an obsession." Savi dumped a plate of chips onto the oversized ottoman that served as a coffee table, then crossed over to the entertainment center and pulled a disc from the pocket of her loose pajama pants. "Do you mind if I… ?" She tilted her head toward the game console.
    He thumbed off the recorder. "Go ahead." There weren't answers to be found, anyway. Only questions.
    Savi pushed her chair closer to the television, and Hugh obligingly shoved the ottoman alongside it. She flopped into the deep cushion and crossed her legs beneath her, wires trailing across the floor. "Ah," she sighed, and scooped up salsa with a chip. "A game and munchies. My life is excellent."
    The smile that had formed as he'd watched her settle into her gaming ritual faded, and he suddenly could not tolerate the idea of sitting, of being still. He pushed to his feet, but she stopped him from leaving with a wave of her slim brown arm.
    "You have to see this new opening sequence. The First Battle."
    Angels and demons warred against the backdrop of the cosmos; Hugh didn't watch. With her back to him, Savi wouldn't see and feel slighted by his inattention, the way he restlessly skimmed his gaze over the room, searching for something— anything —out of place so that he'd have an excuse to move . But everything was in meticulous order; nothing cluttered the end tables or shelves, and the Spartan furnishings had clean lines. Except for Savi's chair, there were no pillows or loose cushions to straighten. He'd chosen them for that reason; he disliked the smothering, sinking sensation of too-soft furniture, but now it left him with nothing to keep him occupied.
    "Cool, yeah?"
    He glanced up as the scene faded to black. "Nicely done."
    She chattered on about the features of the game, but trying to drum up matching enthusiasm proved impossible. His perfunctory responses didn't satisfy her; after a few minutes, she gave an exasperated sigh and fell into silence. Her fingers jabbed at the control buttons, and the demon slayer on-screen whirled in a dizzying pirouette, swords and fists flashing through the air.
    Except for practice, it had never been that choreographed. Battles had been fierce, quick. Never a dance. The only sparring with that much give-and-take had been verbal.
    And with Lilith, often playful. Sensual.
    For a moment, the yawning darkness within him seemed to open wide and swallow him whole.
    On leaden feet, he forced himself to walk across the room toward the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the far wall. Like the rest of his house, his books were neatly arranged, but there would be something to distract him, to keep his mind busy even if his body was not.
    But it was not the books that ultimately drew him.
    He'd placed the swords Savi had given him on display beside the shelves and had barely looked at them since. Seventeen years old and a devoted manga fan, she'd thought them the perfect gift when he'd received his doctorate. He glanced back, at her complete involvement in the game, at her character's choice of weapons. Smiling, he stroked his fingers over the hardwood sheath of the longer sword.
    It was lighter than he'd expected. His broadsword had been brutish in comparison to the elegance of this blade. The katana had a thicker handle—to his surprise, it allowed for easier handling. A looser grip and greater maneuverability. Not effective against mail or plating, but for drawing and slicing flesh. He rotated it in his hand: excellent balance, and the air fairly whistled around the razor-sharp edge.
    He eyed the shorter sword. Perfect for defense, for blocking a blow from an opponent