Demon Angel

eating potato chips and staring vacuously at a television?
    Growling a little, she thought about jumping out of the bushes in full demon mode to see just how fast the jogger could run, but the idea didn't cheer her. She turned her attention back to the remains instead, and examined them with an objective eye.
    The ground had been cleared, creating a circle of dirt almost three feet in diameter. The victim had been dismembered—not a surprise, as nosferatu often tore their prey apart—but the symbols carved into the skin across the torso were not as usual. And in the middle of his chest, a name was spelled out in a grisly, flowing script.
    Moloch.
    She frowned. That didn't make any sense. The victim's new, demonic name should have been written there, not that of a nosferatu—and instead of death, there should have been a transformation. Had the ritual failed?
    On the trail, the runner's steps slowed and came to a halt on the other side of the scrub. She heard the catch and pause in his ragged breaths as he recognized the scent of death. Fuck. Nothing to do now but slip away before he saw her.
    And then he sighed. It was a simple exhalation, full of resignation and disappointment, but its familiarity sent a shiver racing along her skin. Hardly daring to believe, she reached out with a psychic probe.
    Hugh.
    She closed her eyes against a creeping sense of inevitability, and Lucifer's voice rang in her ears: His death will be yours to give, or your soul mine to keep .
    Could it be a coincidence that he should happen upon this scene? She knew it couldn't be; somehow, between the nosferatu and the ritual and Hugh, she was certain that Lucifer's long-held plans were finally coming together, and the pieces were falling into place.
    Where would she fit?
    She should flee, and keep Hugh unaware that she lived; her father depended on her to play a part. A demon worked under concealment, creating temptation by using the target's ignorance against him and manipulating with lies. Hugh was no longer the Guardian she'd known, but a human. He was nothing to someone like her.
    She opened her eyes, saw the ruin that had once been a man.
    And waited.
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CHAPTER 12
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    The sun shone low and warm at her back; it cast her shadow across the clearing and must have prevented Hugh from immediately recognizing her. He narrowed his eyes against the light, and she rose to her feet.
    Age had roughened the soft perfection of his youth, broadened his slim form. His golden skin was bathed in perspiration from his run, the sheen catching the sun and highlighting strong cheekbones and dark, slashing brows. His mahogany hair was cut short, erasing any hint of curl. The line of his jaw had once been smoothly curved, as if an artist had tenderly formed him from alabaster; time had proved a less patient sculptor, but the straight, clean angles were in as beautiful proportion.
    His clothing, she noted, was as atrocious as ever, but afforded a much nicer view than his brown robe. The thin blue T-shirt—sleeves torn away, a faded rainbow emblem on the front—clung damply to the muscular planes of his chest, and his loose navy sweatpants had small holes at the knees. Only his shoes were in decent condition.
    No paunch, no thinning hair. He'd gained weight, but no fat.
    His bare arms looked as taut and defined as the day she'd first seen him practicing swordplay in a castle courtyard.
    Wanting to berate herself for caring, but unwilling to miss the moment of recognition, she searched his expression and waited… for any reaction. Surprise, hate, joy: she would take anything.
    His firm, sensuous lips parted slightly. Surprised, then. She would have been satisfied with that, but there was more: doubt, in the minute wrinkling of his brow; violence, in the clenching of his right hand, as if he wanted to materialize a sword.
    Of course he doubted, she thought. He'd killed her, and because all demons could shape-shift, he assumed that someone intended to deceive him. She considered pinning him to the ground and stealing a kiss as she had so many times before, but the gruesome scene between them kept her where she was.
    "Hello, Hugh."
    If he'd been trying to convince himself that she was just a human with an uncanny resemblance to a demon he'd once known, she'd shattered that by knowing his name.
    A muscle in his jaw flexed. His breathing had eased into a deep, even rhythm, and his eyes were cold. "You aren't worthy of that face. Shift into