Demon Angel

eyes.
    Standing, he said, "He was my student." Her fingers clenched on the dresser's edge, but she didn't move as he approached. "His name was Ian, and he was nineteen years old. I saw his best friend this morning; tomorrow, I'll be telling another group of his friends that he's dead. But I won't be able to tell them how or why. Do you know?"
    She shook her head, her bottom lip pressed between her teeth.
    Disappointment twisted in his stomach. Why had he thought she'd tell him the truth? "I'm not as adverse to lying as I once was, which is for the best. For I won't be able to tell my students or the detectives that I have seen something like what had been done to him before. Not the ritual, but the script that was used. But it wasn't in Caelum, where I might have expected to see it. The Scrolls there are in a human language. Latin," he added when curiosity flared across her expression.
    Then she stiffened, as if in realization. "Where?"
    "Here." With the pad of his thumb, he traced a curling pattern on her right shoulder. Her skin was red, without blemish, but he could easily recall how pale it had been, washed clean by the rain. His hands had left bloody prints; he'd wiped them away with his robe, but he hadn't been able to erase the markings that had patterned her torso like vermillion tattoos—they'd remained indelible on his memory, as well. "And here." A series of chevrons and dashes, from the hollow of her throat to the edge of the corset. He pressed his palm between her breasts, felt the heat of her body through the tight bodice. "And here, though different from Ian's, a design that—"
    She caught his wrist. "Stop."
    For a moment, he could scarcely breathe. There had been more—many more. Carved into Ian's body, and, sixteen years ago, echoed in her lifeless one.
    "I should thank you for killing them," he said hoarsely. "But I'd rather have them alive to answer the questions I cannot."
    Her eyes searched his. "And once they gave answers? What could you do then?"
    " Then I'd kill them." He pulled away from her grip; she opened her mouth and then closed it, her lips curving slightly. Releasing a long breath, he walked to the window and pulled the drapes back. The cruiser still waited by the curb. "I didn't misunderstand you; I know what you meant. Even if I received answers, I'm the only one who could believe them. And giving the truth to the detectives would only increase their suspicions."
    The pane was cool against his forehead. Foolish of him to turn his back on her, but he needed a moment to gather his thoughts, to push aside the emotions that threatened to overcome reason.
    She didn't give him the opportunity.
    "And this is why you want to get me out of my clothes? To see if you can find answers beneath the glamours? Will you parade me naked through the police station as your defense?"
    "Perhaps." He smiled, and turned to find her standing beside him, her hip against the sill, arms crossed beneath her breasts. "Though I'm less concerned with defense than protecting those connected to me. You may have slain two, but there are more— and I want to know: Why Ian? Coincidence? I have difficulty believing that."
    "That has always been one of your greatest faults: your difficulty believing anything," she replied evenly.
    "Yours is accepting too readily, because it is easier to live with than the alternative."
    Grinning, she said, "And will you destroy me for it this time?"
    He couldn't bring himself to see humor in it. "No."
    She tilted her head, studying his face. Could she read him? Psychic blocks took practice and concentration—and though it was uncommon for humans, who didn't recognize the need to have strong mental defenses, it wasn't impossible.
    Her brows arched, her eyes glittered with amusement. "Ah, yes; it's no longer your job to kill me."
    If she thought that was his reason, she could not read him at all.
    Leaving her by the window, he gathered a shirt and jeans from the walk-in closet and used the relative privacy to strip off his sweats. Was Savi upstairs? If she heard them talking, she wouldn't interrupt; but if she thought he'd returned alone she might come down.
    "How long have you been waiting here?" He'd fastened his jeans and was shrugging into the shirt when she swung the door wide. Her gaze roamed over the neat—if sparse—piles of clothing on the shelves, finally coming to rest on him.
    "Almost two hours." She watched his fingers as they worked their way up the buttons. "I spent