Demon Angel

"Sir."
    Chuckling, Smith held out his hand. She had to unclench her fist to place her palm against his. His skin burned hers, a thin trail of smoke rising from their clasped hands; she smiled, as if the stink of burning flesh were sweet.
    Beelzebub had his petty pleasures, too.
    "These gentlemen," he said as he pulled her toward the nosferatu, "were dismayed to learn that you had slain two of their brethren."
    She looked at each one in turn, spoke deliberately. "And I was dismayed that I received notice regarding our new alliance after I killed them." Nodding at the creature that smelled like Rafferty, she added, "I'm pleased to see that Moloch's ritual was successful."
    Surprise flared from the nosferatu, distrust. Apparently, she wasn't supposed to know either his name, or that the ritual had taken place. Smith's grip tightened on her hand, grinding bone.
    "Leave us, Agent Milton," he said through clenched teeth. "Await me in my office."
    She gladly began to turn away, but a rough voice stopped her.
    "One moment, halfling." Moloch laid his hand on her arm, each of his teeth shifting to points, his tongue and the inside of his mouth turning black. "I require a taste, to test your trustworthiness."
    Disgust spread from the surface of her skin, deep into her stomach, followed by a rising panic. He wanted her blood. And with a taste of her blood, her psychic blocks would be useless; nosferatu could open the strongest mind with a simple nick of a vein.
    A secretive smile curved her lips. "Trustworthy? Lucifer would not be pleased if I were such."
    Moloch's face contorted, but Smith snatched her hand from the nosferatu before he could bite. It had been a risk, but the demon warlord was uncertain of the extent of her knowledge, and her trustworthiness… or of Lucifer's. Probably all three.
    "Leave us, Lilith." His anger was palpable.
    She grinned, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and strode away on trembling legs.
----

CHAPTER 19
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    After the soundless cocoon of Beelzebub's office, the noises surrounding her cube seemed loud, frenetic. Or perhaps it was the pounding in her head. She'd expected a punishment from Beelzebub, but it had been something more frightening: an instruction to traverse the Gate by midnight.
    Summoned by Lucifer.
    She didn't glance at the rookie, but sat, holding her burning palm against the cool desktop. The phone was in front of her. So easy to lift the receiver, to call him and hear his voice. Would he still be at the university? Home?
    She had an excuse: he'd want to know what she'd read in the files Preston had sent. He needed to know about the nosferatu and his student. But she couldn't risk being overheard. She'd be lucky if Lucifer didn't destroy her; she shouldn't give him additional reason.
    The pain in her hand faded to a mild sting. Her laptop was in her cache; she called it in. Her mouth twisted in self-derision, but she still went to the university website, looked up his e-mail address. Was she so desperate for contact with him? Even in this cold, distant way—
    She didn't have to send anything; it was waiting for her in her inbox. A simple message, with a document attached.
    Spend the night with me.
    The document was several hundred pages, all in Latin. She read through the first pages, her eyes blurring. This had been written with care, reverence. And her fingers shook as she typed out her reply:
    I can't.
    Hugh hadn't walked more than two steps into Auntie's before she had his left cheek in a fond, if uncomfortably tight, pinch. She gave a half-indignant laugh as he swept her forward and hugged her tiny frame—partially to break that hold on his cheek, and partially because he needed to. Her bangles clicked and sang, and her bright turquoise sari held the thick, warm scent of garlic and onion that permeated the restaurant.
    "You treat me very poorly," she said when he let her go, smoothing her hair as if to make certain every strand remained tight within the long black braid. "An old woman doesn't deserve your attention?" She harrumphed, though her eyes were bright with amusement. "No gratitude, no respect."
    Even after forty years in San Francisco, her accent was heavy; but as she spoke in English he answered in kind. "I owe you everything, Auntie," he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. "Where would I be today if you hadn't given me a job and a bed to sleep in?"
    "A doctor." Her lips pursed, as if she were trying to be stern rather than smile. The