Demon Angel

ritual gave the nosferatu that power? To shift, to resist daylight?"
    "I think so," she said slowly, watching him. Then her gaze lowered to the table, and she pulled a report from a stack of files. "There was very little blood at the scene."
    "Not surprising, given they are nosferatu," he said. It was a coroner's report, and he only gave it a cursory glance.
    "No, but it is a change from the ritual I knew." Laying her hand on his, she opened to the second page. "Stomach contents."
    He forced himself to read through the haze that clouded his vision. "Just milk and cereal."
    "No blood. The blood is the key for the transformation—the power is derived by ingesting the blood that flows after the symbols have been carved. It's collected, and then the person must drink it before they fall unconscious from the blood loss. My guess is that instead of your student ingesting it, the nosferatu did—and they took in the properties of the transformation that way. Perhaps the one I saw took more than the others, or the full benefit of the transformation can only go to one. But nosferatu don't trust one another, so they would demand at least a share of the power, even if it is very small. And it does not take a great amount of blood, only the endurance to remain alive until the end of the carving. That is how I was made. And at the end Lucifer asked me if I wanted to drink and live, or die. And we made a bargain that I would serve him for as long as I had my demon powers." A bitter smile curved her mouth. "I assume that is not how Michael does it."
    "Nay." He had to put the report down, clenched the edge of the table to control his hands' shaking.
    She gestured toward his sword. "Do you want to stab me?"
    As she no doubt intended, the offer startled him out of his anger; but the energy coiled within his muscles did not fade as easily as the rage. He raked his hand through his hair, stalked across the room. It wasn't enough. He turned back. The detachment had settled over her again; she stood, looking at him without expression, her arms folded beneath her breasts, her demonic skin like a violent gash against the black shirt.
    A few long strides and he was beside her again. She took a deep, sudden breath, as if something in his appearance unnerved her. A human response, despite her apparent intention to show none.
    "This is not kindness," he said. He slid his hand over her jaw, behind her neck to thread his fingers in the damp curls at her nape. Her skin burned beneath his palm, sent warmth spreading through him.
    Her gaze dropped to his mouth. "What is it?" Her chest rose and fell in a quick rhythm.
    "Envy." He envied her control, desired it for himself. And when he touched her, his restlessness fell away. Left a new purpose in its place, a direction for the energy within him.
    He closed the distance between them, grazed her upper lip with his tongue. And immediately wanted more. "Avarice."
    "Wrath?" The word shook, with laughter and fear and—
    He smiled against her mouth. "Lust," he corrected, and his voice was rough with it. He drew her lower lip between his teeth. Why fear? He couldn't hurt her. His wrist still throbbed from her grip earlier, but she… "Why is kindness more destructive than a sword?"
    She closed her eyes, began to pull away, but he followed. "Gluttony." He whispered it against her mouth before kissing her, coaxing her open with the gentle insistence of his lips and tongue. Despite his claim, he drank from her with delicate sips; he had less control over his hands, and they gathered and pressed her full-length against him. Slid up her ribcage, over her peaked breasts.
    Arching into his touch, she moaned low in her throat, yet amidst the desire he could still hear the fear. She responded, but held back. His chest tightened with an unbearable pain.
    The last time he had kissed her thus, he had killed her.
    Hugh dropped his hands, staggered back. Lilith's stance mirrored his, her hands fisted at her sides as she stared at him. In her attempt to resist touching him, her nails had cut into her skin.
    Of course, her resistance indicated that, for all her preparation, the emotions she'd tried to hide were not far from the surface. Lucifer would easily sense these, and physically smell Hugh on her. She'd have to cleanse herself again when he left. But for now, she was finished with suppression.
    She licked her lips, slowly uncurled her fingers. "You've never been a proficient sinner. That," she said with a grin, "was