Demon Marked

didn’t know the demon’s name but she would hunt him through the bowels of Hell, rip him apart with her teeth. And Lucifer, Lucifer . . . oh, death would not be enough. She would see him destroyed, beaten, crawling until he begged for mercy.
    They had to be close to stopping. Nicholas couldn’t have much blood left, and if they drained it all, he would die. Lucifer still hadn’t gotten results. Just a few flares of Nicholas’s Gift, bursts of power that carried his emotions with them—pain, fear. So much fear, it sank into her mind, made her scream and scream.
    Music to their ears, no doubt.
    Finally, Lucifer stepped away. The demon cowered again—fearing that he’d be punished for the failure?—but the demon lord only turned to Ash. He towered over her even though she hung above the floor, forcing her to look up at him, allowing Lucifer to look down at her. Trembling, Ash stifled the impulse to stare defiantly into his eyes, as if to say she wasn’t afraid.
    This wasn’t the time. She was afraid, and surviving—escaping with Nicholas—was more important than defiance.
    Lucifer’s terrifying gaze raked over her body, and he spoke.
    The demon translated, “He makes an offer, halfling. He will return your pathetic human memories of your parents, your childhood. He’ll return your life to you, if you will agree to kill the Guardian. Your life in exchange for the Guardian’s, and then he will let you go.”
    Not at the price of Nicholas’s life. Never at that price.
    For a moment, however, she let herself consider the rest. Rachel’s parents, and their love for her. Oh, how she wanted to remember that. To have all of those missing pieces, filled in. But those weren’t her memories; they were Rachel’s. And if Rachel’s past returned, so would she. Ash would be lost, ripped away on an incoming flood of memories.
    Ash didn’t need her life returned to her; she had one. And she recognized the irony that, when Lucifer had been creating her from Rachel’s remains, he’d torn away the one thing that might have made her stop and reconsider, the one thing that could have left her uncertain as to whether she should sacrifice her life to save Rachel’s: guilt. She was sorry for Rachel, but Ash refused to die to bring her back, and couldn’t feel sorry for that.
    In any case, Ash didn’t believe for a moment that Rachel would make it out of here alive—or manage to save Nicholas. Whatever the reason behind Lucifer’s offer, it wasn’t to let her go. His offer had to be part of a plot.
    After all, Nicholas hadn’t been wrong about all demons. He’d just been wrong about her.
    “No,” she said.
    Terrible silence reigned for a long moment. Finally, Lucifer spoke and left.
    That was it? No gutting, no screaming? Ash couldn’t believe that Nicholas’s pain had been enough. So why not do the same to her?
    The demon waited until the door shut, and his cower became a gleeful grimace. “I’m to sew up the Guardian and wait for him to heal,” the demon said to her. “Then we start all over again. I am truly favored.”
    Ash bit her tongue. She’d seen the demon’s reaction when Nicholas had spoken of Lucifer. She wouldn’t give him any excuse.
    His eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer, examining her face. “We are not to spill your blood in this realm. Not even a drop. Do you know why? If your answer gives me power, I can reward you.”
    So that was why she wasn’t being gutted. But she would not foul her mouth by answering him.
    The demon shrugged. A roll of wire appeared in his hands—thin barbed wire. “So I’ll sew him up, then.”
    God. And Nicholas was still conscious. He couldn’t always hold her gaze; he was still awake. His jaw clenched now as the demon moved in front of him. Pain.
    She had to get free. She had to get free now, while the demon’s back was turned, while he worked. This might be their only opportunity.
    The chain was fastened to the ceiling with some kind of big bolt. She wasn’t sure she could break either, not just by swinging or moving. She’d have to brace herself, use her full strength—her feet against the wall, maybe. She couldn’t swing that far. Pull herself up the chain, then, brace her feet on the ceiling—except the manacles held her hands too far apart. She couldn’t grasp the chain between them. She already knew the steel wouldn’t break.
    . . . but her hand would.
    God. Like a wolf chewing off his leg to get out of a trap? She would do it, she