Demon Marked

solved the problem by inviting another man to their bed.”
    Oh, this metaphor was suddenly heading somewhere that Taylor definitely didn’t want to go. Having Michael in her head was enough to become accustomed to, and she’d carefully not thought much about sex while he was in there. Mostly so that he wouldn’t know that he figured prominently in those thoughts, but letting him see her imagining another man seemed just as bad.
    “I don’t think there’s a good ‘another man’ that works as a comparison.” The problem didn’t come from Michael or any other Guardian. “The humans just need to stop shooting blanks.”
    Rosalia’s soft laugh didn’t echo in the courtyard. Strange, but Taylor’s did.
    And even more strange, when her laughter faded and Rosalia had gone, she glanced back at Michael’s temple again . . . and the hairline cracks in the marble had vanished.
    She just hoped to God that if her laugh had sealed them, that it had helped Michael a little, too.
     
    On the plane, Ash waited until Nicholas occupied himself with his computer before looking through the few items he’d had of Rachel’s. When they’d stopped outside his hotel, she’d waited in the car while he’d retrieved Rachel’s passport and his luggage—and he’d brought down another small packet with them. He’d claimed the things had been in Rachel’s overnight case along with her identification, but Ash could have deduced that for herself. The packet contained a flat hairbrush, a toothbrush, a red silk dress, and strappy sandals. Tucked beneath the clothing lay a set of lacy lingerie, red and revealing . . . exactly the kind a woman might take on a special weekend away with a lover.
    They meant nothing special to Ash. The items weren’t even familiar. Rachel had obviously loved the shoes; the soles were scuffed, as if she’d worn them often. But although Ash liked the style, she had no urge to wear them or the dress. Had Rachel been nervous while she’d been packing for her weekend, or had she been excited? Had she wavered over what to wear, how many outfits to take? Ash didn’t know. She’d hoped to sense some connection to Rachel’s things, but she felt nothing, even though Rachel had surely chosen these items for a reason.
    Whatever her reasons, they’d been lost when she’d died six years ago.
    Six years. Ash examined the items again, no longer looking for a connection but simply looking . Only a few wrinkles marred the smooth silk. No dust had collected on the hairbrush or the sandal straps. Instead of musty, the dress smelled faintly of dry cleaning.
    These things hadn’t been sitting in an overnight bag for six years. Nicholas had kept them and cared for them. Why?
    She let the dress fall into her lap and looked up. Nicholas sat in the seat across from her, booking a hotel near Rachel’s parents’ home, finalizing their travel arrangements, or simply working—she wasn’t certain. Ash hadn’t paid much attention to him since he’d lowered his crossbow. He might be able to help her, but right now he had no idea who Ash was, so she had little use for him.
    Little use for him except for his bank account. Now that she had identification, Ash could have eventually made her way to America, but his ability to place one phone call and charter a flight made the process much simpler. She appreciated that.
    Ash also appreciated that he’d given her Rachel’s things. He hadn’t liked giving them up, however. He’d tossed the packet to her with an abrupt order to “see if these improve your memory.”
    She knew he traveled often. What were the chances that he just happened to keep Rachel’s clothes in a hotel room in London? No, he must bring them along wherever he went.
    Had he cared for Rachel so much that he couldn’t let these items go? Were they simply a daily reminder of his reasons to pursue Madelyn, or a statement of his guilt?
    Guilt, Ash guessed. Kept alive by a dress and underwear—and a weekend getaway that Rachel never got to have.
    She supposed some people were driven by less.
    Did it bother him that a demon touched Rachel’s things now? Trying to determine his mood by studying his features proved a futile exercise. Was he aware of her scrutiny, or did he simply sit stone-faced all the time?
    Ash waited for a crack in his expression, but it didn’t come. And she’d never tried to sense someone’s emotions before, but that proved futile, too. The door he’d erected still blocked