Demon Marked

time she opened up to Michael—or he did to her. A strange combination of warmth, freedom, and impending disaster.
    “I did,” he confirmed. “And drowned for my troubles.”
    “Who was she?”
    Or he , maybe. Hell, given that they could all shape-shift, it was possible that Revoire hadn’t started out as a “he,” either.
    Taylor had tried it a few times. Enough to know that she didn’t like the dangly bits.
    Revoire gave her a little half-smile. He really should do that more often. Especially to the one who got away. “You’ve got a more important mystery to solve right now, Detective.”
    “So we do.” Her hand tightened on his. “Hold on, Icarus. It’s a bumpy ride.”

    Despite the two showers he’d taken since they’d arrived in Duluth and checked into the lakefront hotel, Nicholas St. Croix didn’t get naked in front of Ash as often as she would have guessed.
    The lodging itself proved to be exactly what she’d expected. The corner suite overlooked Lake Superior and offered an unobstructed view of the canal’s aerial lift bridge, brilliantly lighted against the clouded night sky. Inside the rooms, yards of white upholstery and bedding rejected any suggestion that any previous guests sins’ needed to be concealed with beige or paisley fabric. Ash’s nose told her differently, however. Evidence of the former occupants’ activities lingered beneath the harsh scent of bleach, and warned her not to sit on the bed, the love seat facing the flat-screen television, the two chairs at the small table, or a large portion of the carpet beneath the eastern window—at least not until she made certain that nothing flaky or crunchy remained stuck to the fibers.
    She didn’t warn Nicholas. What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, and the information might be useful later, anyway. When she told him, he might take another shower . . . and he might forget to bring his clothes into the bathroom and strip off in the bedroom, instead. No door separated the living space from the sleeping area, but the angle of the rooms and a short wall offered privacy. Someone in the main room would have to make an effort to see another person undressing near the bed.
    If it meant seeing Nicholas naked, Ash would make that effort.
    So, her first plot against him consisted of warnings about dried bodily fluids. He’d probably consider it small potatoes. Ash was pleased, however. Stripping off in front of her wouldn’t destroy Nicholas’s soul, but the plan might offer her a better glimpse of it.
    As it stood, his reluctance didn’t make sense, just as learning that he saw a therapist initially hadn’t fit her impression of him. Arrogant as he was, she thought he’d also have a blatant disregard for modesty. He’d do as he pleased and not care whether she saw him.
    Yet he’d undressed behind a door . . . just as he hid his emotions behind a shield of another sort. But what would his nakedness reveal?
    Maybe he simply knew that she wanted to see him and chose to deny her. Ash didn’t think so, though. Nicholas St. Croix had reasons for everything he did, and so far, Ash hadn’t seen any evidence that his reasons were so petty.
    So it was something else. Perhaps he hid something from her. If so, he must believe that revealing it would give Ash an advantage over him.
    Fascinating. She couldn’t imagine what that advantage could be, but she wanted to find out. Until then, Ash worked with what she had, and even a clothed Nicholas revealed himself in many ways.
    In Madelyn’s town house, she’d recognized that an obsession enslaved him after a single look at his bare chest, yet Ash hadn’t realized the effort Nicholas put into it until she’d followed him down to the hotel’s workout room just after midnight. Too icy to jog outside, he’d fired up the treadmill, instead. For an hour, Ash watched him run to nowhere, admiring his stamina.
    She also discovered that she could easily heft a fully loaded bench press bar. She amused herself on each of the lifting machines after that, setting them to their highest weight and testing her strength.
    The gym didn’t possess any weight heavy enough to truly test her, but she found that her pinky finger could lift several hundred pounds. If her toes had been longer, she’d have tested them, too.
    Then Nicholas had abandoned the treadmill, drenched in sweat and his chest heaving. Water bottle in hand, he prowled the length of the room, cooling down. After a few minutes,