Demon Marked

doorstep. But if Madelyn got to the Boyles first, Nicholas had no doubt that she’d have taken Rachel’s mother’s place. Within a few days, after the investigation died down, she’d probably have begun waiting at the house, planning to lure Ash in like a witch from a fairy tale.
    For what purpose?
    That didn’t matter. Whatever Madelyn wanted from Ash, he’d see that she didn’t get it.
    Of course, it was damn hard to make certain of that when he was stuck in a hotel lobby, and Ash waited a few miles away. Did he risk going?
    If he didn’t, and Madelyn found Ash, he might lose his only chance to learn where his mother’s body lay, and to slay the demon bitch who’d killed her, Rachel, and now Rachel’s parents. But if he was with Ash, Madelyn would come to him.
    And he knew exactly the place to wait for her—where the Guardians wouldn’t find them, but Madelyn eventually would. When she did, he’d have his revenge, and Ash . . .
    Ash. God. All right. She’d gotten to him. And though he’d planned to slay her after her usefulness ended and she led him to Madelyn, he wouldn’t now. He couldn’t now. He’d tell her what the Guardians looked for when they searched for demons so that she could avoid them, and then he’d let her go.
    So what would he rather risk: staying away from Ash and possibly losing an opportunity to find Madelyn, or having the Guardians follow him to the bed-and-breakfast?
    The answer came easily. Nicholas returned to his room, collected his computer and his keys, and left everything else. Hell, he should have done this earlier—this wasn’t much of a risk at all. Even if the Guardians followed him, he’d get to Ash first. He’d protect her. As a human, the most powerful being in a room of Guardians and demons, he had no doubt that he could protect her.
    And she was just too damn useful to lose now.

CHAPTER 9

    Ash couldn’t remember staying at a bed-and-breakfast before, but this one didn’t fit the mental image she had of them. Instead of small, cozy rooms filled with overstuffed furniture and quilts, everything in their suite appeared spare and elegant. Just as well. Better not to have rooms that seemed to invite her to hide beneath the blankets, or curl up in a ball and eat a tub of ice cream. The Victorian restraint, the straight-backed wooden chairs, served as a guide for Ash. She, too, remained stiff and composed.
    She’d thought the grief and fear would have faded by now. They hadn’t. And she’d forgotten—or maybe she’d never known—how much effort it took to constrain them. By the time afternoon had come and gone, and Nicholas still hadn’t returned with any information, that effort had crept into a souldeep exhaustion. Never before had she wished that sleep would come to her; she wished it now, if only to make the time pass more quickly. If only so that she wouldn’t feel this emptiness—an emptiness that, for the first time that she could remember, seemed hollow.
    She wished Nicholas were here. Not only so that he could confirm the news Ash feared she already knew, but so that he would be here with her when she learned for certain. He made her happy. He also irritated and frustrated her, but any of those emotions had to be better than this unending dread.
    Where was he?
    Night fell. The innkeeper’s wife knocked on the door and invited Ash down to dinner. Roasted chicken and garlic mashed potatoes, by the scent of it. She could taste the woman’s sweet concern, and the piquant bite of her pity. Though she was tempted to join them downstairs for no other reason than to ask whether they had a newspaper from that morning, or even a computer and an Internet connection that she could use, Ash had to plead a headache and decline without opening the door.
    Her eyes wouldn’t stop glowing.
    In the red wash of light, she studied the picture of Rachel and her parents over and over again, searching for a simple emotional association, any hint of familiarity. A little girl’s tiara could remind her of Cinderella and send Ash on a search through her memories, but there were no similar connections to find here. Nothing in the Boyles’ shirts, their smiles, the sparkle of the mother’s wedding ring. Yet seeing their blood had torn her apart. Why?
    She found no answers in the photo. Perhaps the answers were coming, however, as was the familiar sound of the engine that she’d listened to for a thousand miles. Nicholas. Unable to see the road from her room, she