Demon Moon

“I saved your life.”
    Her heart pounded and she weighed and calculated, asked herself a million questions before deciding it was one regret she didn’t want to own.
    He sighed. “You think too—”
    Her mouth covered his, and she swallowed the stupid words he’d been preparing to say. No one could think too much. But they could feel too much, and that frightened her more than he ever could.
    But she didn’t want to think now. Not when he no longer tasted like mint, but tea and tamarind—why tamarind? From her mouth, during their earlier kiss? God, and he wouldn’t even know how she lingered on his tongue.
    His hands settled at the sides of her waist. Somehow he managed to keep his fangs from cutting her lips—though with the greedy abandon with which she fed from his mouth, she wouldn’t have been surprised had she paid in blood. And if she had, she’d no doubt he’d have given her back a taste of heaven.
    But she’d had that before, and couldn’t risk losing it again.
    She turned her head away, pulled free of his arms. Her chest ached, and for a moment she thought she’d never breathe again. But she focused and forced the air into her lungs—and the urge to flee faded.
    He’d only chase her; that’s what a hunter did.
    She opened the door, dared a final glance at him. He stood watching her, his hands tucked in his pockets and a broad smile on his lips that seemed out of proportion to a kiss.
    And she should have known better, but she had to ask. “What is it?”
    “You’ll think me an ass, my sweet Savitri, but I wish Castleford had come to rescue you. I’d have triumphed, seeing his countenance when his little sister kissed me as if her life depended on it.” Her mouth dropped open, but before she could respond, his humor vanished and he said, “But not as much as I do, knowing that you’re falling in love with me.”



CHAPTER 12

    Demons and Guardians have the ability to shape-shift into any human form; a hellhound can shape-shift into any canine form. The bats and the wolves are all wishful thinking, popularized by vampires and a few misinformed humans .
    —Savi to Taylor, 2007

    Since when did a custom Bentley take a year to produce? It was ridiculous to wait so long; but as much as he hated to sacrifice style for speed, Colin found himself buying a new Jaguar straight off the lot. Then, too exhausted to haggle over the price—and too conscious of the early morning sun streaming through the dealership’s floor-to-ceiling windows—he allowed the pretentious sales manager to ream his pocketbook.
    But felt marginally better when, after receiving the keys, paperwork, and a pint of blood, he left the sod quivering on the floor behind his desk in the throes of a powerful orgasm. Nothing reminded a man of his price—or his place—as much as coming in his pants, be they thrift store cast-offs or the salesman’s four-hundred-dollar Dolce & Gabbana trousers.
    Savi had been right in that.
    Colin paused to rip off the side and rearview mirrors; a body shop could clean up the mess later. He tore out of the car lot just as the assistant-to-the-sod’s startled laughter pealed out, loud enough for Colin to hear her through those damnable huge windows and the steel-and-fiberglass shell of his nicely endowed XK.
    Rage Against the Machine fit his mood and would keep him awake; he slipped in the CD from the pile he’d transferred from the wreck of the older car, and let it screech through him until he reached Hunter’s Point.
    Three blocks away from the warehouse, a motorcycle cut in front of him, the rider’s long black hair streaming behind her. Leather jeans and jacket. Lilith. Colin’s lips pulled back in a grin. She couldn’t have known it was him in this car, but within a second she’d find out.
    He shifted, and shot around her. The visor on her helmet was up, and he saw the brief widening of her eyes before she slapped it down and rocketed ahead.
    God, he loved a good race. And the car cornered brilliantly; he didn’t have to decelerate as much as she did around a turn. The engine roared as he downshifted and careened into the parking lot. He spun the wheel and slid boot-first into his parking space a second ahead of her.
    Laughing and bracing himself against the sun, he got out, then reflexively caught the helmet she pitched at his head.
    “You’re a terrible sport, Agent Milton.” He tossed it back to her, then shaded his stinging eyes with his left hand.
    She snarled