Demon Marked (16 page)

Revoire's wings vanished. His quick grin washed away the impression of care and concern that usually hung over him. Oh, he should do that more often.

“Good,” he said. “I hate flying.”

Considering that most of the Guardians she teleported with ended up dizzy and dry-heaving at the end of the trip, he might choose flying next time.

“You hate it because of the Icarus thing?”

He gave a short, surprised laugh, shaking his head. “No. That name came from where I did: an Icarian colony, in the 1850s. We'd just come up from New Orleans and settled in this area when I died.”

“Oh.” A commune. No wonder he looked like a farmer. “I thought you were French.”

“Most of the Icarians were. I emigrated as a boy—and when I became a Guardian, they called me the Icarian. That eventually became Icarus, though the colony had no connection to the myth aside from the name of an island.”

“And so you didn't have a freak flying accident as a novice.”

“I had a few. Mostly, I just hate flying because it's so conspicuous. I like being up there. I don't enjoy feeling like a spectacle.” He took her hand, and all of those cares and worries returned to his face, but this time she could feel the bittersweet ache behind them. “The name fits well enough now, anyway.”

“You flew too close to the sun?”

She knew that feeling, every 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, he'd straddled one of the weight benches.

Ash hadn't been able to interpret the look Nicholas had given her when he'd removed the pin and selected a lighter weight than she'd been using, but she thought he was—once again—struggling not to laugh.

He wasn't threatened by her strength as she knew some men would have been, and not chagrined . . . just amused. But why hide that amusement?

Several times on the journey, she'd also noticed that he'd struggled against an attraction to her—but that made sense. She looked like his dead girlfriend, and he wouldn't want to feel anything sexual for a demon. Why not laugh, though? Ash couldn't understand that.

She took his place on the treadmill and pondered it while she ran. After another hour of that—in her boots, without a drop of sweat forming, and even though she'd set the machine to the highest speed, she wasn't winded—Ash still hadn't figured it out. And although Nicholas headed directly into the shower after they'd finished, he closed the door again.

At least now she knew how he'd developed every muscle that he hid from her.

She learned even more when he emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed in a tailored white shirt and dark trousers, wet hair neatly combed, jaw shaved. So formal, as if he wouldn't let his guard slip for a moment, not even at two o'clock in the morning. He'd ordered room service before the kitchens closed at midnight, and before heading to the gym—two broiled chicken breasts and a pile of steamed vegetables, now cold and limp—and read the
Wall Street Journal
while he ate. Standing by the window overlooking the lake, Ash watched his reflection as he paused over an article that mentioned his company. He reached for his phone, and she saw his frustration in the subtle firming of his mouth when he realized that making the call would possibly alert the Guardians.

No, she didn't need to see him naked. In a few short hours, his obsession had been laid bare to her. Everything he did was calculated to serve his purpose, down to each unappetizing bite of food he put in his mouth. She saw everything that mattered to him: making certain that he possessed enough money to pay for his revenge, and maintaining the physicality to carry it through.

Revenge wasn't just his obsession, she realized. It was his
life
.

Now Ash was a part of that life, that revenge . . . and she was glad of it.
Glad.
She could feel that emotion as clearly as she felt the window glass against her fingertips.

Something inside her had changed during the journey here. Everything she saw seemed so familiar now: the highway, the streets and buildings, even this nighttime view of the bridge—as if she'd visited this city many times. She could
almost
remember the summer wind from the lake hitting her face, the scent of barbecue and popcorn, the spray of fireworks against the sky.

Tomorrow, they'd travel north to Rachel's hometown. Ash could picture that road, too . . . but she couldn't picture the faces of Rachel's parents. She couldn't hear their voices in her head. She couldn't recall any of that—but maybe when she saw them, when she heard them, they'd be familiar.

God.
She wanted to haul Nicholas away from the table, drag him out to their vehicle, and drive north now. The anticipation that had been building with each mile had transformed into a quivering excitement and impatience—and though she expected those emotions to fade, they only deepened.

None of her emotions faded as quickly anymore. Nor were they as shallow as they had been—as if every familiar sight and every association she made created a stronger foundation for those emotions, even though she still had no memories to base them on. She felt so much more now than she had even twenty-four hours ago. Excitement, amusement . . . arousal.

She glanced at Nicholas again. When they'd arrived, she hadn't only expected to see him naked; she'd have
liked
it, too. Perhaps appreciation for a beautiful form accounted for part of that enjoyment, but she also liked the feelings that the thought of his nudity stirred in her. She relished the warmth that spread through her body, the ache of her flesh—sweet and painful, all at once.

Of course, she didn't need him naked for that, either. She had full memory of his mouth closing over hers, the penetrating stroke of his tongue. She could see the precision of his hands wielding his knife and fork, and knew he'd be just as deliberate with a touch. But what would she like best? A rough caress or a gentle tease?

Both,
she thought. Just imagining the glide of his fingers seemed to tighten her skin, as if in anticipation—and he didn't need to take his clothes off for her to feel
this
.

Perhaps she didn't even need to imagine Nicholas. Maybe it could be anybody.

Now that thought made her curious. Was her sexual interest a physical reaction or an emotion? How could she tell the difference?

Her gaze landed on the television remote. There was a fifteen-dollar answer. Watching a porn movie and cataloging her physical response might help her find out.

Or she could skip that. Imagining a pimply-assed plumber rutting over a plastic actress wasn't doing much for her now.

Nicholas did something for her, though, and Ash didn't think his looks alone accounted for it. She
liked
spending time with him. She liked his snarly responses when he forgot to maintain his icy composure—or when he
couldn't
maintain it. She liked that she couldn't anticipate his reactions. She even liked his obvious
dis
like for her, particularly when he couldn't stop himself from laughing, anyway.

She liked that he didn't pretend anything. Oh, he lied, but that fascinated her, because it meant he thought the truth might give her an advantage. And he held back information, which was irritating—but even that provided an intriguing challenge when it forced her to figure out
why
he lied or held back info.

But he was also different from the majority of the people she'd met, particularly those at Nightingale House. Rare was the adult human whose words and actions weren't at odds with what they felt—adults who would stare at her tattoos and pretend not to notice them, who would carry on a conversation while completely preoccupied by some other matter, who would express some emotion when she
knew
they felt another. Nicholas didn't do that. And although he hid his emotions from her, they weren't difficult to guess: hatred and distrust, because she was a demon.

He lied, yes. But at the same time, he offered her a different sort of honesty, one that she hadn't known she'd appreciate until she finally met someone who was both open and hidden from her, at the same time. She couldn't read him, but he didn't pretend to feel anything other than hatred and distrust.

Ash supposed she should have been hurt, or even offended. The soap opera ladies would have been.
I've never lied to you; why won't you trust me?
But she suspected that
liking
would have to become
caring
before Nicholas could hurt her. Hopefully, her emotions wouldn't develop that far—and if they did, she hoped that they also came with a survival instinct: not of the mortal kind, but an emotional one.