Demon Moon (52 page)

“That may be a solution, but we'll not do it today.”

“No,” she agreed. “Not today. Home?”

“Yes.” He could think of no other place he'd rather be with her.

“It is probably best that I do not teleport you,” Michael said. Though he looked a bit steadier now, his lips were taut with pain, his face stonier than typical.

The sod was the bloody
king
of understatement.

The taxi driver probably assumed Colin was sick or sleeping, but whatever concern it might have engendered didn't prevent him from remarking several times that he'd never experienced such a quiet rush hour. Savi just hoped that he wouldn't notice the symbols she'd scraped into the rear passenger door.

Colin's hands were firm on her hips, his head in her lap. The hooded jacket Michael had made protected him from the sun, except for his face.

But Savi thought he held her so close out of a much deeper need than avoiding a burn—and she clutched him as tightly, though she had little to fear now.

Death had been so near—and the danger hadn't come from Dalkiel, which they'd expected and prepared for, but something within them.

She glanced down at Colin's fingers. Was the shaking a delayed reaction, or the animal blood? Hard to say, when hers trembled, too; the henna seemed to shiver, barely anchored by the band of platinum.

The light glinted off his ring, and she slid her skirt up, used the cotton to cover his skin.

“Shameless hoyden,” he said, his voice muffled against her now-naked thigh. And he remained down there the rest of the slow trip, though the sun descended past the horizon. Twilight hung a violet backdrop against his house when the taxi dropped them off in the street. She punched in the code to the gate, then, grinning, challenged him to a race and darted through.

Did he let her win, or had he slowed so much?

She forced the question away; as soon as he stepped through the front door, tension stiffened his body. He inhaled, a long draw of breath.

“Dalkiel?” she whispered. The house had been locked, but not spelled. The demon could have come in at any time.

He nodded. Two swords were in his hands; apparently, he'd let her win. He'd retrieved them so quickly his movement had seemed a blur. “Two days old, perhaps. And three vampires—I don't recognize their physical odor.” He tilted his head, relaxed slightly. “No psychic presence.”

She glanced quickly around; Dalkiel hadn't destroyed anything. “Taking inventory of what he wants to claim?”

Colin smiled. “I'll accompany you to the basement, then I'll make certain the house is secure before I lock up with the symbols. Once you've gone in the room, ring Lilith. Ask her to send the pup over.”

“Okay.”

“Don't open it until I move Mary.”

The portrait in the theater. “I remember,” she said, and followed him down the stairs, her heart thudding. The vampires couldn't hide their psychic scent from him, but Dalkiel could. “Why don't you go in with me until Sir Pup gets here?”

“That,” he said as he crossed the theater, “is a splendid idea.”

Colin reached the door; it was half-open, but when he tried to walk through, he slammed into the empty air as if it were solid. He stumbled back.

Two scarlet eyes flared bright from the darkness within.

Oh, god
. They'd discovered how to use the symbols.

“Run, Savi—” Colin's ragged warning broke off as Dalkiel rushed through the door. Their swords clashed, sparking with the force of each blow; within a moment, Colin was at the other side of the room. Drawing the demon away from her, she realized. Or falling back.

Think, Savi. Get help; get weapons
. She turned, fumbling for her pendant as she began to run. But she wasn't as fast as a vampire.

And there were three of them.

This
was hell.

Colin sensed the presence of three vampires as they left the shielded room—hungry…starving. Heard Savi's quickly stifled scream, felt the burst of her psychic scent as her shields dropped. In pain.

Holding her arms, they dragged her into the security room. When the fragrance of her blood and the wet sucking sound of vampires glutting themselves tinged the air, it descended beyond hell.

And Dalkiel was
playing
with him.

The demon could have killed him. He effortlessly parried Colin's increasingly desperate thrusts. Dalkiel's sword had drawn blood from his arms, his chest, his face; each strike potentially debilitating, even fatal.

But he only made certain Colin didn't get to Savi.

Her scent was fading. Her heartbeat fluttered like a hummingbird's. Low blood pressure, from exsanguination.

Everything blurred. Sweat or tears or his own blood, dripping into his eyes. Even if he got to her, how could he save her? How could he—

Dalkiel fell back. Fear erupted from his mind, was quickly shielded. And for just an instant, the demon stopped toying with him.

Colin streaked past him. The vampires fed from Savi's still body; they'd no opportunity to defend themselves.

Had he more time, he'd have gutted each one slowly. Instead, his blade sliced through their necks; Savi's lifeblood splashed useless to the floor.

“What in Lucifer's name are you?” Dalkiel stood in the door, his sword dripping. “You did not appear on the monitors as you came in; we thought she came down the stairs alone. I'm pleased that she wasn't—though torturing her with your face would have been entertaining.”

Colin ignored him, kicked the bodies aside. He fell to his knees, gathered her up; she was limp in his arms. Her throat had been ravaged, her inner thigh. Her breath was thin, bubbling with each short draw.

“Stay,” he said, though he could barely manage that simple word.
Don't leave me here alone
.

She heard him; her body shook with the effort she made to speak. He hushed her, curling forward as hollow agony tore through his gut, and rocked soundlessly. He couldn't think; couldn't breathe.

He forced himself to do both. He sat up and his gaze fell to her throat—the chain of her pendant snagged on the torn skin. Her gadget; she wouldn't have forgotten it was there. But had she time to call for help? Had the Doyen been in any condition to teleport?

The signaler button had fallen behind her neck; her eyes opened when he reached for it.

Her brows arched infinitesimally, an unmistakable question.
What took you so long?

Good God. He couldn't live without her.

“You can save her if you transform her.” The glee in Dalkiel's voice made it a hiss. “Are you so certain your blood will destroy her?”

So this was the demon's game—not enough that she died, but that Colin had to have hope enough he could save her, only to see his blood kill her anyway.

But he'd nothing to lose; and what other choices had he? He brought his wrist to his mouth, severed the vein.

Michael appeared beside them, his sword in hand. A blood-stained bandage wrapped his bare torso. He glanced down at Savi; healing power knocked Colin forward.

Dalkiel turned and fled.

Savi shuddered, heaved. Her heart stopped for an endless moment before beating a rapid, impossible pace. He clenched his teeth and held on to her; tears itched over his cheeks. Michael had repaired flesh and skin, but he couldn't give her blood. And too much had been taken. There was no hope—no hope except—

“A Guardian,” he realized. She'd have to serve, but she'd
live
. “You must make her a Guardian.”

Michael lowered to his heels beside them. “I cannot.”

Her breath rattled to an end. A thin moan rose from Colin's chest. “The taint—”

“The Rules. She did not sacrifice herself for another,” Michael said softly. “You must try to transform her. With
their
blood, if not yours.” He gestured to the vampires lying dead around them, but his face was set with concentration as he stared down at Savi.

Colin stilled. Not these vampires. They weren't good enough.

“Colin—you must
hurry
.” The Doyen's voice was strained. “I can keep her brain cells oxygenated but a short time; if they die before she is transformed, they cannot be repaired.”

“No,” he said, resolution lending him strength, and he lifted her. “I'll not do it here. Can you teleport us together?”

Michael rose; his gaze never left Savi's face. “Yes.”

It didn't matter if he was wrong—Chaos couldn't be worse than failure. “I need a weapon,” Colin said.

The nosferatu had no chance. Colin fired the venom-filled dart into Ariphale's neck before it had time to react to their appearance in the detention cell.

The second dart hit its chest as it fell to the floor, paralyzed except for its mind. Its psychic scent burned with rage.

Nosferatu hated nothing so much as vampires; Ariphale would have likely rather died than be used to create one—particularly the human woman who'd humiliated him. A fitting punishment, if not preferable to execution.

And now Colin could only thank the stubborn Washington bureaucrats for delaying it. He shoved his knee into the nosferatu's throat to hold it down—he'd no idea how powerful the venom was, and Michael needed to attend to Savi—and glanced up.

She lay in the Doyen's arms. Colin couldn't hear her heartbeat.

His voice was hoarse. “Give her to me.”

Her slender frame felt heavy without life flowing through it. Awkwardly, he reached for the nosferatu's wrist; Michael lifted it to his questing fingers.

“Colin, you must prepare yourself if it does not work; the changes in her blood may interfere with the transformation.”

His only reply was to tear open the cold skin, to take in a mouthful of exquisite, dark liquid. An electric storm swept across his tongue—so incredibly strong.

Nosferatu blood had overcome his taint; it would overcome hers.

It quite simply had to.

Her lips were slack. He massaged her throat, forced her to swallow.

No
. Not force—she'd want this. She'd want immortality.

He didn't let himself consider that it couldn't include him. Surely contemplation of it now—when she still didn't move and her open eyes were devoid of curiosity—would push him beyond a threshold of agony, and there was only so much he could bear.

Another draw from the nosferatu's vein, given like a kiss past her lips.

Why didn't she respond? Less blood than this had allowed Colin to survive for a month, though his transformation had been incomplete.

Panic settled over him; he sealed her mouth with his and breathed, pushed the blood down with the strength of the exhalation. It didn't matter where it went, her lungs or stomach, as long as it went
in
.

Her lashes fluttered; she blinked. Beneath her rib cage, her heart thundered into life. Her startled gaze flew to his, but he silenced her questions by pressing Ariphale's arm to her lips.

She didn't hesitate; she drank quickly, and her psychic scent rose around them, unbelievably aromatic.

Sweet, fearless Savitri. She'd make the best sort of vampire.

Michael inhaled, his brow furrowing. He turned, and at his signal, the fledgling who'd stood guard outside the cell opened the door. “You and another to Alcatraz; a wyrmwolf may traverse the portal.”

Surprised, Colin glanced away from Savi. “Could you detect it before now—the fragrance when she lowered her shields?”

Michael frowned. “Her mind is open; that is how I knew she was not shielding. This odor is not psychic—it is the hellhound venom in the nosferatu's blood.”

His gut clenched. Oh, Christ; he'd not even considered that risk. “Has she taken enough?”

“Yes.”

Savi clung to the nosferatu's wrist when he tried to pull it away; her eyes had closed as she drank, but now they opened wide. Colin jerked back, his knee slipping from Ariphale's throat.

No longer velvety, chocolate brown, the whole of her eyes burned crimson with hellfire. Like a demon's.

Like a hellhound's.

Heat rolled in waves from her flesh.

A horrifying sound raced along her body: the deep splintering of bone, the wet tear of muscle. Her skin bulged as if a creature inside tried to leap out. Her fingers stretched and buckled, reformed into gnarled claws.

He hardly heard himself calling her name over the noise of it—couldn't hear anything at all over her screams.

Colin didn't feel the crash into Castleford's living room, only the sudden, disorienting teleportation that preceded it. Savi writhed on the floor; his arms were around her, but he dared not hold her securely for fear of hurting her.