Demon Night (41 page)

She swallowed, trying to think of any reason for his response. “Although I guess that would make me like Henderson, and you like Sammael.”

He blinked in surprise. “I reckon it would.”

It must not have been that, then. She might as well be blunt. “Are you moaning, Drifter?”

“Maybe.” His jaw clenched again, but his frustration seemed to shift, encompassing the others in the room. “Maybe when we're in a private moment, we'll discuss why it is that whenever I talk about providing, you look away from me.”

She did? Her throat suddenly ached; she wanted to look away
now
. But she wouldn't allow herself to avoid his gaze. “I didn't realize,” she said quietly.

His eyes narrowed. “You only didn't realize that you were giving yourself away, Charlie. You know damn well that you squirm every time I say I'll give you anything you need.”

She tried not to fidget. Tried to hold herself still. But something seemed to be rupturing in her, tearing and hurting as it opened. Something needy and desperate that wanted to dig its claws into him and beg and plead. Something that wasn't strong, but dependent and revolting. Her fingers curled around paper, and she clung to it.

Clung and backed away from the bar. “I'm going back to the office to finish reading these,” she said hoarsely. “And I'm going to put the spell up.”

He shook his head; a hat appeared in his hand, and he got to his feet. “That ain't necessary, Miss Charlie,” he said in a soft, hollow voice. “I'll return at closing.”

No.
If she could have screamed, she might have as she watched him walk through the lounge. His name, or simply “Please.” But it might not stop there, and become more.
Please don't leave. Please don't give up on me so easily.

Please need me.

 

Her fingers didn't stop shaking while he was gone. Even after she heard the footsteps on the roof and realized that he hadn't gone far, the papers fluttered wildly as she turned them, and she rattled bottles against rims with every pour.

Why couldn't she be content with what he'd already given her? How many times had she reminded herself that more might come—that his emotions might deepen? She couldn't know unless she waited. But everything in her was grasping and pulling and she wasn't sure she could contain it.

Had she ever wanted anything so much? Needed it so much?

And he'd give her anything she asked for—but she couldn't ask for this. Asking meant that she'd never know if it was his need, or just his need to provide her with what she wanted. Just as his blood, if it didn't have life flowing through it, would taste the same as hers; she'd never know the difference.

She craved
his
need,
his
love.

But even as she slowly accepted that this particular need wouldn't go away, her nerves wouldn't settle. She read through several e-mails without seeing the words, had to go through them again.

And read them yet again, before she realized what had caught Ethan's interest; Charlie had been searching for references to Jane. But it was the description of a demon's form that Mark had written as evidence that he “knew” the truth: crimson skin and black feathered wings.

“Drifter,” she said softly. He'd listen for his name. “You think he's seen the nephilim?”

She heard him faintly over the distance and music. “Yes. Mostly, I'm wondering under what circumstances—and if he saw one here, or in D.C.”

Trying not to imagine the Seattle community wiped out like D.C.'s had been, she simply said, “Oh,” then took a deep breath. “I didn't mean to make you moan.”

There was a sigh in his reply. “I know, Charlie. But we'd best wait to discuss it. Right now, I'm feeling like pushing—but I ain't so eager to see you running.”

She wouldn't run. But even as she began to make the promise, she saw the careful non-interest of the vampires in the lounge.

“Everyone's listening anyway,” she said, and watched several of them startle and blush.

Ethan's deep laugh carried better than his voice, and some of her shaking eased. “That was just mean.”

Whatever it was, acknowledging the eavesdroppers so explicitly seemed to break the reticence of a couple who had only sat and watched for several days. They joined her at the bar, and though Charlie's anxiety never quieted, the familiar roll of conversation made the weight of his absence easier to bear.

She was in the office and the lounge was empty when Ethan finally returned, his coat dark with rain. The one-way mirror didn't give her an advantage; she couldn't read his expression, and her stomach was still heavy as she prepared the night deposit, her feet dragging when she finished and pushed through the door to the lounge.

And she had no idea what to say, so she only said, “You're wet.”

Ethan's gaze was steady on hers. “It's coming down pretty hard, and I'm pretty fuzzed up,” he said quietly. “Maybe we'd best hold off on the visiting tonight and go on home.”

The heaviness lifted a little, and she didn't let guilt take its place. They wouldn't be out there looking for Jane—but neither she nor Ethan would be very useful going out like this, anyway.

She nodded and turned toward the employees' door again, listened to his footsteps as he followed her through the kitchen to the alley. Just inside the exit, she paused to slide on her coat. Ethan caught her hand, pulled her against him.

He circled her waist with his arm. His gaze lit on her hair, and he smiled slightly. His hat was damp and heavy; he covered her head with it, then slid his fingers along the flat brim, tipping it up so she could see him again. “You might need to hold on to it when we're in the air.”

She flattened her hand over the crown, and he swept her into the familiar cradle of his arms.

It was pouring, raindrops beating against the pavement, splashing and dancing like thousands of tiny sparkling fountains. Each one clear to her vision, each one separate and part of a glorious whole.

Her arm tightened around his neck. “Ethan,” she whispered, wonder swelling her throat. “Look at that.”

“It gets better, Miss Charlie.”

She glanced up as his wings unfolded and cut a swath through the silver curtain of falling rain. Her breath caught. For an instant, the diamond drops clung to his feathers before their downward sweep flung them in glittering arcs.

“Oh, my God,” she laughed, and met his eyes. A line formed between his brows, and she smoothed it away with her thumb. “You couldn't see it,” she said. “But you were amazing.”

He stared at her before clearing his throat, but his voice still sounded rough to her ears. “I aim to please.”

“You do.” She laid her cheek against his shoulder and held on to the hat as he launched them into the air. It was always with speed, straight and high; but once he gained enough altitude, he usually slowed his flight. This time, he hovered.

“Now look at this,” he said quietly. “It only lasts as long as it's raining this hard.”

She turned in his arms, and suddenly couldn't breathe. The city was blanketed in shimmering silver, with colors shooting through like the facets of a jewel: the garnets and emeralds of traffic signals, the diamond-bright streetlights, the soft topaz from square-cut windows.

But even as she watched, the downpour eased. Ethan sighed and leveled out, heading east. His hair was plastered against his head; they were both soaked to the skin, her clothes uncomfortable and clinging, her coat sodden. She'd only worn it to keep off the rain, but now it was just an extra weight.

“Will you take this?” She tugged at her collar, and her fingertips met when the drenched fabric between them vanished. The lake slid by below them, dark and flat. She lifted her gaze to Ethan's face, but he was looking down.

She recognized his expression. Hunger, arousal. It pulled at her own, and his lids lowered as if he felt it.

No, she realized. He'd seen it beneath the thin, pale pink cotton of her wet shirt. Her nipples had tightened under that intense focus—and now she was thinking of his hands, his lips.

“Son of a bitch,” he said on a soft growl. His mouth closed over her breast with shocking heat. She arched toward him, and her stomach dropped as they swooped.

He immediately straightened out their flight, but didn't halt the movement of his tongue, his teeth. Her fingers clenched on his shoulder, his hat. Her head fell back, the rain misting over her face, her eyes, and the lights at the shore wavering as they flew in closer. She could see the house, and she knew they wouldn't get inside, but it would be hard and slick in the rain, on the deck, where even now a light was flashing in quick bursts…

She blinked. “Ethan?” And then gasped as he went rigid, his teeth digging painfully into her flesh before he ripped his mouth away. She scented blood—but not hers. Feathers exploded in all directions.

The arch of his left wing collapsed.

The world tilted as they flipped, dropped through the air. Ethan was swearing, adjusting her position until she was full-length against him and he was holding her tight with his legs. She wrapped her arms around his waist so he could use both hands to fire his guns; each shot flared bright, the sound muffled by the silencer and the racing of his heart against her ear.

And his voice. “We're going to land hard, Charlie, and it ain't going to be water. Fast as you can, you get in the house and put up the spell.”

A pistol appeared in her hand; after a week of training, it was comfortable. “Okay.”

She didn't know if he heard it; he was twisting again, until she was on top of him, the ground rushing up at a terrible speed. Items were spilling onto it. Pillows, blankets, clothes. The mattress from her bed. Everything soft from his cache, she realized almost hysterically.

He met her eyes. “You hit mean and low.”

She nodded and tried to hold his gaze but he forced her head down against his chest, turning her on her side and pulling her knees up, her gun clutched against her belly.

She didn't hear them land, only the tearing and breaking from deep inside him. Pain ripped through her in a sharp, blinding wave, digging into her shoulder, her hip, her right ankle. She couldn't turn her head for an endless moment, couldn't move, couldn't see.

Ethan wasn't moving, either. She whispered his name, and was surprised that her voice worked at all.

The urge to run filled her like the rising tumult of a fiddle.

She must have been already crying, because the sob that tore from her was only louder than the others. He'd projected that urgency; there was too much broken within him to speak. His heartbeat was too slow, sounded too wet.

“I'm going,” she assured him, though she wasn't certain she could get up. But she'd promised, and now footsteps were approaching over wooden stairs, then over gravel.

She lifted her head, looked down at Ethan, and everything inside her stilled.

His wings had crumpled. Something was wrong with the shape of his head, and blood soaked the mattress beneath his body, as if he'd split open.

“Charlotte,” a familiar voice said.

Sammael. And he was close.

Ethan couldn't defend himself like this.

Hit mean and low.

She crouched over Ethan's quiet form. Her right shoulder hurt too much; she palmed the gun in her left hand and slid the barrel under her bent right knee, hiding it between her thigh and upper calf. And she let her sobs tear free again, asking for Jane, she needed Jane, would do anything to see Jane.

“I truly hope so, Charlotte,” Sammael said. From the corner of her vision, she saw his shoes appear on the ground beside the pile of fabric and the mattress. She turned her head and met his eyes when he sank to his heels. “Because I plan to ask a lot in return for sparing him.”

She fired, felt the flash of heat through her pants at the same instant the small hole appeared in his black shirt. Another, and this time she heard a sizzle of the barrel against wet cotton.

Sammael fell back, his eyes wide with shock, flaring crimson.

Ethan's wings vanished under her feet. She didn't dare take her eyes from Sammael.

“Go, Charlie.” Ethan's command was barely audible, and he wasn't getting up.

She only needed another shot, just to give him time to heal. One to the head. She adjusted her aim, watched the furrow plow through Sammael's cheek.

He slapped his hand against the wound, his eyes narrowing.

She leapt to the side, but her ankle didn't hold her weight. Sammael's wings formed and snapped around. Her leg went numb as the talons at the tips razed the length of her thigh. He'd knocked the gun from her an instant later, had his arm around her throat.

“Charlotte,” Sammael crooned in her ear. “I'm disappointed.”