Demon Angel by Meljean Brook

on the first riser; darkness filled the stairwell. Below, the faint glow of the torch lit the flight from the lower floors. It flickered against the curving stone near his feet, but didn't penetrate the shadows above.
    The air was laden with a thick, acrid odor, the heavy scent of a flame recently snuffed.
    He pulled his eating knife from his belt and briefly wished for his sword—but perhaps it was better this way. If someone should come upon him, he could more easily hide his dagger than sheathe a larger weapon.
    His back pressed to the cold stone, he presented as small a target as possible. The newel stairs had been designed with defense in mind, spiraling so that the person ascending, with a weapon in his right hand, would leave his body open to attack. No need to fear attack , he reminded himself; though he'd not seen Michael since that night on the wall walk, he'd reviewed the conversation in his mind countless times, and had accepted the Guardian's declaration that humans could not be harmed by demons. For if it were not true, wouldn't they have destroyed mankind, and murdered every last man, woman, and child?
    True or not, he took the stairs with care, and his need for caution seemed verified when he reached the torch; the head was still hot under his questing fingers.
    He lurched up the next step, into cobwebs that tickled his cheeks and nose. He brushed them away impatiently; Lilith was expecting him, or she wouldn't have extinguished—
    His heart caught, skipped.
    For as long as he'd been in the castle—as a young page, carrying items up and down these stairs—the passageways had been kept scrupulously clean.
    Not cobwebs. Hair. Automatically, he glanced upward and felt the strands sliding over his face again. He grabbed them, gave a sharp tug.
    His pull met resistance, and a brief hiss of pain was followed by a scrambling noise, like claws against stone.
    Lilith's voice came from the darkness above him. "You think to take that sticker to my flesh and devour me?"
    Though unnerved to realize she could see his knife when he might as well have been blind, he shook his head and blithely raised the blade. "I think to take a trophy."
    The edge sliced through the strands held taut between them. Released from the strain, the cut ends curled soft in his palm, and he wondered at his daring. Why did he bait her when he knew what she was?
    "Is it not the custom to take a trophy after the opponent is defeated? Are you so confident that, because a kiss was easily attained, my heart will be easily opened as well?"
    He felt her amusement, imagined the white flash of her grin. Hefting his knife, he said softly, " 'Tis long enough to open any heart."
    "No man lives who does not think his blade long enough."
    He smiled despite himself. Tucking the dagger and the hair into his belt, he tried to gauge her position by the sound of her voice, the angle of the hair he'd cut. Did she lay on the upper curve of the stair, leaning over? "Why are you here, when the rest of the castle revels in music and acrobatics?"
    "I left a kerchief half-embroidered in the bower, and I must finish my work." She did not disguise her mockery. "I could ask the same of you, but I know your answer."
    "And what would it be?"
    The unexpected touch of her finger against his lips made him draw a sharp breath. He reached for her hand but could not find it, and lowered his arms to his sides rather than flail about in the dark.
    "You desire my companionship," she said lightly. "For I have been required by Lady Isabel to embroider and sew and gossip the last sennight, and you've had no one with whom you can speak. Aye, for Sir Georges has absented himself, has he not? And everyone else looks at you askance—as if tales and rumors had been spread, naming you mad." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I have heard you spoke to Father Geoffrey about a demon in our midst."
    Could she see the flush that rose over his neck? He had visited the priest, confessed what he'd seen;