burst into laughter, and she joined in after a moment. "Why are you not afraid of me? It is extraordinarily vexing."
He smiled broadly. "I was told you cannot do me harm."
"Michael." The name was followed by a hiss of displeasure. "And you believed him?"
Recognizing her question for what it was—an attempt to fuel uncertainty—he shrugged and said, "Difficult to refute the evidence I saw."
His casual tone held no indication of the doubts and thoughts that had plagued him over the week, the sickness that roiled within him as he'd forced himself to accept a different version of truth than he'd known. How easy it would have been to take Father Geoffrey's explanation, to call it a nightmare. How many times had he almost convinced himself that he'd heard incorrectly, that he'd experienced an hour of madness?
But he could not. He'd seen the demon—Lilith—and Michael's miraculous transformation into a thing of terrible beauty and power.
"Evidence? A figure in a night-filled courtyard?" She drew a sudden breath. "Your certainty is not because you saw me —he showed you what he was."
"Aye."
Her snort of laughter echoed through the passageway. "You trusted his appearance ?"
Sparks flew above his head. He ducked, belatedly realizing that she'd only scratched the stones with her fingernails. She did it again, and in the flash of light he saw her: a lithe, strong figure clinging to the spiraling stairs with her feet, her black hair trailing toward the floor. Another flash, and her wings spanned the width of the stairwell; horns smooth as polished jet curled from forehead to ears. Fangs gleamed over her lips.
Darkness again. He blinked away the spots that crawled behind his eyes, willed away his unease. "You have a mummer's dramatic flair. Perhaps the entertainers in the hall could apprentice you."
She laughed and struck the wall; the sparks landed on the resinous torchhead and caught. The tiny flames slowly climbed higher.
He turned back toward her and froze.
She stood on the stairs, though he'd not heard her movement. Her face was Lady Isabel's, as was the blond hair tumbling down her back. Naked skin appeared golden in the dim light. White, feathery wings waved behind her, stirring the air around them.
"I must concede that I understand your fascination with the lady," she said. "I like her myself. Though nothing surprising passes her lips, everything she says is charming. Packaged in such innocence, 'tis hard to resist, is it not?"
He swallowed hard, backed up onto the next riser. There was nothing angelic in her smile.
"Shall we bargain?"
To Lilith's surprise, he halted his retreat. The corners of his mouth quirked into a smile, but she could not read the emotion behind it. Whether amusement or self-deprecation, it did not please her. Could the man do nothing she predicted? He did not drive himself mad questioning what he'd seen, nor was he weakened by self-doubt and fear. He should have been fleeing—or falling prostrate, overcome with desire for the body she'd assumed.
She deliberately embodied his fantasy, his ideal. Chivalry and his code of honor should have repulsed him; his love for Isabel should have drawn him near. Yet he smiled and remained where he was.
Frustration fueled her next words. "Or shall I simply make you beg?"
"If I beg, it shall be of my own volition, not forced by a demon."
His smile widened, and she had no trouble deciphering his triumph; she pursed her lips and studied him, trying to maintain her annoyance. Michael must have told him that his free will would be honored.
That the Guardian had told Hugh anything at all settled uneasily in her chest; she'd thought Michael had been protecting Hugh, but if he'd revealed all, 'twas possible he considered the young knight a candidate for the transformation.
She shook herself. She should not care if Hugh sacrificed his life. A woman led by her heart could be called foolish; a demon who did the same courted Punishment.
But the tightness the
He smiled broadly. "I was told you cannot do me harm."
"Michael." The name was followed by a hiss of displeasure. "And you believed him?"
Recognizing her question for what it was—an attempt to fuel uncertainty—he shrugged and said, "Difficult to refute the evidence I saw."
His casual tone held no indication of the doubts and thoughts that had plagued him over the week, the sickness that roiled within him as he'd forced himself to accept a different version of truth than he'd known. How easy it would have been to take Father Geoffrey's explanation, to call it a nightmare. How many times had he almost convinced himself that he'd heard incorrectly, that he'd experienced an hour of madness?
But he could not. He'd seen the demon—Lilith—and Michael's miraculous transformation into a thing of terrible beauty and power.
"Evidence? A figure in a night-filled courtyard?" She drew a sudden breath. "Your certainty is not because you saw me —he showed you what he was."
"Aye."
Her snort of laughter echoed through the passageway. "You trusted his appearance ?"
Sparks flew above his head. He ducked, belatedly realizing that she'd only scratched the stones with her fingernails. She did it again, and in the flash of light he saw her: a lithe, strong figure clinging to the spiraling stairs with her feet, her black hair trailing toward the floor. Another flash, and her wings spanned the width of the stairwell; horns smooth as polished jet curled from forehead to ears. Fangs gleamed over her lips.
Darkness again. He blinked away the spots that crawled behind his eyes, willed away his unease. "You have a mummer's dramatic flair. Perhaps the entertainers in the hall could apprentice you."
She laughed and struck the wall; the sparks landed on the resinous torchhead and caught. The tiny flames slowly climbed higher.
He turned back toward her and froze.
She stood on the stairs, though he'd not heard her movement. Her face was Lady Isabel's, as was the blond hair tumbling down her back. Naked skin appeared golden in the dim light. White, feathery wings waved behind her, stirring the air around them.
"I must concede that I understand your fascination with the lady," she said. "I like her myself. Though nothing surprising passes her lips, everything she says is charming. Packaged in such innocence, 'tis hard to resist, is it not?"
He swallowed hard, backed up onto the next riser. There was nothing angelic in her smile.
"Shall we bargain?"
To Lilith's surprise, he halted his retreat. The corners of his mouth quirked into a smile, but she could not read the emotion behind it. Whether amusement or self-deprecation, it did not please her. Could the man do nothing she predicted? He did not drive himself mad questioning what he'd seen, nor was he weakened by self-doubt and fear. He should have been fleeing—or falling prostrate, overcome with desire for the body she'd assumed.
She deliberately embodied his fantasy, his ideal. Chivalry and his code of honor should have repulsed him; his love for Isabel should have drawn him near. Yet he smiled and remained where he was.
Frustration fueled her next words. "Or shall I simply make you beg?"
"If I beg, it shall be of my own volition, not forced by a demon."
His smile widened, and she had no trouble deciphering his triumph; she pursed her lips and studied him, trying to maintain her annoyance. Michael must have told him that his free will would be honored.
That the Guardian had told Hugh anything at all settled uneasily in her chest; she'd thought Michael had been protecting Hugh, but if he'd revealed all, 'twas possible he considered the young knight a candidate for the transformation.
She shook herself. She should not care if Hugh sacrificed his life. A woman led by her heart could be called foolish; a demon who did the same courted Punishment.
But the tightness the
Similar Books
