Stumbling to her feet, she crossed the room to where she’d left the file, needing something to distract her from the memories. She carried it back to bed with her, pulled out the photograph, and slid her fingertip over the young girl’s face, the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. Fear filled her mind. For a moment, she fought the sensation, then she closed her eyes and let it take her.
Terror saturated her every cell.
She was naked, but hot as though in a fever. Her throat ached where the monster had bitten her. Now he was back and panic clawed at her insides.
Frantically, she tried to scramble back. His harsh laughter filled the room as a hand wrapped around her ankle and dragged her toward him.
A whimper escaped her throat, and her heart fluttered as though trying to break free.
He licked up her leg almost as she’d imagine a lover would caress her. Then teeth sank into the flesh of her inner thigh, and she felt the spurt of her lifeblood. He drank greedily, sucking, swallowing, and for a brief while, her panic and fear faded. No pain. Just a tugging that pulled at places deep within her body, and the vague sadness that her life was draining away.
When he’d finished, he raised his head. Her vision was fading to blackness as she stared into his handsome face…
She recognized that face—the man from the convent. Jack.
A touch on her arm dragged her back to her own body. Roz sat up abruptly. The lamp was on, casting a crimson pool of light, illuminating the man who sat in the chair beside her bed. Although “man” was hardly the right word to describe him. Lucifer might not have answered her call all those years ago, but she’d gotten the next best thing.
“Shit,” she muttered, pulling herself up, tugging the sheet with her. She was naked and while she’d been naked in front of him before, that was a side of their relationship that had ended more than four hundred years ago, and one she had no wish to resurrect. A shiver ran through her at the memory of the pleasure and the pain. “Don’t you ever knock?”
“Your house is my house.”
Yeah, that was the goddamn truth. Bastard. He was smiling again. Why did that make her nervous? “You’re looking very cheerful,” she said. That wasn’t going to last.
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t be?”
She supposed she’d better get this over with. Her body braced itself for the pain. Asmodai had never been one to smile in the face of failure.
“I didn’t get your Key thingy.”
“I know.”
“You know?” She frowned. “So how come you’re so happy?”
“The Key can wait. Tell me what happened at the convent.”
She gave herself a mental shake and started to go over what had occurred the night before. The tension was seeping out of her limbs as she realized that he wasn’t going to exact some terrible retribution. He really had mellowed, and she wondered what had changed. The love of a good woman? She almost snorted at the idea. What use would Asmodai have for a
“The man, Jack—do you know him?”
“No.”
“But did you know someone else was after this Key?”
“Maybe.”
Roz glowered at him. “And you didn’t think it would be useful for me to know that? That the information might just possibly have kept me alive?”
“I had no real worries on that score—you’re a born survivor. Besides, while I was aware someone was looking, I didn’t expect he would find it.”
“So how did he?”
Asmodai considered her for a moment. “The Key’s exact hiding place was passed down to each Mother Superior, though they didn’t know the significance. Shortly before I approached you, I found out that the current holder of that position had died without passing on the information.”
She remembered now. He’d told her the person who knew the whereabouts of the Key had died. However, he’d failed to mention it was the Mother Superior of the convent. “Some more information might have helped me if you’d told me a little earlier. I would have been on my guard.” Might have even taken that gun—not that it would have helped much against a hoard of demons.
He shrugged. “The death was sudden and the timing unfortunate, but the circumstances
She had no clue whether he believed that, so she continued with her story.
“You went to the Order?” he asked when she got to the part about coming to London.
“Well, I didn’t know it was the Order at the time. And I got out of there as quickly as possible.”
Finally, she sat back, exhausted.
Asmodai got up and wandered out of the room. He came back a minute later, carrying her scotch and two glasses. He poured them both a drink and handed her one. She took it with a frown.
“Have you been taking classes?” she asked.
“Classes?”
“How to overcome your demon tendencies and become Mr. Affability—or something similar.”
He laughed. Which was weird in itself.
“So what did you think of Piers Lamont?” he asked.
“That he was an arrogant asshole.”
His lips curled up in a slow smile. “An accurate assessment. But a handsome arrogant asshole, perhaps?”
“You think so? Well, you’re welcome to him. Enjoy.”
He chuckled. “I don’t think he’d have me. We haven’t always agreed in the past, though I helped the Order out recently, and you could say we now have family ties.” He smiled almost reminiscently. “You say Christian Roth was there?”
“He was.”
“Did he appear…well?”
She didn’t understand the question, so she shrugged. “I suppose.”
He sipped his drink and stared at the ceiling. Roz held her breath while she waited.
“You’re going to have to go back,” he said eventually.
“Go back where?” She was being purposefully slow, but she didn’t want to go back. Or maybe she did, but she knew she shouldn’t. An image of Piers Lamont in all his black leather gorgeousness flashed in her mind, and the muscles low down in her belly clenched.
“Why, Rosamund, I do believe you’re excited at the prospect of seeing Mr. Lamont again.”
“No, I’m not,” she replied automatically. She hated, really hated, that he could read her so well. “And I don’t want to go back. You said they would kill me.”
He shrugged. “Maybe not straight away.”
“Hah-hah.” She swallowed the last of her drink and held out the glass for more. “Well, that’s comforting. Not.”
But even as she argued, she realized she was going back. She remembered her vision. Jack was the key to finding the missing girl, and she was running out of time. Piers Lamont knew who Jack was; she would bet her last drop of scotch on that.
“Do you know what they are?” Asmodai’s question broke into her thoughts.
“Who?”
“Piers Lamont and Christian Roth.”
“I have no idea.” But excitement uncurled inside her. It was so very rare that Asmodai would tell her anything about the world he inhabited, the one she lived on the fringes of.
