Demon Marked

St. Croix had watched the massacre, too. He’d made being present for it a condition before allowing Rosalia use of the dungeon.

“Let me see if I remember,” Taylor said. “Caucasian. Sixtwo, one-seventy, black-brown hair, and blue eyes that remind me of ice chips from the frozen field in Hell. A handsome devil of the GQ variety, and if I’m not mistaken, you thought he actually was a demon for a while.”

“You’re not mistaken. He’s a straight-up bastard.”

“Who you helped anyway.”

“Yes, well. He was useful.” Rosalia stepped back, and seemed satisfied with the straight line she’d made of Taylor’s button-up front. “I think he’s found his mother.”

“Oh.” Yes, Taylor recalled part of that, too. He’d bought the dungeon because he’d been searching for a demon who’d posed as his mother. Maybe after he’d had his revenge, he’d be less of a bastard. Taylor doubted it, though. “So is he headed to Rome, intending to lock her up and slay her?”

“I don’t know. I lost him in London.”

“Ah.” Now the reason for Rosalia’s journey to Caelum became clear. The Guardians’ base of operations on Earth, Special Investigations, could help her locate St. Croix. “So you were looking for me, or you were headed to San Francisco?”

“I was headed to SI, but you might be able to make it all easier. Can you teleport to him?”

Taylor should have been able to. In the dungeon six months ago, his mind hadn’t been well shielded, and she’d been able to sense his emotions. That made his psyche familiar to her, and she could teleport directly to anyone with a familiar, unshielded mind.

But apparently not St. Croix.

Rosalia grimaced. “I taught him how to block.”

“And you taught him very well, apparently, because I can’t go to him. I’ll save you the trip to SI, though.” Not much of a save, since “the trip” was only a single step through a Gate. “I’m headed there now. I’ll let them know to start looking for him.”

“I’m grateful, thank you. That will allow me to return to Rome. Hopefully he’ll show up there.”

“Do you think he will?”

“No. Partially because he trusts no one, but also because he knows that I’ll look there for him.” Rosalia smiled. “But he also knows that I know that he probably wouldn’t use the dungeon, so he might go anyway.”

It took Taylor a second to sort that out. “So twisty.”

“He thinks like a demon at times. So I will, too.” Rosalia turned to go, then paused, her gaze sweeping over the courtyard. “It’s so empty. I forget. I turn around, expecting to see everyone . . . but they are all gone.”

“Not empty. I think Khavi’s hellhound is running around somewhere.” A pet as big as a Hummer, straight out of Hell and Taylor’s nightmares. She avoided the three-headed puppy as much as possible. “And hopefully, I’ll be called to make more of us soon. Well, maybe not ‘hopefully,’ considering that means someone has to die. But you know.”

Rosalia gave her another of those long, seeing-too-much looks. “You are not feeling inadequate in that way, I hope? Because it is beyond your control, Taylor.”

Yes, it was. That didn’t mean Taylor didn’t feel responsible. Along with the psychic connection, Michael had also passed to her the powers of the Doyen. She’d become the Guardian who transformed the humans who sacrificed themselves while saving someone else from a supernatural threat.

But Taylor hadn’t been called, not in the year she’d been Doyen. Everyone told her that there had been times when a decade had passed before a new Guardian had been transformed . . . but those had also been the times when there had been thousands of Guardians to take up the slack. In five hundred years, the Gates to Hell would open, and the Guardian corps needed to be thousands strong again. They couldn’t afford to have one month go by without adding a new warrior to their ranks, let alone twelve months.

There wouldn’t have been any more transformed if Michael had still been Doyen, either. She knew that. The Guardians couldn’t go out on a recruitment drive; everything depended on a human’s sacrifice. Still, she did feel added pressure, because Michael was gone and the corps wasn’t as strong without him. She needed to be transforming more Guardians. Their survival—every human’s survival—might eventually depend on it.

“Let’s just say that I know exactly how one of those oldtime queens felt, when everyone was expecting her to produce an heir to the throne, and years go by without one. Pretty soon, you know she’s going to get beheaded and he’s going to find another woman to make the babies.”

Amusement shone in Rosalia’s eyes, a warm golden light. “I remember a few queens like that. The clever ones solved the problem by inviting another man to their bed.”

Oh, this metaphor was suddenly heading somewhere that Taylor definitely didn’t want to go. Having Michael in her head was enough to become accustomed to, and she’d carefully not thought much about sex while he was in there. Mostly so that he wouldn’t know that he figured prominently in those thoughts, but letting him see her imagining another man seemed just as bad.

“I don’t think there’s a good ‘another man’ that works as a comparison.” The problem didn’t come from Michael or any other Guardian. “The humans just need to stop shooting blanks.”

Rosalia’s soft laugh didn’t echo in the courtyard. Strange, but Taylor’s did.

And even more strange, when her laughter faded and Rosalia had gone, she glanced back at Michael’s temple again . . . and the hairline cracks in the marble had vanished.

She just hoped to God that if her laugh had sealed them, that it had helped Michael a little, too.

On the plane, Ash waited until Nicholas occupied himself with his computer before looking through the few items he’d had of Rachel’s. When they’d stopped outside his hotel, she’d waited in the car while he’d retrieved Rachel’s passport and his luggage—and he’d brought down another small packet with them. He’d claimed the things had been in Rachel’s overnight case along with her identification, but Ash could have deduced that for herself. The packet contained a flat hairbrush, a toothbrush, a red silk dress, and strappy sandals. Tucked beneath the clothing lay a set of lacy lingerie, red and revealing . . . exactly the kind a woman might take on a special weekend away with a lover.

They meant nothing special to Ash. The items weren’t even familiar. Rachel had obviously loved the shoes; the soles were scuffed, as if she’d worn them often. But although Ash liked the style, she had no urge to wear them or the dress. Had Rachel been nervous while she’d been packing for her weekend, or had she been excited? Had she wavered over what to wear, how many outfits to take? Ash didn’t know. She’d hoped to sense some connection to Rachel’s things, but she felt nothing, even though Rachel had surely chosen these items for a reason.

Whatever her reasons, they’d been lost when she’d died six years ago.

Six years. Ash examined the items again, no longer looking for a connection but simply looking. Only a few wrinkles marred the smooth silk. No dust had collected on the hairbrush or the sandal straps. Instead of musty, the dress smelled faintly of dry cleaning.

These things hadn’t been sitting in an overnight bag for six years. Nicholas had kept them and cared for them. Why?

She let the dress fall into her lap and looked up. Nicholas sat in the seat across from her, booking a hotel near Rachel’s parents’ home, finalizing their travel arrangements, or simply working—she wasn’t certain. Ash hadn’t paid much attention to him since he’d lowered his crossbow. He might be able to help her, but right now he had no idea who Ash was, so she had little use for him.

Little use for him except for his bank account. Now that she had identification, Ash could have eventually made her way to America, but his ability to place one phone call and charter a flight made the process much simpler. She appreciated that.

Ash also appreciated that he’d given her Rachel’s things. He hadn’t liked giving them up, however. He’d tossed the packet to her with an abrupt order to “see if these improve your memory.”

She knew he traveled often. What were the chances that he just happened to keep Rachel’s clothes in a hotel room in London? No, he must bring them along wherever he went.

Had he cared for Rachel so much that he couldn’t let these items go? Were they simply a daily reminder of his reasons to pursue Madelyn, or a statement of his guilt?

Guilt, Ash guessed. Kept alive by a dress and underwear—and a