Demon Marked

run to nowhere, admiring his stamina.

She also discovered that she could easily heft a fully loaded bench press bar. She amused herself on each of the lifting machines after that, setting them to their highest weight and testing her strength.

The gym didn’t possess any weight heavy enough to truly test her, but she found that her pinky finger could lift several hundred pounds. If her toes had been longer, she’d have tested them, too.

Then Nicholas had abandoned the treadmill, drenched in sweat and his chest heaving. Water bottle in hand, he prowled the length of the room, cooling down. After a few minutes, he’d straddled one of the weight benches.

Ash hadn’t been able to interpret the look Nicholas had given her when he’d removed the pin and selected a lighter weight than she’d been using, but she thought he was—once again—struggling not to laugh.

He wasn’t threatened by her strength as she knew some men would have been, and not chagrined . . . just amused. But why hide that amusement?

Several times on the journey, she’d also noticed that he’d struggled against an attraction to her—but that made sense. She looked like his dead girlfriend, and he wouldn’t want to feel anything sexual for a demon. Why not laugh, though? Ash couldn’t understand that.

She took his place on the treadmill and pondered it while she ran. After another hour of that—in her boots, without a drop of sweat forming, and even though she’d set the machine to the highest speed, she wasn’t winded —Ash still hadn’t figured it out. And although Nicholas headed directly into the shower after they’d finished, he closed the door again.

At least now she knew how he’d developed every muscle that he hid from her.

She learned even more when he emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed in a tailored white shirt and dark trousers, wet hair neatly combed, jaw shaved. So formal, as if he wouldn’t let his guard slip for a moment, not even at two o’clock in the morning. He’d ordered room service before the kitchens closed at midnight, and before heading to the gym—two broiled chicken breasts and a pile of steamed vegetables, now cold and limp—and read the Wall Street Journal while he ate. Standing by the window overlooking the lake, Ash watched his reflection as he paused over an article that mentioned his company. He reached for his phone, and she saw his frustration in the subtle firming of his mouth when he realized that making the call would possibly alert the Guardians.

No, she didn’t need to see him naked. In a few short hours, his obsession had been laid bare to her. Everything he did was calculated to serve his purpose, down to each unappetizing bite of food he put in his mouth. She saw everything that mattered to him: making certain that he possessed enough money to pay for his revenge, and maintaining the physicality to carry it through.

Revenge wasn’t just his obsession, she realized. It was his life.

Now Ash was a part of that life, that revenge . . . and she was glad of it. Glad. She could feel that emotion as clearly as she felt the window glass against her fingertips.

Something inside her had changed during the journey here. Everything she saw seemed so familiar now: the highway, the streets and buildings, even this nighttime view of the bridge—as if she’d visited this city many times. She could almost remember the summer wind from the lake hitting her face, the scent of barbecue and popcorn, the spray of fireworks against the sky.

Tomorrow, they’d travel north to Rachel’s hometown. Ash could picture that road, too . . . but she couldn’t picture the faces of Rachel’s parents. She couldn’t hear their voices in her head. She couldn’t recall any of that—but maybe when she saw them, when she heard them, they’d be familiar.

God. She wanted to haul Nicholas away from the table, drag him out to their vehicle, and drive north now. The anticipation that had been building with each mile had transformed into a quivering excitement and impatience—and though she expected those emotions to fade, they only deepened.

None of her emotions faded as quickly anymore. Nor were they as shallow as they had been—as if every familiar sight and every association she made created a stronger foundation for those emotions, even though she still had no memories to base them on. She felt so much more now than she had even twenty-four hours ago. Excitement, amusement . . . arousal.

She glanced at Nicholas again. When they’d arrived, she hadn’t only expected to see him naked; she’d have liked it, too. Perhaps appreciation for a beautiful form accounted for part of that enjoyment, but she also liked the feelings that the thought of his nudity stirred in her. She relished the warmth that spread through her body, the ache of her flesh—sweet and painful, all at once.

Of course, she didn’t need him naked for that, either. She had full memory of his mouth closing over hers, the penetrating stroke of his tongue. She could see the precision of his hands wielding his knife and fork, and knew he’d be just as deliberate with a touch. But what would she like best? A rough caress or a gentle tease?

Both, she thought. Just imagining the glide of his fingers seemed to tighten her skin, as if in anticipation—and he didn’t need to take his clothes off for her to feel this.

Perhaps she didn’t even need to imagine Nicholas. Maybe it could be anybody.

Now that thought made her curious. Was her sexual interest a physical reaction or an emotion? How could she tell the difference?

Her gaze landed on the television remote. There was a fifteen-dollar answer. Watching a porn movie and cataloging her physical response might help her find out.

Or she could skip that. Imagining a pimply-assed plumber rutting over a plastic actress wasn’t doing much for her now.

Nicholas did something for her, though, and Ash didn’t think his looks alone accounted for it. She liked spending time with him. She liked his snarly responses when he forgot to maintain his icy composure—or when he couldn’t maintain it. She liked that she couldn’t anticipate his reactions. She even liked his obvious dislike for her, particularly when he couldn’t stop himself from laughing, anyway.

She liked that he didn’t pretend anything. Oh, he lied, but that fascinated her, because it meant he thought the truth might give her an advantage. And he held back information, which was irritating—but even that provided an intriguing challenge when it forced her to figure out why he lied or held back info.

But he was also different from the majority of the people she’d met, particularly those at Nightingale House. Rare was the adult human whose words and actions weren’t at odds with what they felt—adults who would stare at her tattoos and pretend not to notice them, who would carry on a conversation while completely preoccupied by some other matter, who would express some emotion when she knew they felt another. Nicholas didn’t do that. And although he hid his emotions from her, they weren’t difficult to guess: hatred and distrust, because she was a demon.

He lied, yes. But at the same time, he offered her a different sort of honesty, one that she hadn’t known she’d appreciate until she finally met someone who was both open and hidden from her, at the same time. She couldn’t read him, but he didn’t pretend to feel anything other than hatred and distrust.

Ash supposed she should have been hurt, or even offended. The soap opera ladies would have been. I’ve never lied to you; why won’t you trust me? But she suspected that liking would have to become caring before Nicholas could hurt her. Hopefully, her emotions wouldn’t develop that far—and if they did, she hoped that they also came with a survival instinct: not of the mortal kind, but an emotional one.

No . . . Ash hoped that she had already developed that emotional survival instinct, because she had come to care about something: whether she’d see Rachel’s parents. It mattered. She could barely tolerate the idea that the only obstacle preventing her from meeting them was her inability to shape-shift.

Determined, she focused on her reflection. How hard could it be? She didn’t even have to think about her eyes turning red; they just did. Why would shape-shifting be any different?

She studied the shape of her face and imagined it changing. But into what? It was probably best if she resembled someone that everyone would trust, like the Brady Bunch mom. Concentrating on the tattoos, she pictured vermillion fading to a light tan. She pictured her chin narrowing, her cheekbones widening and flattening. She pictured hair of gold in a mod little pixie cut.

. . . and nothing happened.

Dammit. What kind of lousy demon was she? There had to be a trick to shape-shifting, but whatever that