Demon Marked

“Dungeon?”

“Nicholas St. Croix.” Oh, it was coming to her. She’d been distracted, but she remembered this. “He said that a demon killed Rachel Boyle. That she died in his arms after saving him. He’d wanted to know if she’d become a Guardian.”

“Did she?” Revoire’s brow furrowed, as if he was trying to recall the name now, too. “I don’t know many of the novices—”

“She didn’t. We still don’t know why. And . . . speak of the devil. There he is.”

Crossing the circular drive that served the government buildings, and still looking like the same cold, rich bastard. Taylor almost laughed. He hadn’t noticed her yet, and she briefly considered shifting her form—but no, this was better.

His gaze lit on her, and she couldn’t detect any change of his expression or a crack in his emotional shields. But he recognized her. His heart sped up. An automatic response, she thought. Though Nicholas St. Croix knew he had nothing to fear from a pair of Guardians, his instincts were shouting at his body to fight or get the hell out of there.

“Mr. St. Croix,” she drawled. “How was your trip from New York?”

Cool amusement hardened his eyes. “How is Rosalia?”

“Concerned about you.”

“Ah, yes. The mother to everyone.”

Such icy disdain for one of the sweetest women she’d ever met. God, Taylor wanted to punch him. “Better than your mother?”

“Is she?” He shrugged. “She lies, she manipulates. I don’t see the difference, personally.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Perhaps not,” he agreed easily. He looked to Revoire, who was frowning at him—probably wondering if St. Croix was a demon—before addressing Taylor again. “If that is all . . . I don’t recall your name. Detective something or other, was it?”

Oh, he was good. Playing up that British accent when she knew he’d spent over half his life in America. Deliberately shutting her out, pissing her off. Why?

“Special Agent Taylor of Special Investigations. This is Special Agent Revoire. Do you have time to sit down for coffee, Mr. St. Croix?”

“No.”

She smiled pleasantly, but put steel in her voice. “Make time.”

“Or what?” His gaze ran over her in a calculating assessment. “How could you possibly make it worth my time?”

“Because we’ve just finished looking at photos from a recent crime scene. Frank and Caroline Boyle. I believe you know them?”

Finally, a break in his shields. Just a fraction, but enough to feel his rage. His sadness. But no surprise.

“Yes,” he said, and now there was bleakness beneath all of that coldness. “How did it happen?”

Taylor suddenly understood that this was why he’d come to the sheriff’s office. He was looking for answers. He cared.

She hadn’t expected that.

“Steve Johnson, an old boyfriend of Rachel’s, did it . . . after he’d been visited by her ghost.”

She saw the realization hit him. His dark brows lowered and his jaw hardened, cracking the icy cast of his expression.

“A demon?”

“Yes. We’re looking for her now.” She paused, hoping for any reaction, but didn’t get one. She’d have to try again. “Rosalia thought that you might have run into a demon lately.”

“No. I just had questions.”

“Questions that brought you to Duluth?”

“I heard rumors that someone who looked like Rachel had been seen in the area. I never believed that she hadn’t become a Guardian. So I came looking, because when I find her, I can finally clear my name.” That cool amusement came sliding back. “I guess I’m not looking for a Guardian, but a demon. I don’t suppose that you’ve slain her yet?”

“No.” Was he lying? Taylor couldn’t decide. He did have good reason to follow up on any rumors. “But we will. Do you plan to stay in town?”

“Just long enough to make certain the ghost wasn’t the demon I’m looking for.”

His mother. Though that demon wasn’t an excuse for him to grow up into such an asshole, she couldn’t blame St. Croix for wanting to slay her.

“We’ll let you know if she is,” Taylor said.

“Not if I find her first.”

Taylor smiled thinly. “Good hunting, then.”

He nodded and continued past her up the stairs. Taylor waited until he passed through the doors before looking to Revoire.

“We need to contact SI. I want to know everything he did, looked at, bought, went online for in the past week. And we need a picture of Rachel Boyle.” The demon had probably changed her shape by now, but maybe not. “If the demon impersonated Rachel once, it might do it again—especially if the target is someone like St. Croix.”

Rich, ruthless, probably on the edge of sanity after a childhood in a demon’s tender care. God knew how a man like that could be manipulated, or how dangerous he could be.

“I thought for certain I’d finally run into Basriel.” Revoire shook his head. “He was human?”

Barely. “Let’s go. We’ve got a demon to find, before Basriel does.”

Or before Nicholas St. Croix did.

Nicholas returned to the hotel. If the Guardians tailed him, they wouldn’t find a demon. They wouldn’t find any evidence that she’d stayed in the same room the night before. Hell, even the porn rental suggested that he’d been alone. He ate lunch and watched the financial news, then hit the gym for two hours, giving the Guardians time to conduct a search of his suite.

If they were tailing him. Hopefully, they’d decided to focus on finding the demon who’d posed as Rachel, and hopefully they’d believed Nicholas when he’d told them Rosalia had been mistaken about his being with one. And if they hadn’t believed him, hopefully they thought he was such a dickhead bastard that he deserved whatever a demon did to him, and left him to it.

He knew the Guardians didn’t work that way, though. Unfortunately, they even tried to save the bastards.

In the afternoon, he completed the business-related calls and sent the e-mails that he hadn’t the day before. No need to hide his electronic trail now. He tried to think of any way to contact the bed- and-breakfast without giving Ash away.

If they were watching him, he couldn’t. Goddammit. He couldn’t. There was absolutely nothing that they couldn’t hear or trace or follow.

Was Ash still waiting in the room as he’d instructed? How long would she wait? She’d been desperate to know what had happened to Rachel’s parents. If Nicholas didn’t bring back answers, would she stay in the room? And even if she did, how long until the innkeepers worried and contacted the authorities? Probably overnight, he thought. Maybe into the next evening.

Maybe by then, he’d figure out whether she’d killed the Boyles, and whether her desperation had been an act.

An act? God. That he even considered the possibility it wasn’t proved how she’d already gotten to him, somehow made him believe that she was different from other demons, made him wonder if the amnesia had affected her nature so strongly. But, Jesus—when she’d seen the Boyles’s living room, she’d seemed so shattered. Lost. He knew that emotional reaction had to be a lie. Maybe the Boyles’ murder had been her plot all along, and bringing Nicholas in to see the aftermath was just the icing.

But if that were true, why the hell would she still be playing along? Why would she pretend to care what had