Demon Marked

happened to them? Why wasn’t she gloating?

He didn’t know. But he needed to figure it out. And if she had been responsible for the Boyles, he’d let the Guardians have her—his bargain and his soul be damned.

Searching through his e-mails, he found Cooper’s report, verified the investigator’s timeline. A month ago, Ash had escaped from the hospital. Cawthorne had hung himself a week later; the same night, someone had entered Madelyn’s town house. A few days after that, Rachel’s ghost had begun visiting Steve Johnson. Then the previous night—Saturday night—Nicholas had found Ash at the house in London.

The Boyles had been murdered Saturday morning. Even accounting for the time difference, a demon could have easily watched Johnson kill them, then flown across the Atlantic to London.

Ash could have done it. But Nicholas couldn’t make himself believe she had.

He tried. At the window overlooking the lake, he recalled how she’d stood here while he ate dinner, plotting to see him naked, with amusement and mischief taking their turns lighting her usually emotionless expression . . . and later, tempting him with her nudity and her claim that she wanted him. Jesus. That lust had to be a lie, too. But she hadn’t lied about Nightingale House—and why would any demon stay there for three years? Why didn’t she try to tear him apart with every opportunity? Why didn’t she imitate Rachel more perfectly? Aside from a few mannerisms and her accent, nothing about the two women was similar.

He’d go mad trying to make sense of her. Demons were supposed to be creatures of habit, but there was nothing that he could see in Ash that resembled any other demon he’d heard of. Certainly not—

Oh, fuck. Creatures of habit. What the hell had he been thinking, wasting time worrying about one demon when he should have been hunting another? He knew someone else who preferred hotels like this—and there weren’t many of them in Duluth.

And that someone might be looking for Ash, too.

Nicholas didn’t have to go far. The clerk at the registration desk recognized Madelyn’s picture. She wouldn’t tell Nicholas the name Madelyn had checked in under, but he learned that she’d left two days before.

Fuck. He’d missed her by only a day.

And she had some balls, still using his mother’s face. He scanned the hotel lobby and the adjoining bar. Shape-shifted, Madelyn could be any of the people here. The Guardians could be any of the people here. Just waiting for him to lead them to Ash. If Madelyn had waited a day, she’d have just run into Ash at the hotel, and wouldn’t have needed to—

Realization hit like a punch to the stomach. Two days. Saturday. She’d left the hotel the same day the Boyles had been murdered.

Oh, goddammit. Now that made sense, sick as it was. Ash had escaped from Nightingale House, and if Madelyn knew Ash was searching for answers, she’d have assumed that Ash would eventually make her way to America and the Boyles’ doorstep. But if Madelyn got to the Boyles first, Nicholas had no doubt that she’d have taken Rachel’s mother’s place. Within a few days, after the investigation died down, she’d probably have begun waiting at the house, planning to lure Ash in like a witch from a fairy tale.

For what purpose?

That didn’t matter. Whatever Madelyn wanted from Ash, he’d see that she didn’t get it.

Of course, it was damn hard to make certain of that when he was stuck in a hotel lobby, and Ash waited a few miles away. Did he risk going?

If he didn’t, and Madelyn found Ash, he might lose his only chance to learn where his mother’s body lay, and to slay the demon bitch who’d killed her, Rachel, and now Rachel’s parents. But if he was with Ash, Madelyn would come to him.

And he knew exactly the place to wait for her—where the Guardians wouldn’t find them, but Madelyn eventually would. When she did, he’d have his revenge, and Ash . . .

Ash. God. All right. She’d gotten to him. And though he’d planned to slay her after her usefulness ended and she led him to Madelyn, he wouldn’t now. He couldn’t now. He’d tell her what the Guardians looked for when they searched for demons so that she could avoid them, and then he’d let her go.

So what would he rather risk: staying away from Ash and possibly losing an opportunity to find Madelyn, or having the Guardians follow him to the bed-and-breakfast?

The answer came easily. Nicholas returned to his room, collected his computer and his keys, and left everything else. Hell, he should have done this earlier—this wasn’t much of a risk at all. Even if the Guardians followed him, he’d get to Ash first. He’d protect her. As a human, the most powerful being in a room of Guardians and demons, he had no doubt that he could protect her.

And she was just too damn useful to lose now.

CHAPTER 9

Ash couldn’t remember staying at a bed-and-breakfast before, but this one didn’t fit the mental image she had of them. Instead of small, cozy rooms filled with overstuffed furniture and quilts, everything in their suite appeared spare and elegant. Just as well. Better not to have rooms that seemed to invite her to hide beneath the blankets, or curl up in a ball and eat a tub of ice cream. The Victorian restraint, the straight-backed wooden chairs, served as a guide for Ash. She, too, remained stiff and composed.

She’d thought the grief and fear would have faded by now. They hadn’t. And she’d forgotten—or maybe she’d never known—how much effort it took to constrain them. By the time afternoon had come and gone, and Nicholas still hadn’t returned with any information, that effort had crept into a souldeep exhaustion. Never before had she wished that sleep would come to her; she wished it now, if only to make the time pass more quickly. If only so that she wouldn’t feel this emptiness—an emptiness that, for the first time that she could remember, seemed hollow.

She wished Nicholas were here. Not only so that he could confirm the news Ash feared she already knew, but so that he would be here with her when she learned for certain. He made her happy. He also irritated and frustrated her, but any of those emotions had to be better than this unending dread.

Where was he?

Night fell. The innkeeper’s wife knocked on the door and invited Ash down to dinner. Roasted chicken and garlic mashed potatoes, by the scent of it. She could taste the woman’s sweet concern, and the piquant bite of her pity. Though she was tempted to join them downstairs for no other reason than to ask whether they had a newspaper from that morning, or even a computer and an Internet connection that she could use, Ash had to plead a headache and decline without opening the door.

Her eyes wouldn’t stop glowing.

In the red wash of light, she studied the picture of Rachel and her parents over and over again, searching for a simple emotional association, any hint of familiarity. A little girl’s tiara could remind her of Cinderella and send Ash on a search through her memories, but there were no similar connections to find here. Nothing in the Boyles’ shirts, their smiles, the sparkle of the mother’s wedding ring. Yet seeing their blood had torn her apart. Why?

She found no answers in the photo. Perhaps the answers were coming, however, as was the familiar sound of the engine that she’d listened to for a thousand miles. Nicholas. Unable to see the road from her room, she pushed through the doors leading onto the balcony, where she had a better angle on the winding street leading to the house. His headlights swept across the snow as he rounded the final curve. He wasn’t even to the driveway yet. Minutes might pass before he arrived at the mansion and walked up the stairs.

Ash couldn’t wait that long.

She dropped from the balcony, landing in a knee-deep pile of snow. Behind her, light from the dining room spilled across her body, casting a long shadow. She didn’t give anyone eating inside time to see her. Up on her feet,