Demon Moon (51 page)

Mesmerized by his hands as he stirred and smoothed the mahogany paste, she belatedly realized, “The consistency's too thin.” Like pudding, when it should have been like frosting.

“For cone application, perhaps.” A half-smile curved his lips as he selected a line brush. “But I've no intention of decorating you as one ices a wedding cake. Lift your arms.”

He stripped her T-shirt over her head, then picked her up to slide her skirt and panties over her hips before setting her on the wall again. Stepping back, he surveyed her as he did a canvas before he blocked out the underlying shapes. Her skin tightened; her nipples hardened beneath his slow, assessing gaze.

“What do you intend?”

His lashes lowered, and he took her right hand in his. “My intentions,” he dipped the brush into the paste, turned her palm up, “were completely destroyed. Do not move.”

She couldn't, not when he rapidly traced a tiny flower in the center of her palm, reapplying henna to the bristles every few seconds. Over her fingers.

In less than a minute, he covered her skin with a complex design that would have taken a skilled
mehndi
artist an hour or more. He released her hand, lifted her left.

Stunned, she examined the petals of jasmine, the scrolling lattice and delicate leaves. Her stomach hollowed when she recalled where she'd seen it before.

“Where did you get this pattern?” Did he know the significance of it? Or did he just think it attractive?

“In your flat, from a book of traditional henna designs.” His breath swept as lightly over her palm as his brush. “Intended for brides. If you do not want it, wipe it away before it dries. Before the stain sets.”

Colin pulled a white tea towel from his case. The thick terry was soft against her thigh, waiting.

Never. She stifled the urge to curl her fists protectively, stared at his bent head. He held her hand in his, but didn't continue painting; a fine tremor transferred from his fingers to hers.

Ohmygod
. Caelum swallowed her whisper.

He'd remained in this realm for two months after she'd left. And the month before that, he'd lived almost wholly on animal blood—unable to hunt while the nosferatu had roamed the city. What had she imagined he'd done, fed from the Guardians here? Hunted them? She'd been so stupid; she hadn't thought.

Three months…and less than a year to recover from it, to build up immunity again. Now he was shaky. And only three days had passed since his last daysleep; he'd take another at the end of the night.

His jaw tightened, and the trembling stopped. His brush moved over the heel of her hand, then began a bracelet around her wrist.

“What did you intend?” she asked softly.

“To manipulate your emotions.” The backs of her fingers now. “To force you to commit to me; to bargain for more time.”

“For how long?”

“Until Dalkiel was dead, but that could be tomorrow. Hardly as long as I'd like. Perhaps until the henna faded.”

“Two more weeks. A month.”

“Yes. Still not enough.” He paused, cleaned the bristles before setting the brush down. From his trouser pocket, he withdrew a small box. “Until these wore thin.”

He met her eyes as he opened it; two rings lay nestled in velvet—a band for her, a thicker one for him.

Her breath caught on laughter or a sob—she wasn't certain. “Platinum doesn't wear.”

“I'd have invoked your promise to Auntie, and wept pathetically if you'd said no. The tears would have been sincere, but quite calculating. I find, however, that I prefer what you give without manipulation.”

Her gaze dropped to her palms. “Then why the henna?”

“Because, my sweet Savitri, you asked what was in the case.” Colin tilted her chin up, caught her lips in a soft kiss. “And I've ached to paint your skin for weeks. Months. Your hands, done quickly, was for you. The rest is for me.”

“I wondered why I had to be naked,” she said breathlessly.

“That is for me as well. What shall we do with these?” He gestured with the jewelry box; the rings gleamed silver beneath the sun. “Toss them into the fountain and make a wish?”

“You should never pay more than a penny for a wish. I'll put mine on until it wears thin.”

“As I will.” His eyes closed briefly; when he opened them again, he smiled at her, his fangs flashing. “I'm pleased you are so practical in budgetary matters. Now, turn around and brace your elbows against the wall; I'll begin with your back. Take care not to smudge your hands—good God, you've the sweetest arse.”

A perfect reflection of her face laughed up at her; she rose up on her toes to see better. If a penny could allow him to see his after so many years, would it disappoint him or please him?

“What would you wish for?” she wondered, then sighed in pleasure as his lips skimmed over her spine. The rasp of his zipper was loud in the silence of the courtyard. Her back arched, her hips pressing into the cool marble.

“This. Forever.” He spoke against her shoulder, his skin bare against hers. “Ah, Savitri, look at you. What you do to me.”

She watched as he slid deep, as the ecstasy unraveled over her features. Twice she forgot herself, closed her eyes, and tilted her head back; twice he reminded her to look. And she saw the need he created within her, spiraling, twisting ever tighter.

She couldn't let go. She didn't want to do it herself.

“Colin. Please.” Her teeth clenched; she shook under the easy glide of his body into hers, his gentle thrusts.

“You're open, love. Your shields are down.” He whispered it against her ear; in the pool, the tips of her hair fluttered as the strands caught his breath. “You're already there.”

She was…she was but she couldn't go over. “Please.”

“No pain. Not this time.” His lips touched the back of her neck, but only to kiss, to lick. His hand pushed between the marble and her sex, worked at the slick, taut bud. At delicate flesh, stretched around him.

A sob lodged in her throat, but she rocked back against him, took more and more. “Help me.”

He cupped her chin; his thumb pressed against her panting mouth. “Hold on, love.” And he eased the side of his palm between her lips, her teeth. “Take what you need.”

Not her pain, but his; she bit down, heard and felt his groan against her skin. She did that to him. She was the reason for his breathless chant, the swaying of her breasts, the excitement and heat and wet. The fullness deep within her. And there was only him inside her, pushing and pushing…pushing her painlessly over. His hand captured her cry, her wonder.

And then finally pain, though she didn't need it—the delicious sting accompanied the two punctures in her neck. Her blood rolled across the shape of his tongue, then disappeared from the reflection when he took it in, made it his.

And her last coherent thought was that if anything in Caelum abided by sensible rules, she'd have vanished, too.

If Michael thought it strange that Savi wore a mahogany painting of Caelum over her arms and shoulders—and guessed that, beneath her strappy backless top and long skirt, it covered the rest of her skin—he gave no indication.

It had taken most of twenty-four hours for the color to fully develop, with Savi wrapped up like a mummy for a good portion of it. The color would fade—first from the long stretches of fragile skin on her back, torso and legs, last from her hands and feet—but now, Colin thought it perfect.

And he couldn't tear his eyes from it. The beauty of Caelum surrounded him, and yet it was the spires rising over her forearms that held him captive, the tower braced by her spine, the curve of a domed temple on her shoulder. The fountain's wall ribboned around the base of her throat; he'd painted no higher, and it served as an ideal frame for her slim neck, the delicate structure of her face.

It was, he thought as he took her hand and readied for teleportation, well worth the price.

She smiled up at him as Caelum dropped out from beneath their feet…and then he clutched frantically at her wrist, trying to keep her from falling. The iron band of Michael's arm around his chest held him dangling above a nightmare. Screams split the putrid air like an overripe corpse.

Chaos.

The bodies hanging above them, rotting—their faces frozen into the ceiling.

A loud snap cracked through the shrieks as the Doyen's wings unfurled from nothing. The rush of freefall jarred to a stop. From the corner of his vision, Colin saw pale skin, membranous wings. Heard a shout of surprise in the Old Language as the nosferatu recognized Michael. The dull shine of their weapons.

“Don't look,” Colin begged, and grabbed for Savi's left hand, hauled her up against him. But she
was
looking—her gaze had focused over his head, her eyes widening. Then vacant and staring, as horror settled in. Her body shuddered, and she kicked wildly at him, tried to yank her hands from his. “Savi, don't run, don't—”

“Dragon,” Michael said quietly in warning, but the tone made it a near shout. “Prepare yourself; hold her.”

A flash of scales, the stink of sulphur—the impact ripped Colin and Savi from the Doyen's grip.

Falling. Rivers of molten rock below; it would be quick and painless and Savi was somewhere else, not running now, and she would never know they burned and burning was better than being eaten, thank God—

“Colin,” she said against his ear, and her arms tightened around him. “He's coming.”

The dragon? God, no,
please
no.

He scented Michael's blood before the Doyen collided with them, a rush of black feathers and bronze skin.

Glass splintered around them into slicing, biting shards. Savi grunted as he landed on her, as they crashed through the Room and skidded into the observation area, the friction of the carpet like fire against his hands.

Savi's blood. His blood.

The shrieks multiplied, a million different pieces and voices.
Chaos wouldn't let him go, wouldn't
—

“The mirrors,” Savi gasped. “Get rid of them!”

Silence.

Then the rapid beating of her heart, her frenetic breaths. She stifled a sob when he lifted his body from hers. But even as he gingerly rolled her, cried out when he saw the shredded ruin of her back and shoulders, a burst of power knitted her skin and muscle together again.

A psychic touch slid quickly over Colin's form, and his wounds sealed up.

Michael
. Colin's gratitude died, overwhelmed by rage. Bloody fucking bastard. He wouldn't need a sword; he'd tear the Doyen's head from his shoulders.

But when he turned, shock held him immobile.

“I apologize,” Michael said evenly, but he staggered as he climbed to his feet. Crimson soaked his white linen tunic in rough arcs: the shape of the dragon's bite. The blood still flowed; the wounds didn't appear deep, and hardly fatal—but even a vampire's would have stopped bleeding by now. “I had not anticipated how strong your combined anchors to Chaos would be.”

The Doyen frowned down at his side. Behind him, the Room gaped open and empty, blank white walls where the mirrors had been. Vanished into Michael's cache.

“You can't heal it?” Savi asked, standing with her arm crossed over her breasts. Holding her shirt on, Colin realized. The glass had sliced the straps.

Freshly repaired caramel skin streaked like scars through the painting of Caelum.

He didn't trust himself to speak; he'd weep or scream, and either reaction would likely frighten her. He moved behind her, untied the bow dangling useless on one side, and used the extra length to knot it closed.

Simple courtesy—and it was all that held him together.

“Apparently, I cannot,” Michael said. He blinked; obsidian obscured the white and amber of his eyes. “That is…not good.”

Her ribs expanded beneath his hand as Savi sucked in a harsh breath; her small frame shook with sudden, hysterical laughter. Not amusement at the Doyen's understatement, Colin knew; like him, she was overwhelmed and had either laughter or tears as a release.

Or both.

She wiped her eyes, leaned back against him. “I saw what they were writing,” she said. “The nosferatu, on the ceiling.”

Michael's head jerked up, his gaze narrowing. “You can remember them—replicate them?”

“Yes. Though not today; I'm not quite ready to go back there yet. Even if it's just in my mind. But Colin won't have to take you to see them.”

Christ. Colin forced the tension from his arms, wrapped them around her. “There's still the bridge, sweet.”

“Use a freaking nuclear bomb,” she said. “In and out, two seconds. Blow the whole place to Fuckville.”

This time Colin let himself laugh, pressing his cheek against the top of her brilliant head, inhaling the scent of her spiky hair.