Sweet Disgrace

“Of course I care. I’d like nothing more than to see him continue his life, and then to bring him safely home when his time is up.”

“Even though he essentially renounced all that is holy when he gave himself to me. And he’s lived a life of nothing but debauchery since, hurting everyone who loves him.”

“He’s no more lost than the others who eventually find their way.”

“Oh, I’d say he is,” Damael said. “I’d say he’s quite off the path, and a monster is eyeing him from the bushes, ready to pounce. It’ll strike in about twenty hours. That monster is me.” He had never looked away from her once and, while she still found that unsettling, she began to relax somewhat. Damael was no threat to her whatsoever; she was off limits to him.

“You will, of course, give him all of his allotted time, less only that needed to—”

“To sufficiently extricate the essence from its mortal husk and lay eternal possession upon it,” he quoted easily. “I will, to the last second. It’s in his contract.”

The cold nonchalance of his words made her seethe. “You make murder and damnation sound almost pretty. Certainly easy. Just another day on the job for you, right?”

“Yes, well, don’t you get tired of watching it?” he asked. “You’re the only one of your kind who stays, you know. The rest of them flee in the final minutes. Why do you not?”

She dropped her gaze to the floor. “To punish myself, I suppose.”

“Why?”

“Because I lost.”

“How?” He unfolded his tall frame from the couch then walked over to stand in front of her. She knew because his shiny black shoes came into her field of vision, a startling contrast to the pristine white of her robes brushing the floor. His voice was sardonic and cold, nothing at all like those she was accustomed to hearing in her realm. “He lost when` he signed himself to Hell. Just because you can’t undo his stupidity doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.” Two fingers slid under her chin, exerting enough firm pressure to tilt her chin up until she was looking into those fathomless eyes.

Inhaling sharply, she couldn’t lend voice to her indignation. She should have backed away immediately and exhorted him to never touch her again. She should have, but she couldn’t. No dark magic he possessed could bewitch her as completely as the feel of his skin on hers. She’d always assumed it would burn, or pain her in some other way, or at the very least, disgust her. It only called forth a desperate longing for the forbidden. For something beyond her realm of experience.

“You stay and subject yourself to the terror of those you’re trying to protect. Why?”

“Because…” She couldn’t find any more words, lost in the roiling black sea of his eyes. Usually flat and glassy, just now they were turbulent.

“Because?”

“Because in that moment you rip their soul from their bodies and take them down, I don’t want you to be the only thing they see. I want them to see me, and feel my love for them, and know they were loved. That they didn’t have to choose this path.”

“That’s noble of you. But under the circumstances, rather cruel.”

“Maybe my compassion for them is something they can hang on to throughout the torment they face.”

“Most of them deserve it.”

“No,” she said, finding firmness at last, but not the strength to step away from him. He held her completely bound with nothing but his fingertips nudging the tender flesh under her chin. “If I allowed myself to believe that, I couldn’t do this.”

“So again I ask you, little angel, what would you do to win him back? To not have to witness the horror this time?”

She swallowed thickly, a little flare of hope and excitement coursing through her. “You keep asking me what I would do, but I have the suspicion you already have something in mind.”

One black wing-shaped brow edged higher on his forehead. His fingertips fell away, and all at once she felt as if the power that had been holding her upright buckled and collapsed. She almost stumbled, but managed to catch herself.

“Perhaps.”

His gaze roved down from her face, taking in the folds of her white robes. A liquid ache pooled at the juncture of her thighs, spreading farther the longer he looked at her. She wasn’t unaccustomed to this sensation where he was concerned, but still it dismayed her. Wickedness seeped into his expression…nothing perceptible, really, but a subtle shift she could sense rather than see.

“W-what do you want?”

That flat black stare lifted to her face again. This time she felt certain it was pulling her in. “You.”

She blinked, pressing her thighs together in a feeble attempt to squelch the unsettling throb between them. “I don’t understand.”

“I think you do.”

“You want me to take his place? I cannot—”

“No. I want you nak*d and writhing beneath me.”

Stunned outrage flashed through her, followed too closely by a rush of heat that could have blown up from the very depths of Hell itself. She should have stepped back and demanded for him to stop such appalling behavior. It wasn’t proper, it couldn’t happen—

But his voice drew her along as easily as a bit of tissue caught up in a strong draft, blown this way and that, helpless as to the direction or the destination. “I want you, your sweetness, your light. I want to bury myself in it. You, crying out my name. That’s what I want.”

“I’ll never say your name,” she snapped, as if this were the most offensive suggestion he’d made. “You want to ruin me.”

“Oh, no,” he murmured, and she closed her eyes as his hand came up and stroked her hair. “Don’t play coy. You know me. You tried to ignore it, but you know how I’ve wanted you. For all my centuries of hatred, death and decadence, you…” He exhaled shakily, and she opened her eyes in time to see him close his own. “You are somehow perfection.”

This proposition from any other of his kind would send her fleeing. And, as he implied, he should be repulsed by her, not tempted. Why he’d wanted her throughout all these millennia was a mystery to her. She’d always felt it, sensed it, though he’d never put his desire into words. Until now.

Gathering her frazzled senses at last, she straightened and lifted her chin. “Apparently, you’ve spent too long in the fire. You’ve finally lost what’s left of your mind.”

“I’ve spent too long in the fire, all right.” The sensual fullness of his lips became a wry slash.

“Be that as it may, there will be no deals of that nature between us. I want to take the matter before the mediator.”

His brow wrinkled. “Don’t make yourself look foolish because you’re angry at me.”

“No foolishness. I simply think it could be argued Adam was too young and impulsive to fully understand the consequences of his agreement.”

Damael scoffed. “They all are, whether they’re seventeen or seventy. Don’t you think?”

“My mind’s made up.”

“Very well. But keep in mind, there’s an easy way to get through this, with guaranteed victory on your part.” His gaze took another journey down the length of her body, and she fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself even though she was completely covered. “Easy and, dare I say, far more pleasurable than listening to Nicolae’s prattling.”

Without another word to him, Celeste turned and exited the room through the closed door. She had to get him out of her sight. Had to. It wasn’t because she was tempted—

Well, all right, she was. To the tips of her wings, she was tempted. He must be here to do just that: tempt her, make her stumble, watch her fall. She had to keep reminding herself of the demons she’d seen in true form…dripping maw, giant webbed wings, burning yellow eyes with narrow black slits for pupils. Scales blackened from millennia spent near hellfire. Nothing at all like their beguiling personas on earth.

Here, on this neutral playing field, they were each in humanlike form. Otherwise her light would strike him blind. His darkness could have any number of adverse effects on her, if he so desired. And neither was allowed at this juncture.

She wanted to win Adam’s soul, but not on Damael’s terms. No matter how her traitorous body responded to his touch. How much more would it respond if that touch wandered elsewhere? She couldn’t allow it, even if it meant losing again.

Losing.

In this matter, it was so much more than a simple blow to her pride. It doomed a soul to everlasting slavery, all because of a moment of poor judgment. One moment of giving in to Damael’s mesmeric smile and his promises of fame and riches and glory beyond one’s wildest imaginings, of making all their dreams come true. She could almost understand why they did it, why they were eager to do it. After all, she wanted to believe he might actually give her what he promised if she succumbed to his will.

Would he really release Adam from the agreement?

Giddiness rose in her chest at the very thought of telling that man he was free. Telling him to go and enjoy his life and exorcise that haunted shadow in his eyes.

It would really feel…incredible.

She startled as Damael drew up close beside her, resisting the urge to leap away. He presented her with the most frustrating conundrum—she didn’t want him to touch her, but didn’t want him to see her skittishness around him. Her weakness.

“Are we off, then?” he asked, his face schooled into its usual dispassionate expression. “I’d rather get this over with.”

Her earlier giddiness crashed and burned in her chest, to be replaced with burning anxiety. The mediator was her only chance. If she failed—and most likely she would—there would be no further recourse available. Adam’s fate would be in Damael’s hands.

And in her own, now that he’d made his proposal. Damn that demon.

Chapter Two

Damael watched Celeste skirt gingerly around the mortals and couldn’t repress a smile. While she avoided the primitive sludge of human emotion, he plowed through it, fascinated as always by their fears and insecurities. Naturally such things would be repellant to his angelic adversary and unfortunately for her, those assorted unpleasantries were so prevalent in the human psyche that she made attempts to avoid any contact with them whatsoever.

He dropped the smile as he thought of how that must make her feel, and then cursed himself for caring. If it had been any of her haughtily pious cohorts, he’d have laughed in their faces about it. But Celeste…she carried the burden of it all. He could see it, see the heartbreak in her eyes when she witnessed the world’s suffering. Every ounce of compassion she possessed showed on her face. It mirrored every crack in her heart.

Which made him want to bring a puppy back from the dead or something, just to give her a miniscule reason to smile.

Either he was imagining things, or that angel grew more exquisite with each passing century. That pissed him off.

It had been a few decades since he’d last seen her. In that time—and every time she was absent from his sight for a long period—he’d almost convinced himself he was imagining attributes she didn’t possess. Her copper hair didn’t really shine like that, her robes weren’t as pristine as new-fallen snow, and the grace with which she carried herself didn’t remind him of swans floating tranquilly across—