Chapter Eleven

Because Abby was working another overnight shift, Zekiel had one more night and day to find out if she’d decided that his abrupt and quite rigid departure from their amorous activities had been grounds to end any further attempts, although he knew he could do much better for her.

It didn’t help that the time away only made him think about her more. He dreamed about her as he drifted into the next sunset, his semiconscious mind full of vignettes of seeing her half-naked, fighting demons, waving him to follow her in the warehouse, her wings outstretched over the gargoyle-lined roof.

When he emerged flesh from stone with the sun beneath the horizon, he had to stroke himself off again. This time, he tried to keep Charles out of his mind, but he couldn’t stop himself from remembering, his thoughts of one unfortunately entwined with the other.

However, once he relieved his aching pleasure, he turned on his statue’s platform and took to the skies.

The previous night, he’d returned to the warehouse they’d found, and as expected, the demonic cult had abandoned it, preferring their secret rituals unintruded. The giant demon, too, had not returned to the roof, and Zekiel hadn’t been able to see any similarly massive statuary on the surrounding buildings. However, there were still things to learn from what they had abandoned. He’d been preoccupied then by a lean, slimy, particularly nasty pestilence demon climbing out of a nearby sewer to pick at the weak living and newly dead, demon and human alike—the mystical equivalent of a cockroach and one of the many causes of missing persons in the city, because no one could find the bodies once the pestilence demons were done with them.

Now, Zekiel entered through the roof access once more. He didn’t worry this time about the noise he made on the stairs or on the platform around the warehouse’s open center, where the inverted pentagram had been painted on the concrete floor.

He flew down to inspect the symbols around the edge, passing his hand over each glyph. He didn’t have an encyclopedic knowledge of every symbol for every cult, but he sensed the power that had been painted into them. Biologicals, animal and human, had been mixed in with the medium, humming even without the acolytes to draw upon them. He found symbols for fertility, which didn’t surprise him, given what had been added to the paint as well as the presence of the pregnant women—either captive or acolytes themselves. But fertility symbols usually served female demons, and what had been on the roof and the spells marked on the floor felt undeniably male, given some of the other symbols under his palm.

Fertility in service of male conquest… The promise of blood, the promise of children… And this symbol, which he’d never seen before but felt like the foul, blackened decay of necrosis—corruption. Not the corruption of politicians or rock ‘n’ roll. This was deeper, hidden, insidious, the corruption of abnormal cells and black mold and oil slicks—the worm in the center of the apple.

If a growing demon cult with its own breeding program and a Master seeking incarnation with the blood of the innocent wasn’t bad enough, new disquiet crept into Zekiel’s stone chest like winter damp.

He wandered away from the circle, searching not for ritual clues but more insight into the acolytes themselves. Those women hadn’t entered the circle naked from their homes on the cusp of winter. As he expanded his own circle, Zekiel found all kinds of indications that the warehouse had not just been a place of ritual.

Some of the demons appeared to have made themselves a nest in the darker corners—which meant the cult really had no compunction what kind of demon they brought into the fold, since no self-respecting chaos or sex demon would live in a warehouse that hadn’t been renovated into lofts.

But there were also signs of humans living in some of the empty rooms. Disturbances in dust suggested beds and carts on wheels, which Zekiel couldn’t explain, but they had also left behind an old working fridge, where fruits, vegetables and meat were going bad, and in some trash cans, he found vitamin bottles. Demon cults weren’t usually associated with such good habits, but this one had a vested interest in maintaining the health of the women—or perhaps just the babies inside them. One might assume that a sacrifice was a sacrifice, healthy or not, but corruption preferred to find a foothold in the most wholesome innocence it could sink its claws into, and this cult had devoted itself to that discipline.

It was the prenatal vitamins and fresh anchors screwed into the wall for shackles that the acolytes had taken with them that deepened Zekiel’s disquiet into dread.

He ventured further into the warehouse, following the stench of pestilence amid the medical scent of sterilization—bleach, iodine, medical lubricant and antiseptic. It was not necessarily unusual to smell the two together. Pestilence swarmed in the sewers under hospitals. But aboveground, mingled with that of human and other demons, fresh pestilence drew him through a dark corridor into a dimly lit room, where it joined with the less profound corruption of physical decay.

Zekiel might have assumed that this demon had simply found someone’s discarded corpse and had taken advantage of the easy meal, except the demon wore the same red robes as the other acolytes.

It was hard to tell if the woman had been pregnant, but she was without clothing, so unlikely to be a squatter. A victim, either way. Whether willing or not to serve their Master, she probably hadn’t signed up to die.

Because Zekiel had made no effort to conceal his footsteps or the scrape of his wings on the floor or door frame, the pestilence demon jerked up from where he consumed the woman’s organs. His face was covered in congealed blood and bits of flesh to join the crackling mask of his previous feeds. The demon cult was either desperate or confident enough in their doctrine to accept a pestilence demon like this one, given their general lack of hygiene and the odors that accompanied it. Zekiel didn’t need preternatural abilities to flinch from the foulness emanating from the woman and from the one who had gutted her.

“You,” the demon snarled.

Zekiel spread his wings to their full extent, filling the room from wall to wall. “Demon.”

The demon stood from its feast. Blood had joined other stains on the red robes, wrinkled and askew, as though the demon had forgotten who he was and who he served when presented with such an easy feast. Gold around the demon’s neck caught in the low light.

The demon’s yellow reptilian eyes took in the sight of the gargoyle, processing him piece by piece. Some assumed that they weren’t very bright, given their general filthiness and preference for the fringes of both human and demonic society, but Zekiel knew better than to underestimate their cold, calculating cleverness. Their creature comforts were meaner than those of most demons, but their motivations could be unexpectedly complex, sometimes bordering on neutral when weighed upon the grander scale of good and evil.

Sometimes.

Revelation glowed like lanterns as the demon met his eyes. “Traitor.”

“Not to you, nor to your Master. Who do you serve?”

The demon shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Not supposed to tell. Supposed to clean up.”

“Did she give birth? Has your Master had his requisite sacrifice? Or did something go wrong, and she couldn’t be used for that purpose anymore?”

“She’s mine.” The pestilence demon curled his lips back from crocodilian teeth. “She is mine and we are Legion, but I am only one. And this one will not speak.”

“Could have fooled me.” Zekiel darted forward, keeping his wings spread low to block the demon’s escape through the door, but the demon anticipated him and scurried away from the corpse toward the window letting in the streetlight’s glow.

Just like every demon—at heart, a coward. And far more vulnerable than a gargoyle, which was Zekiel’s gift in battle.

He jabbed his wing claws into the demon’s arms. The demon bashed through the window glass, but not in time. Zekiel ripped through the robe sleeves and into the arm muscles, cutting off the demon’s strength as he fought to pull himself over the window ledge. By the time the demon realized he needed to turn around and fight, the fight itself was mostly over, with the demon’s arms useless at his sides. All Zekiel had to do was slam his foot into the demon’s leg to break it, rendering him helpless, unable to heal fast enough to counter the damage. It seemed cruel, but if not neutralized quickly, pestilence demons fought dirty, because it was often the only way they could win. They weren’t soldiers. They weren’t even the first choice for acolytes, because they rarely spilled blood for another demon’s cup.

“Who do you serve?” Zekiel asked again, the demon’s face in his hands. “Tell me, and I might leave you to your leftovers. Who do you serve, and what did he promise for your loyalty?”

“More than you can promise for betrayal that you sold so easily. He will crush you beneath his sole like sand. My brethren shall feast upon the runoff of his table after they finish with me.”

Zekiel hooked the demon’s necklace under his thumb and held it to the light. “You don’t have to tell me. You don’t even have to be alive. You’ll give me all the information I need.”

“Vile, stone-slabbed son of a—”

Zekiel snapped the demon’s neck, then braced his foot on the demon’s belly to twist the head off completely, with a terrible tearing sound that Zekiel never got used to. He would have preferred to use his sword—a cleaner, quicker cut—but pestilence demons were like cockroaches in more ways than one. Sometimes you thought you’d killed them, and they scurried out from under your shoe. The bigger the mess, the more likely the deed was done.

He tossed the head to the other side of the room, then gathered the necklace from the severed neck before crawling out of the window that the demon had so graciously opened for him. Other pestilence demons, along with the usual carrion eaters, would deal with the bodies. There was little he could do for the woman now and nothing he wanted to do for the demon. All he’d wanted was the amulet.

He angled it to the streetlight to put the imbroglio in stark relief.

Molded into the gold—solid and heavy, not just brass or gold plate—was the head of a bull.

Zekiel closed his fist over the image and lowered his head. “Heaven help us.”

 

* * * *

 

The night after Dr. Drobny had told Abby she was glowing, Jaspreet had asked whether she’d had a fight, which pretty much summed everything up. Fortunately, tonight was for volunteering, so she tried to recover with some excellent conversation at the retirement center, then lost herself in some young adult fantasy at the hospital.

Maggie and Kara were really excellent company, and not because they were unconscious, since Abby sensed their presence. She found it relaxing to speak without pressure. Neither of them would ever ask her what was wrong or if she wanted to talk about it, which frustrated her no matter how well-intentioned the question. When she wanted to talk about it, she’d talk about it.

“Have a good night, sweetie,” Abby whispered to Kara before kissing her on the forehead.

It felt a little warm. Abby checked her stats. She had a slightly elevated temperature, a fraction of a degree—nothing to worry about. Abby checked Kara’s chart to make sure the fluctuation was normal. With the confirmation, she set the chart back on the end of the bed, then kissed Maggie goodbye, resting her hand on Maggie’s stomach as she always did to make sure the baby was healthy.

All good. Abby could almost forget her problems in the midst of this peace, and here she was, leaving.

Damn Texas weather. It had been drizzling on and off ever since Abby had woken up, and the wind was brisk enough that even Abby shivered when the cold crept under the hem of her jeans. She kept her hood up and her hands in her pockets as she headed down to Cemetery Grove on the way home. She had every intention of avoiding Threshold and the resident above it tonight.

Abby waved to Darcy at the clinic reception desk as she passed by, then turned the corner.

Hands reached from the darkness of the alley and pulled her in. Her purse slid from her shoulder and struck the wall. A gloved hand covered her mouth.

Her first reaction was that it was Charles, for which she was irrationally relieved. But then she noticed that the gloves weren’t the same quality leather as what Charles wore, and there were five other beings in the darkness, all wearing red-hooded robes.

The man holding her yanked her jacket hood back and brought the edge of a knife against her throat. “We have a message for you and your traitor.”

“And if I’m dead, I’m supposed to give him the message how?”

She winced as the knife slid over her throat—little more than a bad paper cut, but all she needed to do was imagine it all the way back to her cervical vertebrae to understand the threat. Her fingers went numb, and the pounding of her heart reverberated through her body like the footsteps of giants.

“You are the message. You could have been useful, but the high priest decided that your use ends here. From us to you, from you to him—the Order of Mokh commands you to stay the fuck out of things that don’t concern you. Your interference changes nothing and will only end in more bloodshed. Maybe the traitor will understand better when it’s your blood draining down into that sewer.”

In a flurry of buffeting wind, like heavy wool in a stiff breeze, Zekiel landed outside the circle that had surrounded Abby in the alley. “If our interference makes no difference to your Master, why provide a message at all?”

The man holding Abby abandoned threats and pontification. He wasted no time slashing Abby’s throat.

Message sent.

“No!” Zekiel lunged forward, reaching for her, only to be met by four other red-hooded acolytes who all drew blades.

The man released her. Abby fell to her knees, clutching the gaping part of her neck. She blearily understood that the warm, comforting liquid pouring between her fingers and dampening her shirt was her own blood.

She couldn’t feel her hands or her feet, and she was getting cold everywhere else. The pain was negligible, as though all she could focus on was the racing of her terrified heart—which only sped the bleeding—and the stricken despair in Zekiel’s dark red eyes.

Abby collapsed to her side.

Knives and swords clashed around her, and the man who had slit her throat joined the fray. Zekiel shouted like a barbarian, meeting each of their blows with three of his own from his sword, his wings, his dense feet, everything in his arsenal.

Her vision was going fuzzy.

Abby pushed the two sides of the wound together and frantically reached inside of herself to grasp the light that gleamed benignly underneath the cage of her ribs—the place where her healing lived.

She usually had time. The falling sands of her hourglass had always seemed a small sacrifice when she could just replace them. But now the sand had turned wet and red and spread in a puddle around her, and she didn’t know if she had enough time to heal herself.

It would have been so easy to just let the life bleed out, let the descending shadow take her away. This last week notwithstanding, she thought she’d go in the right direction. She had so much left to do, but she’d always have more to do. She’d known from the beginning that her work put her at the same high risk as a demon hunter. Every night she’d survived, she’d only been living on borrowed time.

Instead of Zekiel, her mother or her father, it was Charles’ face that surfaced bright and clear in her fading vision. His knowing grin sparked a stab of fear that drowned out any pain.

Because what if she wasn’t going where she thought she was going? What if Charles’ confidence was a reflection of truth too delicious to mar with lies? Or was it possible she wasn’t dying at all, but that the demon side of her was stripping the humanity away like shed skin, as though Abby had been the disguise all along?

She couldn’t die—not until she knew what she was and that she wouldn’t become what she despised.

She doubled down on calling forth the heated tendrils of her healing to her neck, where they’d been trying to sew her together but hadn’t replenished her blood fast enough to counter her own beating heart. A different kind of pain pierced through her forehead, like needles behind her eyes, but she’d rather have a healing hangover than an obituary.

She gulped in air as the blood that had been filling her lungs dissolved and the opening in her windpipe closed. Then she rolled over onto her elbows and knees, still gasping for breath. Her heartbeat slowed, but not because there wasn’t anything to pump through. The panic was subsiding, her vision clearing, her mind receiving the oxygen it needed and any damage there resolving. Her power lit her from within like a boiler. She felt like she had a fever, but it would cool in the winter air, especially soaked as she was with her own blood.

By the time Abby climbed to her feet, Zekiel had bested three of the five acolytes. The man who had cut her was on the ground and not moving, which was a shame, because she would have liked to hurt him. But just because she couldn’t get revenge didn’t mean she couldn’t help.

She didn’t have her weapons on her and couldn’t immediately find her purse, not that her slippery hands would have been able to hold weaponry anyway. Instead, she jumped onto another man’s back and throttled him from behind. The man’s surprise gave Zekiel a chance to slash his sword across the man’s stomach.

Zekiel’s eyes widened when Abby fell from the man’s shoulders and landed on her feet, still covered in blood. However, he set aside his surprise as he applied his blade to the last acolyte standing. All of them had been men rather than demons. Either the cult had deemed them disposable, or they’d expected very little from her. In their defense, if Zekiel hadn’t been there, they might have succeeded, since a gargoyle wouldn’t have distracted them from her healing herself.

The last man clutched his belly to hold himself together and, brandishing a dagger, screamed, “In the name of Mokh, die!”

The man’s head went rolling down the alley and came to a stop in Abby’s blood.

Zekiel lowered his sword. “How noble, to lay down your life for your Master. I hope he receives my message, though, that I am unimpressed.”

He turned to her, but before he could say anything, Abby ran to him. She jumped up, wrapped her limbs around him and thoroughly kissed him, much as they’d ended their last encounter. And in spite of all that had happened between then and now, they picked up right where they left off.

Zekiel expressed his abject relief that she was alive through the low moans that she caught with the slide of her tongue against his. His hands on her thighs were almost bruising to replace what had healed from the beating. He clung to her as though afraid that, if he let go, she would fall back, her throat gaping, and her healing would have just been a dream.

And Abby pressed herself as close as possible to him, entranced by his warmth and strength and the softness of his stone skin, an intimacy of connection absent from all her doings with Charles. When she finally allowed herself some space between them, she still leaned her forehead against his.

All she’d needed was to know that she wanted Zekiel and he wanted her—and not from some kind of twisted addiction or something that they could do for the other. Kissing him was like drinking cold, clean water after bad wine.

“I thought you were dead,” Zekiel murmured against her cheek. “Are you immortal?”

“Just handy. I would have healed myself earlier and faster, but I was still getting over my throat being slit. I mean, who does that? Usually, they just threaten the hostage until they get what they want.”

He hoisted her down, placing her on the ground as though she would shatter. “They did get what they wanted. They were hoping to lure me out, and once they did, you weren’t of use to them anymore—or they decided not to use you that way.”

“Their mistake.” She braced herself against the wall next to the blood pool, lightheaded again from how close she’d been to dying.

“Are you all right?”

“My death just flashed before my eyes. I’ll be fine. What did they mean by Order of Mokh? Who the hell is Mokh?”

“Mokh… Must be a bastardization.” Zekiel pulled a gold amulet from his cloth covering and handed it to Abby.

She immediately recognized the golden bull. Zekiel’s solemner-than-usual expression confirmed her suspicion. “Shit. Child sacrifice. They’re breeding for Moloch. Moloch’s the one who’s incarnating? He’s coming here?”

Zekiel crouched by the headless body. With the tip of his sword, he lifted away the chain of another gold amulet. Upon inspection of the other four, he found the same talismans. “I think the cult is actually an amalgamation of several, which is why the members are human and both chaos and pestilence demons, and why there are so many. I don’t think the ritual we witnessed was by any means the only one in Meridian. There might be several altars all over the city, which would explain how they were able to abandon the warehouse we caught them in so quickly. It would also explain why they considered five acolytes disposable as worshippers—and you disposable in spite of your health and vigor for their cause. And a greater network would explain how they’ve managed to hide the Moloch statue once again. They probably led him indoors or under tree cover once they determined that I could find him again from the air.”

“Okay, I’ve kind of had a bad few days, Zekiel. I’ve already regifted myself a pulse, which I’m really grateful for, but give me some good news.”

He stood again, tucking the amulets away. Abby put the one he’d given her in her pocket. At the very least, given their weight, they might be worth something for the gold alone.

“Take heart,” he said with a slight smile. “Moloch has not yet fully incarnated. Believe me, everyone would know if he had wrested rule over this city. But whether statue or fully incarnated, demons that take form on this plane are far easier to destroy than those who rule from spiritual realms. Form can be destroyed. That’s the exchange that they make.”

“So, at the very least, we can hit the bastard with a rocket launcher.”

“Or we could assemble the demon hunters and let them do what they do in greater numbers.”

“I think the rocket launcher would be simpler.” She tried to wipe her hands on her jeans but quickly realized the futility. “I look like a Niles vampire. And I got it all over you, too. Somehow, I’ve got to get from here to home without anyone seeing me and calling the cops about the murder I committed.”

“Flying would be best. No one will see you, and I’m already stained.”

“I’m going to drip.”

“A little mystery is good for the soul.”

Abby laughed. It was harder than expected to get herself to stop. “But then how will you get cleaned up?”

“Garden hose?”

 

* * * *

 

After Zekiel landed in the small backyard, Abby pointed out the mostly unused garden hose. She actually wasn’t sure if it worked, but if it didn’t, he could just unscrew the hose and use the spigot. She’d invite him in for a shower, but Cary had the main suite, and the bathroom that Abby and Melody shared wasn’t big enough for those wings, even furled.

She peeled her clothes off in the shower and shoved them all into a trash bag. She’d been pretty tough on her clothes lately—not an ideal situation for a not-quite-full-time nurse working for an underfunded clinic.

She went through all the hot water and most of the lukewarm before getting all the blood out of her hair. Once she’d dried herself off, she ran a washcloth over the fogged mirror and took her first look at her neck.

If she hadn’t known what had happened, she wouldn’t have given the scar a second glance—just a thin, pearly line a shade or two lighter than her skin. No one but Zekiel would ever know that she’d had a second mouth in the middle of her throat, and by the time anyone else was close enough to notice, the scar would probably have faded even more than it already had.

As long as her memory of what had happened didn’t fade with it. Maybe she hadn’t meant to make it a game before—an extreme sport of saving people—but this had been worse than the demon breaking her back, and it had happened in a matter of seconds.

When she failed, it wasn’t just her soul on the line.

Abby pulled on a pair of lounge pants and a T-shirt. After making sure that Melody and Cary were still asleep, she sneaked to the backyard again. She had to literally bite her lip to keep from laughing. For a hairless gargoyle, he managed a decent approximation of a wet rat.

“I didn’t want to say anything,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “But now I’m cold. I’m not usually cold.”

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry.” She still had to cover her mouth against the giggles. “I should have thought. Please, come in and I’ll get you a towel. The kitchen’s tile, easy to clean. Keep it down, though, because I wouldn’t even know where to begin explaining you to my roommates. Melody shouldn’t be awake for a few more hours, but Cary’s sometimes a light sleeper.”

Zekiel paused at the threshold of the door. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t enter homes anymore. They are places for family, friends, warmth, light, comfort. I forsook all that when I transformed.”

“So you went good and that’s why you can’t have nice things? You realize that’s a bit insulting to me, right? Anyway, I’m not saying we have a waterbed and a fur blanket in here with nymphs to feed you grapes. We’re on a first-name basis with our plumber, and we could stand to have more hot water. Get in here.”

She tugged Zekiel in by the hand and hurried him to the bathroom. He waited outside until she found him two towels then pointed him to her room for when he was finished.

The tile on the floor just took another towel, and she didn’t have to make sure it was completely dry—just dry enough that the heater would take care of the rest by the time the girls woke up. But she had to take her bloody clothes out to the trash receptable, throw the bag in and hope the neighborhood didn’t have any scavenging vampires.

Back at her room, she ducked in.

“Ah, I see the flaw in my ingenious plan,” she said, closing the door with some creative maneuvering.

She’d factored in his size and his wings for the bathroom but not her closet of a bedroom, which was Abby-size but definitely not Zekiel-size. He hunched under the low ceiling, and his wings crowded the small space she sometimes called her boudoir.

“You know, you can sit down,” she said. “You don’t have to just stand there looking profoundly uncomfortable.”

Zekiel draped his wings around his shoulders like an awkward cloak and eased onto the bed.

“You live in here?” Zekiel asked, his prominent brow all the more prominently furrowed.

She sat beside him. “I don’t live in here. I sleep in here. The rest of the time, I’m out in the living room or—shock, I know—out in the world. Plus, the rent is awesome for the city, and I get Wi-Fi. What more does a person need? Besides, don’t you sleep on a roof?”

“I do not sleep. I simply turn to stone.”

“Ah. Yes.” She intertwined her fingers between her breasts and contemplated the knot that they made. “So you were awake for that…abrupt end?”

Zekiel betrayed none of his emotions, whether aroused, annoyed or embarrassed. “Yes.”

“I couldn’t tell if you were or not, so I hope you don’t mind what I did. And I didn’t mean to just leave you there, um, unsatisfied, but I didn’t know what to do, and I had to go home to sleep. I couldn’t stay there all day to wait for you to come back, and then—”

Zekiel covered her twisting hands with one of his own and leaned in to whisper, “I took care of it.”

Abby exhaled in a rush as Zekiel brushed her hair away from her shoulder, then pressed his warm lips against her neck.

“I was in that state all day,” he murmured into her skin, sending the vibrations over the surface and into her. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. As soon as I could move, I took myself in hand.” He paused for a few beats. “I took care of it.”

“We have a few hours before sunrise.” She glanced down, shyer than some of her innuendo had suggested. It wasn’t as though she’d ever brought a man home with her before, certainly not to her closet. But the room wasn’t made for standing or even sitting. It was mostly made for being horizontal. With the thrill of her second chance at life coursing through her, she couldn’t think of anything better than pulling him down over her on the bed—in deference to architectural constraints.

“Hours before I turn to stone.” He lifted her chin, staring at her lips again.

“But we have to be quiet.” She lowered herself to her elbows and worked her way back to the pillows, Zekiel reaching after her the whole way until he was poised over her, his wings obscuring the light of her lamp and rendering him a massive shadow.

She wasted no time pulling her shirt over her head and pushing her pants down her legs. He hadn’t expected her to remove her clothing so quickly, given how his whole body stiffened and his chest hitched from catching his breath, although he didn’t need to breathe.

“Abby,” he whispered. He hovered his hand over her as though afraid to touch, but part of him showed no hesitation. His cock stretched toward her once again through his covering.

She didn’t have any patience. She’d been tormented by an incubus who wasn’t allowed to touch her. She wasn’t going to let the gargoyle get away with the same thing. She needed him. She needed him to touch her, and she wanted him to be forceful and passionate, but more than that, she wanted him to be kind—and she knew he could be all those things.

She pulled at his covering until Zekiel took pity on her and undid it himself with a trick of his fingers. The covering pooled at the foot of the bed, closely joined by his sword. Now there was nothing between her and his lovely cock—the kind of cock a statue should have, not suffering the same diminutive stature as some of the more famous statues. Maybe David was a grower instead of a shower, but Abby still preferred the heft of the cock she took in hand.

It didn’t flush like that of a human, but it felt hot, pulsed and twitched like a normal cock, and when she bent down to take the head of it into her mouth, she tasted moisture on her tongue. He hissed, pushing his cock deeper. Abby jerked back to compensate, but once she wrapped her hand around the base, she gained more control.

Zekiel grasped the metal headboard and tried not to jerk his hips too hard.

After she’d bobbed over his cock for more than a few moments, he pushed her away. “No. No, I do not wish for you to do that.”

“Why? I seriously don’t mind, and you didn’t seem to. I like watching you while I’m doing it.” The state of his cock certainly suggested that he’d enjoyed what she’d been doing.

He eased her hand away from him, grimacing in what looked like pain and confusion. The confusion turned to tenderness as he settled behind her, his wings trailing behind him and over the foot of the bed. “It’s not you. I simply… I would prefer to do other things tonight.”

Abby rested back and stretched her arms above her, reveling with feline pride at the way she drew his gaze from her eyes to the peaks of her breasts. “Have anything in mind?”

“Let’s start here.” He returned his attention to her neck and kissed up to her mouth before claiming her, his arm over her chest until she clutched the back of his neck to guide him over her once more.

When she spread her legs to accommodate him, his cock almost immediately slid through her folds. She stroked the curve of his bare head, encouraging his descent down her neck to the tip of her breast.

At her urging, he closed his mouth over her, running his tongue around the hard nub.

Desire darted through her in an unexpected wave, humming electricity over her skin, and arousal seeped from her with each clench of her pussy. He glanced up at her from where he licked her breast. Then he sucked her nipple almost to the point of pain, but still she fell back against her pillow, her eyelids fluttering shut.

Then she abruptly sat up, almost knocking his head with her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“What?” Zekiel appeared startled, but there was something else there too, in the way he looked to the side and thinned his slightly downturned lips.

“I’ve felt like this before. You can touch silver, but before you were a gargoyle, you were an incubus, weren’t you?”

Zekiel was the very picture of carved angel agony as he slumped over her lap. Then he raised his head again. “You have experienced incubus charm.”

That struck at the heart of the shame that she’d been enjoying not having tonight. She stammered for a moment before deciding to share the truth—with enough deception from omission that the shame didn’t quite stop stirring through her unsettled stomach. “A few years ago, I was stalked by an incubus. Suffice it to say, I’m no longer stalked by him. I can tell when my pleasure is being manipulated. What’s that about? You haven’t been doing that more subtly the rest of the time, have you?”

“No!” He sounded horrified, which placated her somewhat. “I hadn’t realized that I still could. There are so many things that I can no longer do. I was recently inspired to try, and I thought… It feels nice, though, yes? I could make it feel so good, and I cannot feast upon you as I once did, so all you would experience is the pleasure.”

“Zekiel.” She caressed his face then slid her hands down to his chest. Oh yes, still a good place. “It might feel nice, but it isn’t real. I want it to be real. I feel pleasure whether you charm me or not. Believe me, it’s not a chore to just touch you”—she mouthed his nipple and sucked it much as he had done to hers, making him moan as well, threading his fingers through her hair—“and have you touch me.”

She took his free hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, guided it between her thighs.

“I would, however, love to take advantage of your experience,” she said.

He climbed over her once more, his cock heavy on her thigh as he plied her folds and her clit like an instrument until she made the music he wanted to hear. She clung to his shoulders, watching him watch her. For a while, his expression was solemn, as though still disturbed by what he had done—although he seemed overly ashamed about it to her, given what she had to be ashamed of. But when he dipped his fingers inside of her and found her practically dripping with need from skill rather than spells, a smile curved the edges of his mouth.

Abby took his face in her hands. “Inside,” she whispered.

She spread her legs more to welcome him between them, then curled them around his broad hips, his thighs strong under her heels. She stroked his cock and brought the slick head to her slit. Her mouth dropped open as though she had to drink the air when he slowly slid into where she was more than wet enough to accept him with ease.

The bed shuddered under her as he spread his wings, gripping his claws on the wooden supports in the closet to steady himself. With his grip as leverage, he pulled himself forward, shoving himself all the way into her. Abby covered her mouth with the back of her hand to muffle her cry.

“You are my light,” he murmured before worshipping the flesh under her ear and thrusting into her again and again.

She was too far gone to tell him that she was only shadow. She clutched his shoulders, holding on as he rode her at an ever-increasing pace.

Now that she was aware of what he’d once been, she felt the added sensitivity inspired by his incubus nature, something he probably wasn’t even aware of and which was a bare fraction of what a true incubus could do to her. And unlike a true incubus, he wasn’t perfect. Her thighs, tight around his hips, were pummeled by the jutting bones of his pelvis. He was dense and heavy, and he didn’t always hit the right places.

The important thing was that he didn’t have to. He was beautiful, he was hers and he was sweet and good and strong. She loved everywhere that their bodies connected, the way their bellies slid against each other as he entered her and she met him. She loved his moans—spontaneous, natural and so very hot. Just listening to his desire made her wet.

“Shhh,” she said with a laugh. “They’ll hear.”

“I can’t… I have to… You…” He shook his head and covered her mouth with his again, caressing her tongue with his off-rhythm to the cock in her pussy, but just as obscenely wonderful. Arousal stretched all the way to her fingers and toes and coiled tighter and tighter around his cock until she thought she must have been squeezing him like a fist.

“Shhh,” he mocked affectionately after she cried out into his mouth.

She pulled him down again. “Faster, harder, less talk.”

Her orgasm was all the better without an ounce of guilt, all shame driven away before it, knowing that it was well won out of love rather than conquest. She grasped his ass and pulled him into her over and over through the forceful flutter of her muscles around him. His grunt gratified her, and she was glad she’d come first so that she could feel his climax soon after hers, watch his face without the sun turning him to stone, without the haze of her own pleasure.

Zekiel slowly lowered himself to cover her, his weight creaking the mattress springs.

Even a guardian angel wouldn’t make her feel so safe.

“I’m not going to be having a gargoyle baby in a few months, am I?” she murmured.

Zekiel laughed into her shoulder. “It’s just dew. Stone does not reproduce.”

“Good to know.” As Abby stroked his back, her fingers encountered the base of his wings. “So, you were an incubus.”

“I was.”

“Don’t worry. I’m cognizant of the verb tense there.” She kissed his chest lightly. “If it makes you feel better, I can tell that isn’t what you are anymore.”

There was silence, comfortable, as their bodies cooled.

Then, “Thank you.”

They stayed that way for a while. Zekiel moved to the side so he wouldn’t overstay his crushing welcome, but they otherwise remained entwined in each other’s arms. The coverlet underneath them dampened, which didn’t bother her. It just reminded her of what they’d shared.

But they both knew it couldn’t last.

“I must go.” Zekiel rose up on an elbow, peering down at her. “I cannot be here when your roommates awaken, and I would rather not get caught by the rising sun in your room or backyard.”

“Oof,” she said, thinking about what would happen if he turned to stone in her bed. Then she grinned and reached for her shirt and pants. “All right. I hate for you to go, but a new lawn ornament would be a bit hard to explain.”

Before leaving, Zekiel tilted her head up and kissed her again, more tender than desperate in the coolness of the dark, damp morning, framed by the back door.

“I’m working tomorrow,” she said when she could find her words again.

“I’ll continue to keep my eye out for demon cults and giant demons.” He stroked her cheek. “Good morning, light of mine.”

She leaned against the door frame as he flew over the fence and back toward the city. She hoped he made it to his home or found a suitable roof before dawn.

Abby headed back to her room and sat cross-legged on her rumpled bed. Then she pulled her phone out of her purse and checked the time. Five-thirty.

She selected a number on speed dial.

“Hi, Mama. I don’t mean to interrupt your morning meditation, but…I thought you might want to know that I found Dad.”

 

* * * *

 

He seems distracted.

It hurts to see him like this, glancing around like he’s expecting someone to come through the restaurant’s front door or from the kitchen, maybe through the windows—someone he doesn’t want there but who he can’t keep out. He or she hasn’t burst in yet, but they’ve set up shop in his head anyway.

She asks herself whether there’s another woman. She tries to tell herself that there can’t be, not with the way that he showers her with solicitude, loves her in both word and deed. It’s just that she can’t know his thoughts, and she can’t be with him all the time. She doesn’t even want to. She wants to trust him completely. She loves him. So she says nothing and doesn’t check his phone or email, no matter how keen her fear.

The sommelier brings the wine. She shakes her head. The man across from her smiles and accepts. They share a toast, his wine to her water.

They make small talk. She asks about his day. He asks about her doctor’s appointment. His day was good. Her appointment was fine. Everything is all fine and good, and she worries that he’s going to end the night with chocolate and an abrupt severance, that the last few months have all been for nothing and his beautiful, charming façade shields a colder interior that he will finally bring to light. That she has fallen in love with a lie.

She has given up everything for him. She has no other resources. Her job will only get her so far before circumstances catch up with her and she can no longer support herself on her own—not when her family has disowned her in shame.

He is her center, her foundation, her light, and she fears most of all that he will leave her in darkness.

Although she was hungry before arriving at the restaurant, she picks at her food.

When the waiter brings the molten cake for them to share, her man beckons her to sit beside him instead of across. She cannot meet his eyes the closer they become.

He slips his hand into hers. “Hey. Hey, what’s wrong?”

Hot tears fall onto their clasped hands before she can stop them. “It’s nothing. Nothing.”

And she’s not lying, really. She’s overemotional. That might be all this is, just irrational paranoia getting the better of her. She’s weepy, but her tears are not to be trusted.

“I know,” he says softly. He’s not responding to the ‘nothing’ but to what she’s not saying, and how dare he read her mind when she can’t do the same. “Hey. I love you. You know that, right?”

“I just…”

He kisses her tears. His lips shine with them before he kisses her mouth. She tastes salt and chocolate, licks his lips, then meets his tongue between them, heedless of the murmur of the crowd, the bell-like clink of utensils on porcelain, the string quartet playing in the background.

He kisses her slowly, calming her desperation and worry with soothing, languid rhythm. Her nipples harden under her little black dress. She isn’t wearing a bra, so the cool lining stimulates them further now that his touch awakens her again. He reminds her why she stays. He tells her truth in his touch what she cannot always believe from his words.

A cough interrupts them, and she laughs, staring down at her lap for a new reason. Her man smiles up at the waiter, who presents her with a covered plate.

She’s confused. She thought they were going to share a dessert.

She lifts the metal cloche from the plate. In the center of the ivory saucer sits a small black box.

She brings her hand to her mouth with a gasp, her eyes wide.

He leans back in his chair with quiet pride. His grin lights up his face like it always does, and she senses the way that it lights up hers as well.

“Charles, is this really…” But she can’t speak anymore. She wipes at her cheeks.

He picks up the box, then drops to his knee in front of her.

The restaurant goes quiet. She feels their gazes, but she has eyes only for the man before her.

He opens the box. The ring is modest, but that’s not important in the slightest. “My dear, my love, my sweet beauty, will you marry me and let me make an honest woman of you?”

She hits his shoulder and laughs through her sobs. “Yes,” she manages. “Yes. I thought you were going to break up with me.”

“Just nervous, love.” He slides the ring over her finger. “If you thought you were free of me, I’m sorry to say I’m going to be with you for a very long time.”

“That’s fine with me.”

He grasps her thighs as he kisses her again, and this time it isn’t rude that he’s between her legs and biting her lip in the middle of a crowded restaurant, because he proposed and she said yes. Everyone is clapping for them as he strokes the tops of her stockings, grinning against her lips as though he’s going to pull those stockings down her legs right here in front of everyone. Her arousal dampens her panties—black edged with lace, the kind of thing he loves to see her in when they’re alone.

He pulls back and looks over that little black dress where her nipples push against the fabric, then down at the crux of her legs, and she gets the feeling he knows exactly what’s underneath. Of course, he’s seen it all before, but the way he observes her curls her toes in her shoes.

He climbs back up to his seat and pushes her chair in again, then leans toward her. “Eat your chocolate. Whatever happens, don’t stop.”

She’s glad she doesn’t have to stand. Her legs wouldn’t be able to hold her. She knows that mischievous glint, that soft but commanding tone. He wants to play, right here in the middle of a crowded restaurant, and God help her, she’s suddenly so turned on that she can barely focus on the chocolate in front of her. But she does as she’s told, as she always does. If he told her to do something she didn’t want to, maybe that would be bad, but even the things that made her nervous—especially the things they did in public—he always made them worthwhile.

That’s why she takes the chance on him. That’s why his ring is on her finger. That’s why his baby grows inside of her.

He shares the cake with her, taking a few bites here and there until all the conversation around them returns to what it was before the proposal. Then he brushes his hand over her lap. Her napkin falls to the floor.

“Oops. Let me get that, baby. You shouldn’t in your condition.”

“You know, I think men like you are who my mother warned me about.”

“Don’t I know it.” He disappears under the tablecloth.

At first there is no change. To prevent any suspicion, she continues eating, and he does nothing, just lets the room acclimate to his absence.

Then he jerks her chair forward and abruptly spreads her legs.

She fights not to gasp. The last thing she wants to do is call attention to herself. She wonders whether the waiters know. Perhaps the reason they’re not interfering is because they’re watching.

She licks her lips free of chocolate cake crumbs just as he slides his hands up her skirt, skimming the tops of her stockings. Air swirls between her thighs and against the damp spot on her panties when he breathes in her scent like the wine bouquet. He hums his appreciation against her shaking thigh.

She tightens her fingers over her fork as he runs the flat of his tongue over her panties. He sucks on the damp fabric, then through the fabric to the folds beneath, slow and meticulous. Pleasure flows languidly through her, as thick as the hot chocolate syrup sliding down her throat.

He removes one of her pumps, like Cinderella in reverse. Then he brings her foot to his lap, where she can feel his erection through his trousers but also where he can dig his fingers deep into the muscle of her instep.

Evil, evil man. He knows how massaging her feet like that wreaks beautiful havoc on her clit. She can’t stop the whimper and hopes that those around her believe that the dessert is really that good.

She doesn’t know what she’s going to do when she finishes the cake.

He bites her thigh, making her jump, then laves the sensitive skin there. She’s panting now, focused on staying still and keeping quiet, which only makes the pleasure tighter and keener. She spoons up some of the chocolate cake and thick chocolate sauce and takes her time pulling the spoon from her mouth, granting herself one low, luxurious moan as he brings his mouth to her clit with the same sweet, intense, luxurious suck.

She combs her fingers through his hair. Maybe people know what they’re doing now, but she doesn’t care. She’s three months pregnant and newly engaged, and if she’s still this happy with her fiancé, it doesn’t matter who notices. They might learn a thing or two about how to please a woman.

The deep rubs on her foot continue, and he uses her foot to stroke himself as well, although he isn’t stroking to come. He’ll be hard through the rest of the night until they get home—or at least until they get into the car. He’ll have to walk by most of the restaurant with a bulge in his pants so that everyone can see how lucky she is.

She throws her head back. She feels as though she’s been stripped bare. If she had her way, he would take her on that lovely white linen tablecloth, primitive and carnal, their love a compressed rock on her finger and a fierce, furious kiss. She balls her fist in his hair and bucks her hips against his talented mouth as she comes.

She fights to control her breathing. He eases off her clit but continues his massage, sending little twitches of arousal through the aftershocks, and kisses her thighs above the lace of the stockings. His lips are reverent.

But he eventually pulls back, adjusting her skirt and replacing the napkin on her lap. She finishes her dessert and determinedly doesn’t look at anyone else in case she actually sees someone watching and fantasy becomes more awkward reality.

He slips into his seat again. “How was your dessert, love?”

“Would you like a taste?”

Instead, she tastes herself as he kisses her. She subtly cups his erection through his trousers.

“I love you,” she whispers again.

“And I love you.”

For a moment, she thinks he meets the eyes of someone behind her, but when she looks over her shoulder, there’s no one there.

“Let’s go home,” he says.

She has no intention of letting him get that far. This dress and these stockings, thin though they are, are suddenly too cumbersome. Everything little thing he does pushes all her buttons.

He makes her want to keep going forever.