his eyes from the sun when he opened them. But as his vision adjusted, he saw that what he’d mistaken for daylight was just a few lit torches affixed to the walls of the cavern. After so many hours in darkness, any light can be mistaken for brilliance, any illusion mistaken for truth. Across the floor, another person had been chained to another wall. He couldn’t tell at first whether the figure was alive or dead. It lay curled in a fetal ball with its back to him. It was a small figure. A woman, he thought. Then the figure stirred, and Michael’s world spiraled out of control. It was Bryony.
A minute ago, he knew exactly where he stood. He knew denying the demon king Samael’s sword was the right thing to do. Now he wasn’t so sure. It seemed Ashmedai intended to use Bryony as a bargaining chip. Considering his lineage, Michael didn’t stand a chance against that method of persuasion, and Ashmedai had to know it.
Bryony woke and groaned. She pushed herself to a seated position and spotted Michael. “Oh, thank god!” she cried. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
Michael stretched his chain, but he couldn’t reach her. “Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head. “Who did this, and what do they want?”
“The demon king. He wants the sword.”
Bryony’s hand flew to her mouth. “What? Don’t give it to him!”
“I don’t intend to. I can’t imagine what he wants it for, but there’s no chance it’s for anything good.” He watched her struggle with her chain and winced sympathetically.
“I mean it, Michael. You have to promise you won’t give it to him. Even if he tortures me—and he probably will—you can’t give in.”
“Please don’t say that.” Michael hung his head. There was no way he could stand to hear her cries without breaking. It was impossible. His nature simply wouldn’t allow it—his nature, which was every bit as unwavering as Ashmedai’s . . . Suddenly, Michael understood something fundamental about his captor. It was like finally placing an integral piece in an impossible puzzle. “I . . . don’t think he’ll torture you. No, he wouldn’t do that.”
“What makes you so sure?” Bryony folded her arms in a pout that Michael found simultaneously endearing and confusing. Why on earth should she want to be tortured?
“Because . . .” He hesitated, rifling through his memories for every story he’d ever heard or read about the demon king. “Because Ashmedai isn’t capable of harming a woman. It’s not in his nature, and the angelic side of him makes his nature all but immutable.”
Bryony frowned. “And you’re certain of this? Why? Because he told you so? He could be lying you know.”
The echoing drip, drip, drip of water pounded in Michael’s ears. His head still ached, and he had to work through a fog of pain to remember the stories he’d learned in his youth. The demon king was a creature of habit. That was why Solomon’s men had been able to enslave him in the first place. Every night, Ashmedai came down his mountain to drink from the same well. Solomon’s men knew his routine and replaced the water with wine. The demon drank it anyway—he couldn’t help himself—and it was only in his drunken slumber that the men were able to manacle him. “They knew,” Michael muttered to himself.
Bryony arched one brow and crossed her arms. “What did they know? And who are we talking about exactly?”
“Solomon’s men. They knew Ashmedai couldn’t break his habits, even though it would have been in his best interest. And it isn’t his habit to harm women. In fact . . .” He grinned as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. “He seems to go to great lengths to protect them.” He thought back to the story of Sarah. “It took an archangel to drive him away from Sarah, but he wasn’t killing her husbands out of spite. He was . . . He was acting as her guardian angel.”
Bryony bowed her head. “Guardian angels hardly shrink from harming women.”
“I know.” Michael rolled his lips into his mouth in thought. “I think he meant to be a true guardian, though. Like with the wives of Solomon. According to the stories, after Ashmedai escaped from King Solomon and began impersonating him, his lust for the women of the palace could not be sated. But he just told me that story was a lie, and I think I believe him.”
“Why?” Bryony narrowed her eyes.
“Partly because Solomon never sired any giant sons. There would’ve been stories about it. I think . . . I think Ashmedai never slept with any of Solomon’s wives. I think he was trying to protect them too.”
Bryony laughed. “From what?”
“From Solomon.”
The silence that followed was palpable. Michael watched Bryony, but he couldn’t begin to read her. She was sullen, angry. And was that a glimmer of pride he saw twitching at the corner of her mouth? She kept her head down and muttered, “All the same, don’t tell him where the sword is. Maybe he’ll let me go. When he does, I can hide it somewhere safe.”
Michael nodded. “That sounds like a good plan.”
They sat in pensive silence until the torches burned out and the cavern was nothing but inky blackness again. And Michael felt a sting in his eyes as he realized how desperately he wanted to see the stars.
Bryony came home to open doors and fires roaring in every hearth. It didn’t even surprise her anymore. She’d spent much of the day in town, flitting from shop to shop and buying very little—anything to avoid going home. She’d chatted with everyone who said hello to her, which was clear evidence of just how uncomfortable her own home made her these days. And then she’d run out of places to go.
Michael greeted her with a friendly embrace and a cool kiss on the cheek. She recalled the first time she’d begged to kiss his cheek and the heat that passed between them when she finally did. It couldn’t be gone so soon, could it? She fidgeted with the sleeves of her jacket and muttered, “Good evening.”
“You’re out of sorts.” He crouched before her. “What happened? Did someone say something nasty to you? Tell me who it was, and I’ll tear the tongue from their mouth.”
Her gaze shot up to his, and she couldn’t stop her face from contorting into a confused mask. She opened her mouth to speak but snapped it shut again. The Michael she knew was an unmovable mountain. On the surface, insults seemed to roll off him. He was protective but never aggressive, never violent. She whispered, “I don’t think I know you anymore.”
A blush crept into his cheeks but quickly faded. “You’re upset.” He stood and took her hand. “I know how to cheer you, but first, dinner.”
They ate pasta with ready-made sauce, which Michael insisted on cooking himself. “Even I can boil pasta,” he said, but Bryony caught him adding herbs when he thought she wasn’t looking. His appetite was voracious, and he made no attempt to hide it. She watched him with mounting concern.
After dinner, Michael prepared a pot of loose-leaf tea and added just a touch of honey to Bryony’s cup. Then he took her by the hand and led her upstairs, balancing both teacups like he was a backward child who had run away from the circus to join a home. He sat Bryony at her vanity and set her cup beside her. “Don’t move from that spot. I have a surprise for you.”
God she hated surprises.
He returned with what looked like a large tackle box. For a moment, she expected him to show her a new sewing kit he’d put together, but she should have known better. This Michael was not the same person she knew from Dragonfly. He wasn’t even the same person she knew from Mexico. So she really shouldn’t have been shocked or confused when he opened the box to reveal a vast array of makeup and skincare products.
“Where did you get all this?” She ran her fingers over the rows of glass tubes, spinning them until they rattled like an odd, percussive instrument.
He didn’t look at her when he answered. “Just something I found lying around.”
There was a chance he wasn’t lying, albeit a slim one. Bryony’s mother had kept quite a few boxes of makeup around the house, and it was entirely possible she’d had one stashed away that Bryony had failed to notice. But these products didn’t look as old as that. Still she held her tongue. If this was not Michael, then the last thing she wanted to do was let on that she suspected anything. Whoever . . . Whatever this was had to be dangerous, a tiger dressed as a house cat. She knew better than to put it on guard. Then there was the other possibility—one Bryony was loath to consider—that she might have gotten herself engaged to a person she never really knew at all.
“I thought we could try a look for the wedding.” He was grinning at her, picking little bottles out of his kit. “I noticed you don’t tend to wear makeup. I hope you aren’t averse to it. I’ve so many ideas, and your bone structure is a thing of beauty. May I?”
How could she say no when he asked like that?
He had her turn away from the mirror and crouched before her. “Close your eyes, and tilt your chin up.”
She complied. She needed time to think, but as soon as he began, she was completely lost to the process. He slipped a scarf behind her neck and knotted it at the top of her head to hold her hair back. His gentleness sent shivers down her spine. He was sure, steady, and confident as he brushed the colors onto her face. He didn’t seem like Michael, but he didn’t seem entirely unlike him either. There was something achingly familiar about the way he lingered over her bones. Bryony opened and closed her eyes as he instructed, opened and closed her mouth as he instructed, and moved only when he turned her head with his own hands. She sensed no malice in his touch. It was as tender as it was alien.
Finally, he backed away, pressed a thumb to his lips, and looked approvingly at his work. “It’s not perfect, but this was a dry run. It’ll be absolutely gorgeous with the gown.” With that, he removed the scarf and turned her to face the mirror. And she found herself gazing upon an undeniable work of art.
Her complexion was too fair, but he hadn’t bothered to correct it. Instead, he’d worked with it. Everything about the look he’d created was subtle, except her eyes. They were the centerpiece. They were shaded like the sunsets she’d seen on the Mexican coast. Orange and pink and faded blue. He’d drawn a lace pattern from the corners of her eyes that fanned out toward her hairline. It was so intricate she couldn’t have retraced the pattern if her life depended on it. And in a finishing flourish, so gentle she hadn’t even felt it, Michael had applied gold leaf to the skin around her eyes. It wasn’t much, just a glint here and there. It made her skin look as though it had been painted on years ago and was now chipping away to show the gold underneath.
She was speechless.
Michael’s smile faded. “Do you not like it?” But before she could answer, he shook off his doubt. “Of course you do—it’s positively stunning—but how could I have failed with such a perfect canvas to work with?” As unsettling as the face grinning behind her in the mirror was, she had to believe Michael was in there somewhere. Some things had stayed the same. He was as creative as ever, as gentle as ever. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “Go ahead and wash it off. I can recreate it at a moment’s notice.” He stood and handed her a cleanser and towel. “I’ll look forward to sleeping in a grove of orange blossoms tonight.”
Bryony twisted the towel in her hands. Her honesty was long overdue. If they were going to get anywhere in their relationship, they’d have to start with the truth. “Michael, I . . .” Her voice was quiet, apologetic. “I know I’ve been cold to you lately. The thing is, you’ve been so different since we got engaged. I didn’t know what to think or how to feel about it.”
Did he flinch just then? She was almost certain he did. “Have I really been so changed?” he asked.
Bryony nodded. “I understand if the engagement affected you more than I expected it to. I mean it is kind of a big deal, but . . . engagements don’t usually cause such a big change. I just need to remember you’re different, right? Your nature is different. I still have so much to learn about you.”
He recovered from his dismay, and a warm, flirtatious smile crossed his face. “I look forward to teaching you.”
Bryony walked away from him feeling good that she’d finally come clean but less than confident it was the wisest course of action. At the door, she turned back and said, “I love you.”
“I know you do, darling.”
After her shower, Bryony slipped into running shorts and a tank top and joined Michael in bed. A warm fire crackled and glowed in the hearth. A cool breeze from the open window toyed with the flames and energized the shadows on the walls. She turned to her fiancé and tried to find him buried somewhere behind his own eyes. Then she leaned over and kissed him. He slipped his hand around the back of her neck, under her hair. She tugged him closer and opened her mouth to him. His tongue lingered at the boundary of her lips, almost tentative. For a moment, she could have sworn she felt his skin begin to warm under her hands, but then he pulled away.
“It’s okay,” she assured him. “I don’t feel shy anymore.”
He frowned, pulled her into a tight embrace, and kissed the top of her head. “Whatever am I to do with you, sweet god? You give yourself away entirely too easily.”
Bryony touched her forehead to his chest and chewed her lip, grateful he couldn’t see the expression on her face. She wanted to trust him. She’d decided to trust him and hadn’t made that decision lightly, but . . . She shivered in his arms. He noticed.
“Are you all right?” He let her go. “Is it too cool for you? I thought we might enjoy some fresh air tonight, but perhaps I was being presumptuous.”
Bryony shook her head. “No, it’s not that. Sorry. I’m just not feeling one hundred percent tonight.” She lied, but whether she didn’t want to hurt him or didn’t want to alert him, she couldn’t have said.
Regardless, he believed her. “You’re not feeling weak or feverish, are you?” He checked her forehead with the back of his hand. “You promised to tell me when you needed a rite. You promised not to let it get too late.” He wasn’t just worried for her—he was terrified, and it didn’t make sense. They were alone together in her home. He could perform a rite at a moment’s notice. He had no reason to panic.
Still she couldn’t stand to see the fear in his eyes, so she smiled to reassure him. “It’s not that. I promise I’d tell you if it was. Come on, Michael, you know I can go at least three weeks.”
He leaned back against the headboard and failed to hide his relief. “Well, yes. Of course I knew that, but anomalies, you know.” Then he quickly shifted moods. His voice raised in pitch, false cheer covering an obvious tremor. “Speaking of odd occurrences, I found your book in my workroom, hiding in a stack of fabrics. Do you have any idea how it got there? Perhaps it was the ghost.” He chuckled and handed her a paperback.
Bryony took it slowly, gazing down at the cover, willing herself not to scramble to her feet at the sight of it. It was the romance she’d bought for Michael on her first day back in town. He would never have assumed it was hers. Her heart hammered in her ears.
It isn’t him.
It isn’t him.
Merely suspecting she’d been living with an impostor was one thing. She could easily cast doubt on her own suspicions and tell herself she was overreacting again. Now the impostor left no room for doubt, and interwoven with her fear was a familiar, old rage. How dare she doubt herself? Why did she always question her own intuition? Now she’d wasted time, and Michael was gone—taken, likely against his will. She might have wept at the thought, but a mountain of terror overwhelmed her.
She carefully placed the book on the nightstand and calmly got out of bed. “Thanks. I’ve been wanting to finish this one.” She turned and smiled at the impostor. “Bathroom first.” Then she walked out of the bedroom and straight down the stairs to the phone in the kitchen.