Demon (8 page)

He glanced back. “What are you looking at?” He sounded wary, irritated. The irritation was nothing new, the wariness a small triumph for me when I was feeling weaponless.

“Nothing,” I said. “We going someplace?”

“You said you were hungry, and I’m certainly not about to cook for you. I know a restaurant.”

“We’re eating in a restaurant like normal people?” I scoffed. “Don’t tell me—we’re on our first date.”

“We are not people, demon. Neither of us. You know that, whether you wish to face it or not.”

“
You’re
not people,” I shot back. “If anyone’s a demon, it’s you. You swoop down and carry me off to impossible places, places that make no sense. So far I’ve seen nothing to prove I’m anything more than a normal human being who’s attracted a supernatural stalker.”

“Not even when you look in the mirror?”

I’d forgotten about that. The red hair, the warm brown eyes, the secretive set of my mouth, my determined jaw. It still felt strange, even after well over a year, yet oddly familiar. But I wasn’t about to give up without a fight. “I figure that’s you clouding my mind.”

“ ‘Clouding your mind?’” he echoed. “If only it were that simple. Are you coming?” He was holding the door open, and I could see a hallway beyond it.

Maybe he’d be more forthcoming when we were eating. I’d been mocking him about the date, but in fact people tended to relax when they were
eating. With luck, he’d start answering at least a few harmless questions.

Though he hadn’t done so in that diner in the bush, I remembered suddenly. He’d simply made sure I couldn’t talk and proceeded to eat, giving me no choice but to follow suit.

We were on the second floor. I followed him into the formal hallway of what looked like a movie set, down the stairs, through the heavy front door, into the street. Gray cars and trucks drove by; gray-faced people filled the streets, with their gray clothes and their gray souls. Azazel seemed like an absolute rainbow as he walked among them in his stark black, but none of the inhabitants seemed to notice that both of us were different.

I could think of a dozen different movies of people living in black and white in a Technicolor universe, and I tried to remember what they’d done to break the spell. Dorothy had traveled in a house and landed on a witch in Oz. I could only wish a house would fall and splatter bits of Technicolor Azazel over the landscape.

Pleasantville?
Hadn’t people fallen in love and broken the black-and-white curse? Unfortunately there was no one for me to fall in love with, only my mortal enemy. Besides, I was pretty certain I’d never been in love in my entire life, even during those vast blank periods that made up most of it.
I certainly hadn’t loved Rolf. He’d filled a need, imperfectly, and I’d already let go. I wouldn’t miss him.

I rushed to keep up with Azazel. He was barely paying any attention to me. He must have known escape was pretty much out of the question.

“Do those creatures live here as well?”

That managed to get his attention. He glanced back at me. “Which creatures?”

“You know perfectly well which creatures—the ones you were serving me up to last time you kidnapped me. I never actually saw them, thank God, but—”

“The Nephilim.”

I shuddered, my memory still imperfect, my instinctive horror very real. “The what?”

“You heard me. They’re called the Nephilim. Creatures as old as time, angels who fell from heaven and went mad in the process. We have managed to wipe out most of them, but a few remain in Australia, others in Asia.”

“I don’t believe in angels.”

He kept walking ahead of me, but I somehow got the impression he was smiling. Which was flat-out impossible—Azazel didn’t smile. “Nevertheless,” he said in a neutral tone, “that is what they once were. Now they are simply abominations, feasting on human flesh.”

A shiver washed over me. “And who is this ‘we’?”

At that he did glance back at me, raising an eyebrow.

“You said, ‘We have managed to wipe out most of them,’” I said. “Who is ‘we’?”

“The rest of my kind.”

“And your kind is …?”

“None of your business.” He’d stopped outside a gray restaurant, the heavy drapes in the windows making it look like a café out of last-century Europe. He opened the door, his hand looking strange on the sepia knob, and gestured me inside.

This odd city might be devoid of color but the smells in the restaurant were rich and strong, spicy. The maître d’ who led us to a table was very old-school in shades of gray—he was dressed in formal wear, his manner punctilious as he held the chair for me. He glanced over at Azazel. “Will you be wanting to see him tonight, my lord?”

That managed to startle me. Why the hell was he calling Azazel “my lord”? A flash of annoyance crossed Azazel’s face. “I have yet to decide, Edgar. I will let you know.”

“Very good, my lord,” he said, bowing himself away from us. I watched with interest. I’d never seen someone actually try to move in that
position, but clearly Edgar had a great deal of experience.

I turned back to … to Azazel. There were other guests in the restaurant, speaking in muted voices, but no one even glanced in our direction. I assumed that to them we looked as gray as they did; otherwise they would surely be staring at us. In fact, anytime other diners glanced our way, they quickly averted their gazes, as if they’d looked at something they weren’t supposed to see.

They all looked beaten down and depressed. Well, if I lived a monochromatic life in a place called the Dark City, I’d be depressed too. I wondered if they were here because they wanted to be, or if, like me, they’d been dragged here against their wills. Not that Azazel would tell me if I asked.

It couldn’t hurt to try. “What is this place?”

“A restaurant.”

I gave up. It was a waste of time to ask. I sat back, biting my lip in annoyance, and again an expression flitted across his austere face that in someone more human might almost be a smile. “That is much better,” he murmured. “I prefer not to have you yammering at me. Your questions will be answered when the time is right.”

“And I don’t give a good goddamn what you
prefer,” I replied in my sweetest tones. Again he looked almost amused. “And what’s so damned funny?”

“Your phrasing.”

“Do you want to explain?”

“No.”

I contented myself with a low growl. I didn’t even ask if he was going to let me order for myself this time. I doubted it. It probably only made him feel superior to shut me down, and I was mortally tired of it. I could be just as taciturn as he could, even if it didn’t come naturally to me. Then again, I didn’t know what
did
come naturally to me.

“I am not convinced that
mortally
is the right word.”

I jumped. “Don’t tell me you read minds.”

“Occasionally.” He said it as if it were merely a boring incidental. “You are ridiculously easy to read.” Then he added, “You know you’re not mortal.”

I stared at him in astonishment, then remembered I was supposed to be some kind of demon. “I gather so-called demons are immortal. Then how could you kill me?”

“Immortals can be killed only by other immortals. Not by human means or natural occurrences. You cannot drown unless I am the one holding you under.”

“Doubtless a fond wish on your part,” I said. At least I had seen no water around this dark, depressing city.

He didn’t reply as a waiter appeared, laden with plates that as far as I could tell hadn’t been ordered. The food was horrible-looking—gray meat in gray gravy, pale potatoes, and taupe-colored vegetables. Even the wine looked muddy. But it smelled good, and that was all that mattered. I had a choice. I could let him cow me, refuse to eat, sit there in sullen silence. Or I could eat.

I ate. It tasted heavenly, so good I closed my eyes and moaned in pleasure. Normally I wasn’t a big fan of heavy German cooking, but this was so wonderful I’d risk a thousand clogged arteries for it. I glanced at his plate. Not much on it, and I had the sudden horrifying suspicion that they’d given me the wrong plate. His looked much more like the diet plates I’d been subsisting on for most of my life. Whatever life I could remember.

I set down my fork. “Did they give me the wrong plate?”

“No. You said you were hungry. I never eat much.”

I was going to ask him how they knew what to bring, then picked up my fork and shoveled more
food into my mouth instead. Two could play this game.

I ate in silence, slowly, savoring every bite, trying not to notice as he picked at his meager food. He wasn’t as thin as the first time I’d seen him. He’d filled out a bit, and there was definition to the muscles of his arms. Strong arms. But I knew that—he’d carried me effortlessly, flown with me …

No, that was wrong. I had no idea where that notion had come from, but it was ridiculous. Just as I finished the heavy meal, feeling not quite sated, coffee and a raspberry pastry arrived in front of me. I glanced up at him. “No chocolate bribes?”

It was a test. “You have never liked chocolate,” he said, giving me another piece of information. I was strongly tempted to demand a hot fudge sundae, but he was, as always, correct. I didn’t like chocolate. I had no idea how he knew these things, the minor details of a human life, but he did. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him.

The maître d’ appeared at our table when we were done, and I expected to see a discreet bill placed at Azazel’s elbow. There was no neat folder in Edgar’s hand. “He knows you’re here,” the man said in an undertone. “He wants to see her.”

An annoyed expression crossed my companion’s face. “She needs time.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion, my lord.”

Azazel tossed his heavy linen napkin on the table. Another man would have sighed in frustration. Azazel simply looked colder, if that were possible. He rose, glancing down at me. “Come.”

I was beginning to hate that word in his cold, commanding voice. “I’m not finished.” In fact, I was too full to eat much more, but I was determined to fight him at every step.

“Yes, you are.” He reached down for me, but I managed to keep out of his way, rising and almost knocking the chair over in my hurry to keep out of his grasp. The other customers were watching now, surreptitiously, and I wondered if it was good manners or something about Azazel in particular that made them circumspect. Or perhaps they were just so beaten down they didn’t really care.

I took a quick look around, wondering if there was anyone I could turn to for help. But the moment I tried to catch someone’s eyes, the person turned away as if I were unclean. I huffed with annoyance. I was on my own, but that was no novelty. I’d survived thousands … decades …

No, that wasn’t right. I’d survived years without
anyone’s help, and I’d survive this. After all, I’d managed to get out of the last trap he’d laid for me. Granted, it had been by his good graces, though I hated to call it that. His guilty conscience.

This new situation wasn’t nearly as desperate. He wasn’t threatening to kill me, at least not so far. Things had to be looking up.

We made a strange procession, the maître d’ leading the way through a door in the back of the dining room into a maze of dark, narrow hallways, Azazel behind me to keep me from bolting. It was scarcely necessary—where would I go? I tried to ignore my growing panic as we went deeper and deeper into the bowels of the building. If I was about to confront someone who could bend the intimidating Azazel to his will, then this creature must be terrifying indeed.

We finally stopped in front of a large, unprepossessing door. Our guide knocked, then pushed it open, and a none-too-gentle nudge from Azazel propelled me forward.

I found myself in a cozy room with comfortable furniture scattered about, a fire blazing in the fireplace, piles of books on most surfaces. The kind of place one would want to spend a rainy afternoon, I thought, looking around me for the inhabitant.

I hadn’t seen him at first, sitting in an overstuffed chair, at one with the cozy room. He was very old, with silky pale hair covering his scalp and drifting over his ears. He was as colorless as everyone else in this place, and I wondered if the same thing would happen to me and my captor, assuming we stayed long enough. He wore some kind of robe, and there was the comforting scent of pipe smoke in the air. Odd, how cigarettes and cigars smelled nasty but pipe smoke seemed dignified and comforting.

The old man gazed at me out of milky eyes, a pleasant expression on his lined face. “There you are, my dear,” he said, and his accent was British. No surprise—it fit perfectly with the ambience of old books and older brandy. His eyes narrowed as he saw Azazel behind me, and he was patently displeased. “Azazel.”

“Beloch,” Azazel murmured in return with the merest inclination of his head. “This is not a good time.”

“It’s a good time for me,” the man called Beloch said in a sharp tone. “You’ll have to adapt.” He turned back to me, and his smile was both charming and avuncular. If he and Azazel were enemies, then he was clearly my new best friend. “My dear, why don’t you have a seat across from me? It’s been a long time since I’ve had such
a lovely young woman visit me in my old bachelor quarters. This is quite a treat. Azazel, pour us both a glass of brandy. Pour one for yourself while you’re at it.”

I’d been right about the brandy. I considered refusing—the idea of drinking anything stronger than wine was not appealing—but I didn’t want this distinguished old gentleman looking at me with the scarcely veiled contempt he directed at Azazel. A moment later Azazel placed a brandy snifter in my cold hand, and I reflexively closed my fingers around the stem, brushing against his skin.

He jerked back, and the brandy sloshed a little.

Beloch made a deprecating sound at such clumsiness. “You may leave us.”

“No.” Azazel’s short, unemotional response wasn’t reserved for me alone, I was glad to see.

Beloch’s mouth tightened. “Then sit in a corner and be quiet.” He must have noticed my worried glance at Azazel, for he continued in a warm voice, “Don’t worry about him, Rachel. He has a very controlling nature, and he doesn’t like bowing to the will of others. Unfortunately for him, I outrank him when he’s in this place, and he’s sworn to do as I command.”