"No, healing—" Anthony paused and glanced at Emily. Her eyes were still closed. "You just made a joke," he said in disbelief.
Hugh regarded him steadily. "Hardly. I was expressing hope: we need her awake. This situation is more complicated than we had realized. Colin's behavior is not just the result of starvation; he has not been completely turned."
Anthony's heart sank. "We can't kill the nosferatu then. We'll need him to finish it."
"Yes."
"Can we trust him to do it?"
Hugh cast him a reproving glance and walked slowly over to the bed to look down at Emily. "Of course not. Nosferatu are even more treacherous than demons. And though demons are bound by law not to kill humans, nosferatu are not. He'd not hesitate in murdering Colin." Almost absently, he touched Emily's perfectly healed skin. "Which leads me to our other problem."
Anthony tore his eyes away from the other man's fingers and fought the possessive urge to remove the Guardian's hand from Emily's chest. "Which problem is that?" he asked tightly.
"Lilith." A long-suffering sigh escaped him, and he folded his hands into his robe. "A demon."
Chapter Six
Human motives are rarely as simple as they appear, their actions driven by myriad emotions and thoughts. Demons name them—greed, lust, envy—but these shallow words cannot do the human heart justice; Guardians must learn to read its complexities.
— The Doyen Scrolls
Emily tried to remain asleep, snuggling deeper into the warmth surrounding her. It had been so long since she'd felt secure, and the arms holding her were strong, the voice crooning in her ear familiar.
But the insistent ache in her shoulder would not let her rest, nor would the lingering sense of horror that crept around the edges of her sleep. Something had gone dreadfully wrong.
She slowly surfaced; the crooning that had lulled her stopped, the arms holding her tensed as if in expectation of her waking and then slipped from around her.
Anthony's arms. Anthony Ramsdell had saved her.
Perhaps she had stopped believing in miracles too soon.
When she opened her eyes, she was lying on her bed, a blanket draped over her. Pillows propped her shoulders and head, and she had to turn only slightly to see him.
Anthony leaned back against the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him. She felt the pressure of his thigh against her hip, as if he'd withdrawn his embrace out of propriety but couldn't completely give up all physical contact.
His wings were gone, and the hesitancy on his face made her want to cry.
She smiled instead. "I suppose it was too much to hope that I'd actually make it to Heaven."
He pressed his lips together as if holding back a laugh. He'd always done that, she remembered—particularly when he was around her. He'd always taken his time answering, always paused before laughing, as if he didn't trust himself to speak or react spontaneously.
She had taken advantage of that once, and the memory made her flush with shame. She forced herself to add, "After all, women who compromise innocent men are hardly candidates for sainthood."
As an apology for a wrong, it wasn't a very good one—but judging by the way the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement, one he appreciated.
"And I am sorry I died and couldn't return to make a reformed hoyden of you as I'd promised," he replied solemnly.
She gasped in mock outrage and then burst into laughter. It felt good to let her worries go, even for a moment—but that moment passed all too soon, and her laughter expired on a sigh.
She sat up, holding the blanket to her chest with her uninjured arm. He must have already seen her in dishabille, but it seemed important to maintain at least some semblance of modesty in front of him, particularly if he had become what she suspected.
Thinking of the wings she'd seen, she pulled the covering higher.
The pain in her other shoulder flared, and she winced. Noting his concerned look, she asked, "Is it broken?"
"No. It was dislocated; it will be sore for some time. Unless I can heal it," he added.
Something about his tone made her narrow her eyes. That summer, Robert had used that same tone when he'd promised to show her a trick he'd taught his pony; he'd been bursting with pride at his own cleverness. She had ended up with mud in her hair and down the back of her favorite riding habit. "Unless you can heal it?" she echoed suspiciously.
He nodded, and his hair fell into his eyes. She had to resist the j urge to smooth it back. She clenched her fingers more tightly on the | blanket to give her uninjured arm something to do besides touching him, besides assuring herself that he was real.
He watched her carefully. "Do you need to he down again? I know this is a lot to absorb, but—"
She pinned him with a disbelieving stare and didn't wait for him to finish. "Half of my family died six months ago. Since then, my brother and I were attacked by a monster, and that monster was chased away by a red-skinned flying woman with a sword. I've had to send my staff away tor their own safety, because my brother has become another monster. That is a lot to absorb. Discovering that my dead friend has become an angel is nothing."
His lips pressed together again, but he managed, "I'm not an angel."
She paused and examined him closely for the first time. His hair was as untidy and overlong as always, and it was still a deep chestnut brown. He'd rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing strong, tanned forearms with a light dusting of hair. Though his shirt was of a fine cloth and blindingly white, he didn't wear a coat to cover it, or a cravat. She should have realized that his exposed, masculine throat was too immodest for Heaven—and the cling of his breeches against his lean, muscular thighs would be positively indecent.
Why had she never before noted how lovely his eyes were? They seemed to glow with blue fire, and his grin made her heart skip.
"You are beautiful enough to be one," she said boldly, and enjoyed the blush that crept over his cheeks, "but your clothing probably left too much to be desired."
"Colin always professed that sartorial excellence was next to godliness," he said.
At the mention of her brother, Emily could not keep the sadness from her smile; she didn't try. "Can you heal him?" she said, and was sorry that her question made his good humor fade.
"No."
She sighed. "What are we to do with him?"
He raised his hand and cupped her cheek. She turned her face into his palm, afraid to see the answer in his eyes. "Hugh is watching over him right now. I'm not certain we can help him, but we will do everything we can." He tipped her chin so she had to look at him. "If we do find the creature that did this, Colin will live—but lie will never be human again."
"What will he be? Like you?" She couldn't stop the hopeful note from entering her voice. Whatever Anthony was, it had to be better than the thing Colin had become.
"No. He'll be a vampire," he replied, and when her lip trembled it his answer he smoothed his thumb over it. He held her ga7e with his and addressed her darkest fear. "He'll be himself, for the most part. He won't be evil, Emily—he won't be like the nosferatu who attacked you."
She released a deep, shuddering breath; she had been so afraid Colin would die, would have to die, that she'd never allowed herself to consider an alternative.
And yet an alternative was possible—perhaps not a perfect one, hut one she could accept.
She had thought happiness had deserted her, but it suddenly bubbled through her like water and washed away the grief and shame that had held her soul numb. On impulse, she kissed his thumb, then dipped her chin and pressed another to his palm.
When he looked at her in surprise, she bounced up onto her knees and kissed him heartily on the mouth. Her shoulder protested the movement, but her face was all smiles when she pulled back and' said, "I could kiss you forever for what you've just given me."