Demon Moon (14 page)

“What of your father's family?”

“Dead,” she said flatly.

His brows rose. “And good riddance to them?”

“Yes.”

“You look upon
me
without that storm on your face. Do not keep me in suspense, Savitri. I adore tales of familial loathing, most likely because I've not personally experienced it; but I promise I shall hate yours viciously.”

She stopped dicing, afraid she might cut off her thumb if he made her laugh. “It's pretty simple: my dad was an only child, his parents were from old money.” At his questioning look, she clarified, “My great-great-grandfather was a robber baron.”

“That is not old money.”

Savi pursed her lips before continuing, “Established money, then. My grandfather sat on boards, did the philanthropic thing. My dad was supposed to do the same; instead he went off to medical school, worked in the surgery, and married an immigrant.”

“How irresponsible of him. Which was the most offensive of that vile list?”

“The immigrant. My mother was never welcomed, nor were my brother and I. And after they were killed, my grandparents wouldn't have anything to do with me.”

His eyes narrowed, his head tilting to the side as he studied her. “Come now, Savitri—you cannot harbor that much vitriol for two people you'd nothing to do with.”

She smiled slightly. “I don't think about them often; I only harbor it when I think of it. And I was probably better off for their lack of interest.”

“I daresay.” He picked up the mango again, smelled it before setting it back down. “Castleford once mentioned that your grandfather left you a significant inheritance. Guilty conscience?”

“I don't think it was out of guilt or duty.”

“Fear of being discovered a virulent xenophobe?”

“Yes. Keeping up appearances. He always did it with money. Like when I was fourteen, Nani had had enough of his refusals to see me. So we flew to Boston, showed up at his office. She was convinced he was just grieving, and that all he'd have to do was look at me and I'd win him over. Remind him of my dad, or something. And it was pretty clear by then I'd be finishing high school early. I'd been accepted into Harvard without the pull of the family name, but I was too young to be on my own. She wouldn't have to move away from the restaurant if they would agree to take me in—or at least keep an eye on me. And she was proud of me, so she assumed they would be, too.”

The memory left a bitter taste on her tongue. She popped a cube of cucumber into her mouth, took a second—and kept her voice light when she finally said, “I wore one of those cute little girly dresses. Nani even put on a nice conservative suit. Chanel. And we waited in the lobby for three hours, until his secretary came down with a ten-thousand-dollar check, and let us know that if we ever needed more, he'd send it here to San Francisco.”

“Did you need it?”

“No. I had a lot from my parents, insurance—and Nani does well with the restaurant.”

“Ah, don't tell me: You were self-righteous and tore up his check? Were virtuous and gave it to charity?”

Savi grinned. “Hardly. Nani blew it on a trip to India, and introduced me to some of her family. All very distant cousins, but they didn't treat us like shit.”

His laughter was low, with an edge of surprise. “How I adore your
nani
. That is the perfect response.”

“Yeah.” It hadn't made up for the humiliation Nani had gone through, sitting like discarded trash in foreign clothing, but it had given a small measure of satisfaction. “Anyway, that was the last I saw of him. I didn't care—and we never spoke of them again until about three years ago, when family lawyers told me he was dead.”

“And it
was
good riddance,” he said, still laughing softly.

“Definitely.” She pointed with her knife. “Pick out one of those mangoes…whichever smells the best to you.”

He closed his eyes as he inhaled each one, and she let herself examine the angle of his cheekbones, the slight hollows beneath. Chic. Gorgeous.

Her gaze drifted down. His throat was tanned; how long would it take to fade? Eight months ago, he'd been startlingly pale.

“Savi. Do tell me what you are thinking.”

Of how good his skin had felt on her tongue and between her teeth. She swallowed. “That you are the only guy I know who can pull off a velvet corduroy blazer with a Nehru collar without looking as if you are
trying
to pull it off.”

“Perhaps,” he said dryly, “because I am not a
guy
.”

She couldn't keep her response to a grin; she chuckled softly, shaking her head. The mango he'd chosen was cool under her fingers, and she sliced it with deft strokes. “I was also thinking that I should stop being surprised when you, Hugh, and Lilith don't react to the idea of an arranged marriage the way I expect you to. The way most people do. Not just Americans—some Desis, too. Especially those my age.”

“Condemning it as a barbaric practice?”

“Or at least old-fashioned.”

“It may be that, but I prefer to save my expressions of horror for true barbarianism: polyester, reality television, and Castleford's wardrobe.” He shrugged. “Old-fashioned and outdated are not equivalent. I've known many successful arrangements of convenience, and many unsuccessful love matches. I've also known many to be the opposite. What do you care of the approval of others?”

“I don't. I'm just surprised.”

“You shouldn't be. In my lifetime, arranged marriages have been commonplace far longer than they have been not.”

“Yeah. But then, so were corsets and unequal gender rights.”

“Every time you turn and journey to the faucet, I offer a prayer of gratitude for progress, liberation, and the designers who popularized hip-hugging denims.” His gaze settled on her chest. “And baby tees.”

She didn't glance down; if she was aroused, there was little she could do to stop it—but she could ignore it. “Here you go.” The crescents of mango glistened a deep yellow-orange on the salad plate. “Eat it with your fingers; everything tastes better that way.”

“Savitri, I cannot—”

“I know. I don't mean
taste
taste. This mango isn't the greatest, anyway—but it's got a nice scent. Half of flavor is the odor. I experimented once by holding my nose through an entire meal.” She lied; it had only been through a couple of bites.

Colin arched a brow, but she could have sworn amusement lay beneath the doubt. He picked up a slice.

“The texture is almost perfect. So take a long sniff, and eat it.”

He bit off the end with a decisive snap of his teeth. The hollows in his cheeks deepened, as if he was lightly sucking on it.

She licked her lips. “Smooth and juicy, right? Now imagine that smell in your mouth, and you're close.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, and he set the remainder of the slice on the plate.

“Put it away, Savi,” he said. “I'll not be held responsible for my actions if you do not. Your shields are up, but your physical scent is…and the flesh of the mango is almost precisely like—” His eyes closed. “No, you cannot know.”

Oh, god. She hadn't intended to tease him. She swept the plate from the bar, stuck it in the refrigerator. “I know.” Looking back over her shoulder, she found him staring at her. “I've always been curious. I just prefer what I can't see in a mirror.”

Recovering himself with a visible shake, he said, “As do I.”

He was serious. Savi caught her bottom lip between her teeth to stop her laughter. But he must have read it on her face when she returned to the counter; his own smile flashed.

“Pray tell me you have two of those.” Colin nodded to the bottle of wine she'd retrieved from the fridge.

She blinked in surprise. “Do you drink it?”

“No. The alcohol has no effect, and the liquid no taste. But it does the most incredible damage to your psychic shields. I shall keep your glass filled.”

He was right: either drunkenness or the fever had affected her blocks at Polidori's; it was unfortunate she couldn't test which one. Perhaps it had been a combination of both?

“I've sworn off alcohol for a while; this is for Hugh and Lilith. Will you bite this?”

His fingers enfolded hers and the jalapeno pepper she'd offered him, but he did not take it. “Why?”

“It's an experiment. There's flavor, and then there's heat—but both are chemical reactions, like alcohol on a body. So I'm curious to see if it's spicy to you, even if it doesn't taste like anything.”

“If I comply, you must agree to allow me to drive you to Auntie's tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“And to drive you home when you've finished.”

“Okay.”

“And to kiss me.”

“If I feel like it.”

He grinned. “You will. You do now.” He released her hand, and she braced herself, took deliberate account of her body. Quick breathing, heavy awareness in her belly and breasts—

“Bloody hell!” Colin coughed, choked. His eyes were wide with shock—and they were streaming tears. In the next instant, he was around the bar, leaning over the sink.

“Not water! Bread. Or the yogurt.”

She grabbed the tub of plain yogurt she had out, but he'd already unwrapped the foil from around the store-bought naan. He ripped off a piece of the flatbread.

His eyes narrowed dangerously as he chewed it.

“Sorry.” She clapped her hands in front of her mouth, but couldn't stop her giggles. “Sorry.”

He glanced down at the naan in his hand and froze, his features a mask of terror. “Is this garlic?”

“And onion…ohmygod.” Her heart stilled. “I thought garlic didn't—” She
knew
it didn't. “You ass,” she said, and this time her laughter rolled deep in her throat.

His fangs gleamed wickedly, and he tossed the bread near the stove. He'd taken his shoes off. His socks were silk, the same dark gray as his pants. Silently, he crossed the kitchen, until she backed up and he trapped her with his hands clamped on the countertop behind her hips.

She tilted her head to look up at him, her body still shaking with her laughter. “What are you doing?”

“Don't you want to observe the results of your experiment, sweet?”

“Oh. Yes.” Slowly, she managed to get hold of herself. She scrutinized his face. No signs of reddening, and his eyes no longer watered. “Does your stomach hurt? Does your tongue still burn?”

“No.” Deep grooves formed beside his mouth; he seemed to be suppressing his own amusement with some difficulty.

“You recover quickly.”

“Yes. But I should have known better than to take such a careless risk.” His gaze fell to her lips. “Where are Castleford and Lilith?”

Trying to steady her breathing, she glanced down at his hands clenched on the edge of the counter. His wrists were just outside the curve of her waist—an inch, and he'd be touching her.

The thought didn't keep her steady.

“Savitri?”

What had he asked? Hugh and Lilith. What had they been—“Oh,” she said. Her throat tightened, and she tried to look away from him—but there was nowhere else to look. “They were in the living room a while ago. If you can't sense them, they must be in their bedroom or Hugh's office. Probably with the spell around it. Lilith was…upset.”

He stilled, staring down at her. “As, apparently, are you. Did you quarrel?”

“No. I just listened.” Though it had been difficult not to interrupt them with her questions. With her concerns. “They found out that Washington might deny SI's request to execute the nosferatu…Ariphale. His name is Ariphale,” she repeated to herself.

“That does not make it more human,” Colin said quietly.

“I know.” She smiled up at him, but it quickly faltered. The idea that an entire race of creatures was inherently “evil” seemed ridiculous and stank of bigotry. Yet everything she'd seen and heard confirmed they were. She said with more conviction, “I
know
what they are. I attacked him on the plane—would've killed him—because I knew. And it's the same, isn't it? I did it to protect myself and Nani; Lilith and Hugh want to execute him to protect SI and anyone else if he escaped. And it's inevitable that, eventually, he will. There's no doubt of his nature, no way to rehabilitate him. Yet the idea of his execution makes me uneasy.”

Sensation skittered over her skin as Colin touched his fingers lightly against her waist before settling his hand beside her hip again. “How long has it been since you learned of the nosferatu? Of demons and vampires and Guardians? As smooth as your adjustment has been, eight months is not time enough to understand a world that has completely shifted its axis.” Empathy filled his gaze, his tone. His compassion was undoubtedly manipulative, a method of gaining her trust—but did that mean the emotion had to be false? And why did she want so badly to believe it was authentic? “Do not chide yourself for your uneasiness, Savi. Those who easily accept things so different from what they've known are too easily led.”