He lifted an eyebrow rakishly, but ruined the effect of it with his crooked grin. "Please do."
His answer widened her smile, even as it left her nonplussed. Aside from his hesitation upon her first seeing him, his bearing was more self-assured than she remembered. It wasn't arrogance, but a quiet confidence that left her uncertain, shaken.
Amidst her confusion, she tried to think of some witty reply; her gaze lowered to his mouth, and heat unfurled in her belly so quickly her thoughts deserted her and left her speechless.
Her sudden silence must have alarmed him. "Emily? Is it your shoulder? Do you want me to try to heal it?"
She nodded dumbly, grateful that he had given her an excuse. It wouldn't do to admit that she'd just had the most delicious inclination to trail kisses from his mouth to that gorgeous, shockingly bare throat. She wanted to taste him there, run her tongue down the cords on either side of his neck.
Perhaps there wasn't much difference between vampire and sister after all.
She turned to hide her disconcertment, presenting him with her back. She let go of the blanket and it dropped to her lap, allowing him better access to her shoulder.
Her chemise was a plain, sturdy one; beneath its wide shoulders she could see the dull bruise that had already formed below her skin. There were several more down the length of her arms, and she suddenly felt embarrassed, exposed—not by her underclothing, but by the fear that he would see her failure in those marks. Anthony had apparently been strong enough to defy death, and she…
"For a moment, I stopped fighting him," she admitted quietly. "I almost gave up."
The dip of the mattress signaled his movement as he kneeled behind her. His body seemed to radiate warmth; remembering the comfort she had felt when she'd awakened, she wanted to lean back against him, let him support her with his steady strength.
"You did, though." His voice was low, his fingers gentle as he probed lightly at her shoulder.
Her breath hissed out between clenched teeth, and he murmured in apology and removed his hand.
Despite the pain, she had to smile at his long, disappointed sigh. "It didn't work?"
"No. I will try again in a moment—I've only just discovered this gift."
Shifting around, she looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?"
His gaze fell to her chest. "When I healed the claw marks Colin ü It on you, that was the first time."
With a sense of wonder, she touched her clavicle. She had forgotten about the scratches. She glanced down, looking for any sign i them—but aside from a small tear and a stain of blood on the neckline of her chemise, there was none. "Thank you," she said belatedly.
She felt his gaze linger on the rise of her breasts, and the heat in his expression made her nipples peak beneath the soft linen. He glanced up, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and she was once again reminded of the difference in his mien.
He would never have looked at her with such blatant interest, nor been so openly pleased by her reaction.
Whatever he had become, it was definitely not an angel.
She clung to that thought and tried to shift her focus from his usually sculpted mouth to something less… unnerving. Something secure. Something that had nothing to do with heat and craving and the bewildering sense that everything she'd thought she'd I known about desire had recently tumbled into pieces around her.
"Tell me about angels," she blurted.
His eyes narrowed, as if he sensed she was running from him.
But his tone was even when he said, "I don't know any. Hugh and I are Guardians."
She waited a beat and then blinked. "Oh," she said. "Of course. Guardians."
He stared at her in surprise and then grinned. "I was going to make it difficult for you, make you drag each bit of information out of me. I can tell you've caught on."
"I have a nephew," she said dryly.
At her comparison of him to a twelve-year-old, his lips pursed as if he'd eaten something sour.
She wanted to lick that expression from his very adult mouth. With a deep sigh, she prompted, "Guardians?"
He regarded her intensely for a moment, and she nervously wetted her lips. Following the movement with his eyes, he said, "Guardians are men and women who have been chosen to protect humans from demons and creatures such as the nosferatu. We aren't angels, though I'm told we have similar abilities and powers as them."
"Such as?"
"I'm strong, fast." He met her gaze; the outline of his thick, dark lashes emphasized the startling blue of his irises. "I can materialize wings and fly." This, with a wistful tone.
She tried to imagine him soaring through the air and felt a dig of envy and disbelief. But she had seen his wings; she could not doubt him.
"And you can heal," she said.
He reached out, his hand hovering over her shoulder. A focused expression came over his face—then frustration as he pulled his hand away. "Not always." His lashes swept down as he looked at his fists, and he continued softly, "Not every Guardian can heal—we each have particular gifts. My mentor's, for example, is Truth. It is very difficult, if not impossible, to lie to him. Unfortunately." He added the last with a rueful grin.
She remembered the youth who had been with him and his strange attire. "Your mentor—is he a priest? He's so young!"
Anthony's shoulders shook with laughter. "I've heard from other Guardians that Hugh was either a novice or a scribe during King John's reign. I do not know for certain, however—he has never related his history to me."
As she could easily imagine Hugh bent over a parchment or an illuminated manuscript, she nodded. "You do not age, then?"
"No. Our powers develop and increase over time, though. Most Guardians can not only create wings and clothes, as I can, but also shift their shape completely."
She eyed his breeches, leather riding boots, and loose shirt, "Your clothes are an illusion?" A blush heated her cheeks at the thought of him sitting next to her, naked but for a trick. Her fingers itched to reach out and test.
"They're real," he said, grinning as if he'd read her thoughts. "Things that are familiar to me are easy to create; also, things that I want very badly, like the wings. But shifting is much more difficult—Hugh claims I am holding on to my human life too strongly to let my form change."
Remembering all the people in her life she had recently had to let go, and the grief it had brought, she said quietly, "That is not such a bad thing, is it?"
He touched the corner of her lips, smoothing away her frown.
"No."
His eyes became troubled. "Emily, there is something I need if tell you."
Her gut tightened in immediate refusal—she didn't want to know what had brought that tortured expression to his face.
He took a deep breath. "The nosferatu attacked you and Colin and set fire to the house in London because of memories he found in me."
"The nosferatu set fire to—" Her voice broke. She closed her eyes, blinking back tears. "Why?"
"He wants your father's sword. We believe the fire was intended to divert attention from its loss afterward; but, he must not have found it—and that is why you and Colin were targeted next."
"The sword?" She shook her head in wordless denial. Pain ripped at her heart, grief all the worse for her certainty that she deserved it, that her childish desire to hurt her father had caused it.
Numbly, she whispered, "I killed them." She raised dull eyes to his face. "I destroyed my family."
Chapter Seven
It is not the Guardian's duty to seek justice, only to protect. Judgment is a function for those Above; Morningstar and his cohorts were thrown out because of their ambition to punish, and to take on roles that were not theirs. A Guardian does not follow in a demon's footsteps.