Demon's Kiss by Eve Silver

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    The hum of desire buzzed through him, and riding it, the sharp edge of darkness writhing inside the leather-and-alloy glove, trying to wriggle free. It wanted out. It wanted her.
    Christe. What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t have her. The risk was too great.
    “So you’re what? Some kind of magician?” Clea set the cup down on the table with meticulous care and raised her eyes to his.
    Ciarran jerked, clenching his fist as he battled the urge to reach out and touch her. She’d called him a magician. He ought to be offended, but he wasn’t sure he cared. He just wanted to touch her.
    “So last night, at the Blue Bay, when the . . . uh . . . demon came after you, it scratched your arm through the leather of your jacket. I watched you bleed.” Her attention shifted to the skin of his arms, unmarked, unbroken, and she frowned. “I saw you bleed. Which means that you’re human and that whatever you did was some kind of trick, right?”
    “I am no magician, Clea. I am High Sorcerer.”
    “Isn’t that the same thing?”
    “No.”
    “Okay. So you are High Sorcerer,” she mused softly, repeating his earlier explanation as though trying the words on for size. “Guardian of the wall.” She cocked her head to one side, and a frown etched small creases between her brows. “So then you can tell me now”—she held one hand in front of her, trembling, sparking faint filaments of light, and she spread her fingers wide—“ what exactly am I ?”
    She raised her gaze to his, eyes slightly narrowed, such a serious, intent look, but instead of the terror and confusion he expected, there was only interest. Watchfulness. A huge dose of curiosity. He wasn’t surprised to find that Clea focused on learning rather than being afraid.
    “This light, my light . . . is it . . . magic?” she asked. “Like yours? Will it do what yours did”—her voice caught—“to that demon? Do I have to be worried that I’ll be walking through the grocery store and end up shredding things?” She shivered. “Shredding people?”
    He threw back his head and laughed, an amazingly rich, sinfully appealing sound. Clea closed her eyes for a moment and just listened, letting it wash over her, stroking her senses.
    “Bloodthirsty, are you?” God, when he smiled like that, she didn’t think she’d ever seen anything more dazzling. He didn’t look as tough or menacing when he smiled.
    And that just made her wonder what the hell she was doing, thinking of climbing all over a guy who had to be the scariest human being she’d ever met.
    She looked at him, considering his question. “Not even slightly bloodthirsty. No, I just want to understand the big picture. Get an idea of where I fit in.”
    “Ah. A sensible approach.”
    Yep. That was her. Sensible. Which was why it made no sense that she was sitting in her kitchen, actually believing he was some sort of . . . what? Warlock? Sorcerer? Protector of all mankind?
    Because she’d seen that demon last night. Smelled it. Felt the burn of its flesh on the skin of her cheek. Absently, she raised her hand, ran her fingers along the skin of her face, and felt . . . nothing. No burn. No scab. She remembered Ciarran touching her cheek and the sensation of electric energy arcing into her.
    What in heaven’s name was going on here? Her idea of reality was doing a quick about-face, and she had the feeling that she didn’t have much choice in the matter.
    “So what’s really going—”
    Ciarran’s eyes narrowed, and he held up his ungloved hand, his movement and the harsh expression on his face cutting short her words. Tension laced his features, as though he was listening for some almost imperceptible sound. Rising, he spun a slow circle, his body beginning to glow, first with a faint light, then stronger, and stronger still. The look on his face was intense. Dangerous.
    Clea’s stomach took a long, slow roll, as it always did when her power swelled. A shiver of nervousness