“No.” The word gasps out of me instinctively and I nearly touch her again, my hand rising to cup her face, only to fall away again.
Her hair is tousled from my kisses. And her cheeks are flushed in the candlelight. I realize, as I had not in my passion, that her lip is swollen and the skin just under the corner of it is purpled with a bruise. I cannot heal it.
“Not forever,” I say distractedly. “Has someone hurt you?”
She reaches two fingers up to gingerly prod at the bruise.
“Hefertus,” she says a little wryly. I don’t know what my face does to show my vitriol, but she hurries to add, “The Engineers told him about the demon. It would seem all good men of faith want me dead once they hear that.”
I swallow and lower my hand and say very carefully, “I think now would be a good time to try explaining it to me.”
A spark of fear shoots into her eyes and her gaze flicks to our swords still lying on the floor, unclaimed.
“I told you we were casting out a demon when it jumped into Sir Branson.”
“You did,” I agree gravely.
She bites her lip. “I had to kill him. He was trying to kill me and I couldn’t get the demon out and I would have died. And then the demon could have rampaged anywhere, hurt anyone.”
I nod. That part is all understandable. It is the other part that doesn’t sit well. The part where she didn’t also kill the dog.
“But when the demon jumped into the dog, I was able to subdue Brindle.”
“But you didn’t cast the demon out,” I say carefully, trying not to accuse. It is an effort so great that I should be Sainted on the spot.
“I couldn’t.”
I wait. If the God did not want her dead for her misdeeds, then he must have a reason. This time it is she who turns her back and drifts to the rail.
“And then Sir Branson’s soul was in the dog, too. And I didn’t have the heart to kill poor Brindle when that meant saying goodbye to Sir Branson forever.”
I feel myself soften with understanding. The old man I’d seen with the dog and the demon. I’d almost forgotten about him.
“Goodbye?” I echo, not sure what else to say.
She spins and looks at me and she swallows hard. “They speak to me. Both of them. All day long.”
“Saints.” I run a hand over my face. What must that be like?
“Yes.” She twists her fingers through her disheveled hair and looks at the ceiling.
She is beautiful, this mess of a woman. Beautiful and clever and terribly troublesome, and my fingers itch to hold her again. Her kiss still burns my lips. I want the taste of her back in my mouth. I want the feel of her back in my arms. What shall I do? I am ruined by her.
“His insights are true sometimes. But he lies to me, too. The demon, I mean.”
“He’s why you can read Ancient Indul,” I say, finally understanding.
“He lied about this place. He calls it an arcanery now. A monastery — but for those who worship demons.”
I inhale sharply through my nose.
Her wry smile twists even more. “Exactly. What do you think we’re building as we go through each step of this carefully laid out puzzle?”
“I dare not guess.”
She takes a step forward and I inhale again, and this time I draw in her musk and sage scent. “Do you believe that men make their own demons, Sir Adalbrand?”
I pause, and when I speak it’s with deliberate care. “In war, sometimes. In life, also. We terrorize ourselves.”
