And then, just as I was about to struggle, he gentled, and the kiss became a sweet wooing, a delicious temptation, and his long fingers slid beneath the flimsy bra, pushing it up and out of the way, and I wanted to gasp with the sharp pleasure of those fingers against my pebbled flesh.

He brought his hands up to cradle my head, as impossibly the kiss deepened, and I wanted my clothes off—now. I wanted to strip him naked and feel him inside of me, pulsing and thrusting. I could sense it, anticipate it, feel the thick push of him, and I cried out against his mouth as a small climax startled me.

And then I was shoved away, roughly, and I almost fell. My legs felt weak, rubbery, and I wanted more, wanted to reach out and beg him, wanted everything wicked and impossible and glorious. For the first time in my memory, in any of my twisted memories, I wanted sex and darkness and lust. His push had knocked my head against the doorjamb, but I hid it. I stared up into his eyes and saw the contempt and hatred there, and the desire, the need, vanished. I wanted to shrivel up and die.

“Quite lovely,” he said in an acid voice. “You have the reserved-virgin thing down pat. If we wanted to kick it up a notch, you could try to summon the Nightmen and I could disappear, but I don’t think they’ll come. You have no choice.”

I stared at him. He was doing a damned good job of controlling his breathing, but I had felt him against my stomach, hard. I wasn’t going to look at his crotch, I wasn’t going to look anywhere but his hard, furious face, and his coldness reached into me so that I wanted to shake and shiver. I pressed back against the wooden doorjamb to keep my body still, lifted my chin, and found a cool smile to answer him with.

“No choice?” I echoed, taking the salient phrase from his biting attack. “No choice in what?”

“You are a whore,” he said. “You exist to corrupt mankind.”

I didn’t flinch. It was another of his lies. My memory might be damaged, but my body had known with Rolf—known the frustration, the emptiness. Sex was a necessity for men and a trial for women. “But you said you’re not a man,” I shot back, uncowed. “Therefore you’re incorruptible.”

“That’s what Beloch wants me to prove.”

“Prove that you’re resistant to my so-called wiles?” I laughed, just slightly shaky. “You’ve already proven that.” I ignored the memory of his erection against me. “It’s hardly a great accomplishment. I’m no great beauty, no seductress. It should be fairly easy to resist me.”

He made no effort to come closer, and my heartbeat was beginning to slow. My mouth burned from his, and I wanted to get away from him. “You know that you are impossible to resist. To deny it is a waste of time.”

I couldn’t help it, I laughed again. The idea was patently absurd. “Oh, yeah? Why is that?”

“You know as well as I do. You are not simply some ordinary demon. You are the Lilith, the first wife, the consort of monsters, the succubus who enters men’s dream, the one who smothers newborn babies for pleasure. You’re a monster.”

His words chilled me. His ice finally covered me, trapping me, and I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t cry out that he was lying when I knew that beneath it all there was truth there, somewhere amidst all the great lies.

He didn’t expect any response. He could see the shock in my eyes, knew that he’d managed to reach me. “Go to bed,” he said. “Or I’ll take you there.”

The threat shouldn’t have astonished me, not after that kiss. But it did, it shook me to my soul. Because I despised him. And I would have gone with him, willingly.

Without another word, I left him staring after me. I went, and I hid. From him. And from the creature I was afraid I was.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I DIDN’T BELIEVE HIM. OF COURSE I didn’t. He could just as well have said I was Jack the Ripper. I might have an impaired memory, but I would know if I were the epitome of female evil.

Because oddly enough, I remembered all the stories. The sources of the Lilith myth, and myth it was. Lilitu, the Mesopotamian storm demon. Lamia, the screech owl who devoured children and drove men to distraction, the queen of infertility and predatory sexuality, the queen of the night and the wind. Lamia, the raptor. As well as Adam’s first wife, the one who was cursed and banished to lie with demons and kill children.

I was shivering now, and I didn’t have to hide it. I managed to get back to my room, slamming the door behind me. I leaned back against it, staring around the grayness with numb horror. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.

But … I had run from babies, certain they would die if I stayed near them. It had made no sense, but in the snippets of my various lives I could remember what had precipitated my flight. A sick infant. Or the return of the shadows. Of Azazel, watching, waiting to take me. Just how long had he stalked me? How long had he waited before taking me?

I slid down onto the floor, wishing I could weep. I’d never been one to cry—could demons cry? But I’m human! I wanted to scream. I bled, I loved, I hated. I hated Azazel with such a fierce passion that I could burn through the ice that encased him. But surely demons could hate.

There was little else average about me. I had no family, no history. I kept away from men in general, even though they tended to pay me too much attention. If I were some eternal seductress, surely I would have a better sex life to show for it, not the unsatisfying couplings Rolf had provided.

But that was another clue, wasn’t it? Why couldn’t I remember more of the mythology of the first wife? Why had she been banished? It wasn’t eating the apple. That was the crime of the second wife, the usurper, the—

Christ, what was wrong with me? Though as a feminist icon Eve had left a lot to be desired, my cold contempt felt … personal. There was no way this absurd story could be true. If I remembered clearly, those stories ended up contradicting themselves. Some sources saw Lilith as a goddess figure, ripe and loving and powerful, while others saw the devouring demon. Those sources were likely divided along gender lines—patriarchal historians never liked a strong woman.

But why did I know so much about this? Early myths were hardly common knowledge. What had driven me to study these things? If, in fact, it was study and not some ancient memory.

No, he was wrong. I knew that. It was no wonder he hated me, treated me with such contempt. No wonder he thought I deserved execution and nothing more. But he was wrong. He had me confused with someone else.

The more I fought it, the more the truth pushed back. His kiss had awoken something, some hidden memory that I was still refusing to examine. I’d felt it, along with the rush of desire. The truth had come with it, a nagging, hated hitchhiker that I was still avoiding.

The bed across the room looked too big, too far away, too high to climb into. I made an effort to stand, but it was too much. Everything was too much. I curled up on the rug, my hand beneath my face. My eyes were dry, when surely this was a time for tears. But I couldn’t remember crying, not ever. I squeezed my eyes tight, willing them to come, but they stayed dry. And then I simply closed them. If I couldn’t force tears, I could at least force sleep, and I did, giving in to the darkness.

AZAZEL LOOKED DOWN AT THE demon, curled up on the hard floor. She didn’t look like a fabled monster. She looked like a woman, a human being with all the frailties and astonishing strengths of her kind. Love for a human woman had caused him to fall, brought about his hideous curse. The loss of a human woman had brought him to his knees. Women were as dangerous to him as demons, perhaps more so. A sad, lost female could get beneath his armor, touch him when he wanted to be untouchable. He could fight power with power. Vulnerability was a greater danger.