I grabbed his collar and shook.

"How do I find her? Damn you, you son of a bitch. Where do they have the girl?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Alice, sweet-heart, what's gotten into you?"

I leaned forward, getting right into his face. "Someone who's not Alice, you lying scum. That's what's gotten into me." I slammed my hand over his heart and looked deep into those eyes. He tried to turn away, but it was too late-I'd been sucked into the hell of his thoughts, the crimes for which I'd come to punish him right on the surface-images and thoughts mixing and swirling, pulling me into a miasma of greed and desperation that confirmed all of my worst fears.

He'd killed his own sister when she'd refused to allow the pub to be ground zero for demonic activity.

And he hadn't even hesitated when the demons had come to him and demanded a specific girl. They'd demanded Alice.

He'd sold her, thinking she was a traditional sacrifice. Thinking she was the same as the other girls he'd sold to finance the pub.

He'd sold his own niece to die at the hands of the demons, and planned the same fate for Gracie.

And when he couldn't find her, he'd snatched a helpless, damaged girl who'd come in off the street, looking for a friend.

The bastard had sacrificed my sister to cover his butt with the demons.

I trembled, rage filling me and clouding my thoughts. I wanted nothing but my hands around his neck, squeezing tight.

I wanted him dead. But I couldn't do it. Not yet. Not until I found her.

I forced myself to focus, desperate to find the control Madame Parrish had insisted I could use to navigate these visions. I couldn't break away yet, not until I learned how to open the door.

"Come on," I whispered inside my head. "Come on, you bastard."

His consciousness shrank away from me, but I followed, down the dark corridors of his mind, filled with greed and regret and fear. The liquid image shifted, clarifying, and now I was in the basement, in the hall. He was there, but not there, wanting to escape, that want so vibrant it thrummed through my head, ricocheting through my body.

"Show me . . . Show me . . ." I focused, the effort of concentrating my energy, of keeping hold of him, completely exhausting. But I had him-and as I watched, he sliced his palm, then smeared the blood on the wall. The rock seemed to melt away, revealing a metal door with odd markings on it.

Got you.

I yanked my hand back, breaking the connection, wanting free of this man. Wanting out of his head.

On the wall, the clock ticked ominously. The ceremony would be starting, and I had to hurry.

Egan struggled when I picked him up, and I was grateful for the strength of all the demons I'd killed. I twisted the knife still embedded in his leg. His shriek split my eardrums, but he froze, staying still as I hauled him down the stairs and dumped him in front of the door.

"Open it," I said to Egan.

He answered by spitting on my shoes.

"Then let me help you." The time for games was over, and my patience had run thin. I grabbed his hand, ignoring his scream as I sliced deep into his palm. I pressed the bloody hand to the stone, trying to place it where I'd seen it in the vision.

At first, nothing happened. Then, in a freaky bit of deja vu, the rock started to dissolve, revealing the now-familiar metal door.

I ran my hand over it, searching for a latch, found it, and pushed it quietly open. Another corridor.

"Bring him?" Deacon asked, hauling Egan to his feet.

I turned to face Alice's uncle. "He's deadweight." I met Egan's eyes. "I'm ending you."

Egan swallowed. "Please," he whispered, his body shaking under my hand.

I thought of Lucas Johnson, of the revenge that stained me.

I thought of Alice.

I thought of the travesties I'd seen in Egan's memory.

I thought of my own redemption.

And then, God help me, I drew my blade across his neck and slit the bastard's throat.

He sagged, and I stepped back as Deacon let go, the body falling to the ground like so much garbage. My eyes met Deacon's, and he nodded, the slightest inclination of his head. No matter what anyone else thought, in his eyes-and in my own-I'd done the right thing.

We raced down the hall, trading silence for speed and hoping the demons couldn't hear the pounding of our feet as we raced forward. Move with stealth and the ritual might be completed before we arrived. Clatter forward at breakneck speed and the ceremony might end prematurely with a knife through Rose's neck, for no reason other than to punish her would-be rescuers.

With any luck, we'd found a middle ground: fast, but not loud. With even more luck, the ritual chanting camouflaged our approach.

I had no choice but to hope for luck, because without it, Rose was dead. Certainly, I couldn't count on the angels to step in and save her. They hadn't stepped in to save me, after all.

The corridor ended at a thick wooden door. Closed, but not locked. We yanked the door open, and Deacon and I rushed in together, side by side.

What I saw inside was enough to make me almost stumble. Rose, clad in a long white gown, bathed in an unearthly silver glow, strapped down to a stone table, struggling and screaming against a white cloth gag as a ceremonial blade plunged downward, held by the joined hands of two black-hooded demons.

A door on the far side of the room was open, and even as I lunged for the demons' knife, I could see a figure disappear, the black cloak billowing as if in a breeze.

No time to worry about that now. I landed hard against one demon, sending the knife clattering to the ground. Deacon went on the other side of the table, tackling the companion demon, and even as I fumbled to keep the demon's hands away from the ceremonial knife, I could hear Deacon battling with his own demon on the far side of that thick stone table.

I couldn't worry about Deacon, though. The hood of the demon fell back, and I realized I was wrestling with Tank. I had my weapon out, desperate to kill the beast and get to Rose, but he was having none of it.

He thrust sideways, twisting over, then bending my hand back until he freed the blade from my grip. He straddled me, and as I used one hand to hold him back, my other hand struggled to find my blade.

I found the ceremonial knife instead, and, desperate, I thrust up, the blade sliding into his nose to embed itself in his brain.

He fell backward, and I struggled up, gasping. My knife was by the wall, and I lunged for it, then sank it deep into Tank's heart. I heard a small hiss as the black goo seeped out, and as the strength and vile essence that had been Tank surged through me, I rushed to Rose, grounding myself by looking at her face. At her eyes.

"Rose," I said as I pulled off her gag.

Whatever the silver glow had been, it was gone now. She stopped struggling, and those eyes went even wider as she stared at me. "Lily?" she whispered.

"I-My name's Alice. Remember?"

"He was here. Lily. Lily, it's him. He was here. He did something. He was here. Put something inside." The words came out in a rush, tumbling over themselves, pushed out by the fear in her eyes.

I didn't need to hear her say it to know who he was, but I asked anyway.

"Lucas Johnson," she said.

"I've got you now," I said firmly, as my fingers worked at the knot of her bindings. "You're safe."

But she shook her head. "Never gonna be free. Never gonna be safe." She tilted her head to the side, one eye looking up at me, and the image made me think of a cold, dead fish. I trembled, ashamed and suddenly very, very scared.

"He's in me, Lily," she whispered. "He put something in me. Him. Part of him. It burns. Oh, God, Lily, it burns!"

"Rose, no. You're safe. I've got you. You're safe." But she didn't hear me. How could she have over the sound of her own scream?

And then, as the scream faded, she slipped into blissful unconsciousness.

FORTY-THREE.

"Could he have? Could he have put part of himself inside of her?"

We were in a pungent motel room, ripe with the stench of sex and sweat. The kind of place that took cash and didn't ask questions. Perfect, in other words.

Rose was still asleep, and I had her head in my lap as I stroked her hair. Part of me wanted to wake her up, to ask her question after question. Another part of me wanted to let her stay lost in sleep, the one place where she could escape the nightmare of reality.

"Yeah," Deacon said. "He could have."

In my lap, Rose stirred, but didn't awake. My heart, however, ripped a little. "My whole life I've tried to protect her, and look what happened. I tried to save the world, and Armageddon's closer than ever."

Everything had been turned inside out, twisted up and confused.

No more.

I knew the score now. And it was time to step up to the plate. Time to save Rose. Time to save the whole damn world.

I stood up, feeling strong. Feeling confident.

Lily Carlyle, Demon Assassin, was pissed.

And they had all better watch out.

Coming December 2009 from Ace Books The second book in

the Blood Lily Chronicles by Julie Kenner

TORN.

Lily Carlyle continues to work for the forces of darkness-only this time, on her own terms. She's going to have to lie and kill, all in order to prove her loyalty, which she's willing to do-until she learns that her sister's life hangs in the balance . . .

Like a caged panther, Deacon paced the length of the rank motel room. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, and the look would have been almost casual were it not for the dark glasses that he wore despite the single dim lamp and the predawn hour.

With those glasses, he looked like the consummate bad boy. Which, frankly, was exactly what he was. A demon. A Tri-Jal. One of the worst of the worst.

More than that, though, he was a demon now allied with a demon hunter-me. The irony made me smile even as a nugget of worry settled in my gut. Because this was a dangerous game I was playing. If I'd made the wrong choice in aligning myself with Deacon, I could very well end up paying the price for eternity. All I knew was that I couldn't deny him. Couldn't push him out of my life, out of my head, or even out of my heart. He'd claimed me once, gotten right inside my head and announced that I was his. Mine, he'd said.

And as every day passed, I feared that he was right.

Feared it and fought it, but at the same time, I welcomed it.

I didn't know where he'd found the dark glasses, and I didn't ask. What I did know was that he wore them because of me. Because if I couldn't see his eyes, I couldn't get into his head. And in his head was where the real bad boy lay. The images of past deeds. Of memories too horrible to share.

I wanted to see them. Needed to see them. Needed to know the heart of this man who compelled me. But he wasn't letting me in, and the glasses were just one more way of telling me not to even try.

Honestly, it pissed me off. Then again, these days, it didn't take much to irritate me. I was walking a knife-edge. Tilt one way, and I fell into rage. The other, and I slipped into despair.

"It's almost dawn," he said.

"You have somewhere else to be?" I asked. I was on the bed, my sister Rose's head cradled in my lap. And, yeah, I was tired and cranky. Too much had happened too quickly, and my head was spinning. My body might not need sleep anymore, but right then I craved a nap.

As for Deacon, I honestly didn't know what he craved. Until now I'd never been with him for any extended period, and I found myself wondering what he did with himself during the day, or during the night for that matter. I thought about asking, but since I wasn't certain I'd like the answer, I kept my mouth shut.

The truth was, I didn't want him to leave. Didn't want him to tell me he had to disappear and that he'd come back when he could. I needed help. And, selfishly, I wanted Deacon with me. Wanted the comfort that his presence provided, even a supercharged presence that looked like it was on the verge of exploding.

We'd been in our cracker-box motel for almost six hours now, having holed up there in the aftermath of a nasty little battle during which Lucas Johnson had shoved part of his demonic essence into Rose before we'd gotten her the hell out of there.

She'd screamed in pain and terror, then passed out cold. Even now, she still slept, and to be honest, I was beginning to worry that she'd never wake up. Deacon, however, had assured me that she would regain consciousness soon, albeit with one hell of a headache. I didn't ask him how he could be so certain about the particulars of demonic possession. That was just one more thing I didn't want to know.

Add on top of all that the fact that I had, only hours prior, managed to single-handedly facilitate the imminent arrival of Armageddon, and you can probably see why I was a little stressed.

"They'll start looking for you soon," Deacon said. "We need a plan."

The "they" he was referring to was actually a "he": Clarence, in particular. My amphibious handler. A frog-faced little demon who'd run the con on me and whom I despised all the more because I'd actually been starting to like him.

"I have a plan," I said, stroking Rose's hair. "I already told you." For that matter, we'd talked of nothing other than my plan for hours. With me alternating between berating myself for failing both Rose and the world, and fantasizing in glorious detail how I would kill not only Clarence but every other demon I came in contact with.

The fantasy alone was cathartic, but not nearly enough, and I couldn't wait for the real deal. I wanted the satisfaction of the kill. The strength I gained. And, yeah, I wanted the hit of power. I drew it in when I killed them. The demon's essence. Its darkness. Its fury.

And, yeah, I was happy to embrace the homicidal happiness. Ironic, I suppose, since without all this demon-assassin, prophecy bullshit, I wouldn't be having warm, fuzzy, murderous thoughts. I wouldn't be spending every day of my life trying to suppress the demonic essence that got sucked into me with each and every kill.

And here's an interesting tidbit: You'd think that since I'd been unknowingly working for the bad guys, I would have been out there killing good guys that I'd been duped to whack. If that had been the case, then I'd be filled with goodness and light, about as sweet and charming as they come, because I would have sucked in the essence of a boatload of near-angelic souls.