"As you wish." He inclined his head. However spurious, the gesture of respect was oddly affecting. When he looked up again, she'd forgotten not to meet his eyes.

"Whatever your reluctance to face the truth," he said, holding her angry gaze with his cool one, "it stands to reason I might have useful information about your nature."

"What information could you have? You didn't even know our species could breed. Anyway, if I were going to develop any weird demon traits, I would have done it by now."

"Certain of that, are you?"

"What do you want from me?" she said, resisting an urge to curse him to h.e.l.l.

"What any father would: the chance to know a bit about the child he sired."

She couldn't tell if he was sincere. His face didn't show the kind of expressions she was used to. In fact, it didn't show any expression at all. If she really did have demon powers, shouldn't she be able to sense what he was feeling? She'd heard about that nonverbal communication they used, that "fire-talk."

"How about this?" she said. "If I have any questions in the future, I'll bring them straight to you."

"If you got to know me a little now, it would be easier to approach me then."

Suddenly, she did feel something: a subtle awareness of amus.e.m.e.nt, as if he were enjoying matching wits with her. Shivers crept up her neck. She shook them off. No doubt her imagination was playing tricks on her.

"I don't want to know you," she said childishly.

The skin beside his all-silver eyes tightened a fraction, perhaps the demon version of a flinch. She told herself feeling sorry for him would be sheer folly.

"Tea," he said, confusing her for a moment "At an establishment of your choosing. Neutral territory, as it were. For the duration of hah? an hour."

"You want me to have tea with you?"

"I enjoy tea, but coffee is also acceptable." The right side of his mouth curled in a tentative smile. It looked surprisingly human. "Bring the boys, if you like."

So he knew about her boys. At least that they existed. Roxie's brow pleated. Whatever he knew was too much.

She loved those boys with all her heart. She'd never dreamed she'd experience such contentment as she'd found with them. The saints bless whatever instinct had sent her back to speak to two ragged urchins. She'd known the moment she looked into Charles's guarded eyes that they belonged with her, that there was nothing to fear by taking them in.

Until Herrington had mentioned them, he'd almost gotten her to agree.

"I'm afraid tea will be impossible," she said. "I'm much too busy to get away."

His eyes narrowed at her refusal, not so much in anger as calculation. Well, he could calculate all he wanted. Roxanne didn't care if she grew a tail. She wasn't going to change her mind about having anything to do with him. She left him without a good-bye, trusting her rudeness would spur him to go.

Ten minutes later, a knock sounded again.

"d.a.m.n it," she said as she yanked the door open. "Leave me aa""

She stopped mid-curse. A sharp-faced little girl stood on the landing. She was ten or so, and wore a street-sweeper's yellow uniform. A row of shiny bra.s.s b.u.t.tons marched diagonally down her narrow martial jacket.

"Message," she said curtly, her shoulders thrown back with pride. Roxie's hostility seemed not to have upset her. Perhaps she was used to it.

Nonplused, Roxie took the envelope from her out-thrust hand and peeked inside. Adrian's sketch of Tommy Bainbridge stared up from the shadows. "Can you wait for me to give you something to take back?"

"I'm on my tea break," said the girl, who looked like chances to eat didn't come often enough.

"Hm, well." She gestured the girl into the kitchen, pulled a plate from the cabinet, and began slicing bread. "Perhaps you'd consent to have a bite here while I copy these?"

One look at the spread Roxie was preparing convinced the girl the wait would be worth her while. When Roxie returned to the kitchen an hour later, the girl was regaling a goggle-eyed Max with tales of her street-sweeping adventures.

"Adrian got her the job," Max announced. "One of the sergeants threw her in a smelly old cell for stealing an orange, but our Adrian rescued her."

"Did he?" The pride in the boy's voice made Roxanne's eyes burn. How was she going to explain that "their" Adrian wouldn't be coming around?

She handed the girl a dozen neatly copied ink sketches. Subdued again in the presence of an adult, she refused Roxie's offer of payment to cover her return trip.

"Have to go back that way anyway," she said, wiping away a milk mustache with the back of her hand.

Roxie wished she could take the package to Adrian herself, but it was better this way. A clean, quick cut was always better.

Adrian was a mess. He'd just gotten back from handling a domestic disturbance in Harborside. Normally this was not his responsibility, but the argument had involved a Yamish couple fighting over their shared human servant, and it had escalated beyond what the nonenhanced sergeants could handle. Despite his implants, Adrian now sported a host of bruises and a completely wrecked tweed jacket.

The human servant didn't have a scratch, but both demons were being booked and held overnight.

The funny thing was, Adrian was grateful the call had come in. Any situation that reminded his superior why he kept Adrian around struck him as a good thing.

Clearly impressed by the damage, if wary of the fact that the demons had displayed more, the watch sergeant handed Adrian an envelope. The moment he saw the handwriting, his heart began to pound. He'd have known Roxie's penmanship anywhere: bold and sharp but with an extra sensual fillip on the capitals.

Calm down, he ordered. She's probably just returning your sketches. There was no reason to expect to find anything personal. Nonetheless, he didn't risk his shaky knees on the stairs to his office. Instead, he took one of the cracked leather seats across from the watch desk and cracked the seal.

Her note was disappointingly businesslike: Adrian, Hope you find these copies useful. Let me know if you need more.

She had signed it simply "R."

He frowned. Would he have rated a "respectfully yours" before he chose his job ahead of her? At least she was calling him Adriana"although what did that matter when he wasn't going to see her again?

He wondered how Sis and Max had gotten on. Max didn't seem to have playmates his own age. An image formed in his mind of Roxie smiling on the mismatched pair. Tall, skinny Sis. Short, st.u.r.dy Max. He could see her in that good-smelling kitchen of hers, making sure Max felt safe with the stranger, making sure Sis felt welcome. Roxie was great with children. Someday, she ought to have a dozen.

Like a dash of icy water, a realization hit. He hadn't protected her. Not even once. Nor had he noticed her taking any precautions herself. He'd a.s.sumed with her experiencea but who knew for sure?

The watch sergeant must have heard his indrawn breath. The doleful old hound leaned forward over the high desk, eager to commiserate. His sympathy might even have been sincere.

"Bad news?" he asked.

"No." Adrian smiled in spite of his shock. "Just something I forgot to take care of."

There was no getting around it. Like it or not, he was going to have to see Roxie again.

Chapter 17.

Children are our future. We cannot allow them to run amok.

a"The Collected Sayings of the Emperor Adrian expected Charles to challenge his reappearance, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

"Oh, it's you," was all he said before letting him in. "Roxie's out back."

He mumbled to himself as he escorted Adrian through the apartment. "Braise six minutes over a low flame," he caught, and "Two pinches of fresh basil." Adrian coughed into his fist to stifle a laugh. The boy must be preparing for his meeting with Gaspar.

His attire certainly impressed. Garbed in a loose-legged, black "city" suit, the sort favored by workers for Sunday best, Charles looked as neat as a pin. It was hard to believe he'd spent a day on the street. In a sense, though, the street had represented a step up for Charles. Roxie had confided one night that, after his mother abandoned him, Charles had worked for a top hat club, a brothel catering to blue bloods. Charles had thought this would be better than throwing in his lot with the demons, and at first it was. The proprietors had fed and dressed him well, even offered some of the affection he hadn't found at home. But such luxuries came at a price. At least on the street, Charles had been able to call his soul his own.

Adrian hoped Charles would never have to make that kind of choice again. He knew his brother-in-law would offer the boy a job. Gaspar was a bootstrap success himself. Though Charles was proud and not sweet-tempered, Adrian thought he had enough self-control not to botch his chance.

A s.n.a.t.c.h of off-key music caught his ear as they pa.s.sed the door to the parlor. Max was singing to himself. "The big ol' gra.s.shopper climbin' on the wall," was how it sounded to Adrian. His steps faltered. He wanted to stop. Say h.e.l.lo. Ruffle Max's hair. With a grimace, he forced himself onward. For both their sakes, he had to keep his distance.

Still muttering recipes, Charles left him in the studio, where he could see Roxie through the window doors.

She sat on a stone bench beneath the rose arbor, wearing her oldest, most paint-stained blue serge trousers, a man's cotton shirt, and a shawl whose wool was so rough and mottled it might have been dragged across a cellar. The style had recently come into fashion among the city's seafarers. It suited her. Her loosely braided hair glowed like copper against the teal yarn. He paused, drinking in the sight of her.

Her gardening gloves lay idle by her hip, but a pile of discarded dead growth suggested she had at least begun her task. He supposed she hoped to coax a few more cycles of bloom out of the bushes.

Twirling one of her prized Crimson Beauties between her fingers, she stared through the crisscrossed slats toward Little Barking. Was she thinking of him? Was she equally haunted by what they'd shared? He decided this was how obsessions were born: one small delusion at a time. But maybe the fascination was mutual. Maybe they'd both stepped into the fire.

Whatever the truth, he hated to disturb her. Even if this wasn't something he could handle through the post, he couldn't swear his motives for coming were pure.

"Roxanne," he finally said, pushing through the square-paned door.

She spun as if he'd caught her at something. One hand tugged her shawl closer to her neck. A flurry of emotions crossed her face. He was reasonably certain pleasure was not among them.

"Adrian. What are you doing here?"

He shifted from foot to foot. "I needed to ask you something. In person."

"Ah." She stood and smoothed her palms down the front of her blue trousers. The cloth fit snugly enough that the central seam divided the delectable peach halves of her s.e.x.

He wet his lips, momentarily mesmerized. The taste of her ghosted across his tongue, the melting softness of sheltered skin, the tiny swelling that could be rolled in the mouth and suckleda With an effort, he threw off the seductive memory. She was waiting for him to speak. He gestured to the pile of brambles. "I, ama"Do you need help cleaning this up?"

"No." When she crossed her arms, her bosom plumped.

He remembered how she tasted there as well. When he ran his finger under his tightly fastened collar, it came away damp. Schoolboy, he mocked, and squared his shoulders.

"I need to know if you could be pregnant."

Her arms dropped in disbelief. "You ask me this now?"

"I know I should have asked sooner. I know I should have gone to the apothecary and bought some Jeruvian gloves as soon as I realized we might, well, become intimate, but I didn't. I need to know if pregnancy is a possibility." The speech had exhausted his breath. He pulled another into his lungs and waited for her answer.

"You've no need to worry about that. The moon wasn't right for me to get pregnant."

"The moon! Are you crazy?" He closed the distance between them and clasped her shoulders in his hands. The scent of drying roses swirled in his head, heavy and sharp.

"Let go," she demanded, shaking free.

"But, Roxie, moon watching is hardly a reliable method of contraception."

"It is the way the Bhamjrishi do it." Her eyes dared him to contradict her. "Their method, which they've spent centuries perfecting, is based on the position of the moon at the moment a female baby first draws breath, which determines ovulation cycles, which determines when you cana"or even oughta"to have a child. My mother didn't have one 'unfortunate mishap' once she learned their technique, and she made sure I had my chart drawn up. You have to admit Bhamjran know more about s.e.x than anyone."

"But Roxiea"" He wasn't sure what he wished to protest, only that he did.

She folded her arms again, her sleeves pushed to her elbows. She still had the muscle from her days rigging sails on the Queen. "If you think I've been irresponsible with regard to diseases, I had the demon who works next to Abul's free clinic check you out."

"A demon?" He squinted in confusion.

"Abul's been trying to shut her down, but his patients swear by her. She's what they call a 'sensitive' rohn, except she doesn't tell fortunes, she does medical aura readings."

"Aura readings!" His voice neared the range only dogs could hear. "Exactly how far out of your way did you have to go to find the two most dubious schools of human and demon philosophy?"

"Fine. Be narrow-minded." She tossed her shawl onto the bench and collected her garden tools. With shears and gloves tucked underneath one arm, she gathered the edges of the tarp on which she'd thrown her cuttings. "Just don't waste time worrying about catching anything from me."

"And why is that?" he asked, trying to ignore the lovely rear view she was presenting. The fit of her trousers taunted him. He couldn't help thinking his palms were the only objects better suited for cupping her derriere.

"Because you were my first," she said, not looking at him.

"Oh, really, I was youra"" He stopped, mid-scoff. A chill, or maybe it was a thrill, expanded outward from his solar plexus, numbing his fingertips, slowing his heart. Mindless as a puppet, he followed her to the potting shed that jutted from the nearest wall. Lit by a single dusty window, the interior was dark, fragrant with damp brick and old wood. She threw her gear onto one of the shelves.

"I was your first?" he asked as she emptied her tarp into the compost box. He tried to think back to that night. He remembered she'd been tight and that there had been a moment when he thought she might not be ready. He supposed the excitement of finally being welcomed into her bed might have distracted him from the signs. Lord, what an idiot he must have seemed!

"You didn't complain," he said, remembering his ex-wife's extremely tear-filled wedding night. There'd certainly been no mistaking her virginal state.

Letting the waist-high lid slam shut, Roxie dropped the canvas and leaned straight-armed on the weathered wood. Her back was to him, but the stiffness in her body spoke volumes.

"I know you think I've been tupping my brains out for years, but, as it happens, that's not the case."

"Why didn't you tell me?" He wanted to touch her so badly his palms tingled.

"That ridiculous tone of voice is why. I didn't want you to make a blithering big deal about it. And I was afraida"" Her jaw clacked shut.

This time he did touch her, taking her shoulder into his hand. He turned her, at least part way, to face him. "Afraid of what?"

Her eyes flashed silver fire. "I was afraid you'd change your mind. A fallen woman doesn't have to be handled with kid gloves, but if you'd known I was a virgin, you might have thought: This poor girl, she ought to be saving it for her husband. But I don't care about that rubbish!"

If the tears that glimmered on her lower lids were any indication, she cared a great deal. She blinked them away, too proud to acknowledge them.

Oh, Roxie, he thought. I wish I could make all your dreams come truea"and mine in the bargain.

"I'm sorry." He squeezed the single point of contact she'd allowed him. "I wish you'd told me. I wish I could say I would have left you alone, but that probably isn't true." His voice thickened with memory. "You made me feel like I'd burst, I wanted you so badly. If I'd known, though, at least I could have taken more care. I could have tried to make your first time more special."

Her laugh was strained. "If your lovemaking had been any more special, I'd probably have slit my wrists before I let you walk away."