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’Twould not have even scratched the demon’s hide.
    She raked her fingers through the tousled waves of her brown hair as she exhaled, the sound a flowing sigh that touched him as surely as a caress. He wanted to run his hands over her naked body, to draw that sound, and others, from her lush mouth.
    Madness. He’d descended into madness. These thoughts, this woman, were dangerous to him. When Clea Masters had been a child, she had demonstrated the inexplicable ability to drain his magic. His subsequent inattention had cost him both his hand and a chunk of his soul. Getting close to her now ought to be the last thing he considered doing.
    He let his gaze travel over her. Clea was no longer a child.
    “The—uhh—the letter opener?” Her voice wavered just a little now. “I was going to use it to defend myself against that . . . thing.” She hesitated, then continued. “I cheated death once, a long time ago, and I had no intention of giving in to it tonight.”
    Cheated death. An apt description. Yet death had claimed a forfeit, and he well knew the price that had been paid.
    She held his gaze. He found her unutterably attractive, this human woman who would battle a demon unto death.
    This human woman who was cloaked in impossible magic.
    “You cheated death a long time ago,” he echoed, unable to keep the trace of amusement from his tone. “How old are you?”
    Again, she wet her lips. He followed the subtle movement of her tongue. “Twenty-eight. Last Tuesday.”
    “Ah.” He turned the letter opener in his palm, then snapped it neatly in two.
    “How—”
    Glancing back at her, he found her staring at his hands.
    At his leather glove. Supple leather, lined in flexible metal alloy, woven with protective magic. A relatively effective cage, bolstered by tattooed wards.
    She would do more than stare if she saw what lay beneath it.
    “Good thing you didn’t need to use your weapon.” He shrugged, held up the broken pieces. “Plastic.”
    Perhaps he expected her to cry. Bury her face in her hands and sob. Or perhaps he expected her to look at him blankly, shock and fear numbing her to reality. She did neither.
    Her dark eyes widened, and her brows rose. A snicker burst forth, and another, until her laughter swelled and filled the small space.
    “Plastic!” She gasped, pressing one hand against her belly. “Oh, that’s priceless. And perfect.” She held up one hand, palm out. “No. Really. Perfect.”
    Not the laughter of hysteria, but true mirth. She found amusement here. He was startled to feel his own lips twitch in response.
    Her gaze collided with his, and her laughter died, sharp and quick.
    She looked away, arched her back, rolled her shoulders, as though stretching out a kink, her movements pulling the light blue knit of her thin sweater tight across her breasts. He could see the outline of her lacy bra etching its pattern in the cloth.
    A smart, no-nonsense girl, wearing a simple sweater and conservative jeans, her dark waving hair cut in an uncomplicated, low-maintenance style. No makeup, save for the last remnants of her smudged mascara. And underneath, against her smooth skin, lace. His gaze dropped to her hips as he tried to imagine her underwear. Lacy underwear. Sexy underwear.
    The girl was a study in contradictions.
    And what the hell was he doing thinking about her underwear?
    Looking away, he focused his thoughts on the task at hand. He needed to pursue the demon-keeper, to seek answers before the man’s final fate sealed off that avenue of information.
    “I feel like I’ve been shoved through a meat grinder,” Clea muttered, drawing his gaze back to her.
    Mistake. Big mistake. Her back was arched even farther, hands braced just behind her on the desktop, her breasts straining now against their cotton covering, leaving little to his imagination. She rolled her head slowly to one side and the other, sending waving strands of dark hair tumbling along her shoulders.
    Ciarran didn’t