Demon Forged (3 page)

With the human whose zipper she’d ruined. Any Guardian who broke the Rules by killing a human or denying his free will had to Fall or Ascend. But kissing a man without his consent didn’t interfere with his free will—only kissing one who resisted did.

“Did he refuse my touch? Attempt to escape?” With his Guardian senses, Alejandro would have heard everything that had transpired between her and the male.

Alejandro didn’t reply, with words or a change of expression.

“Obviously he did not,” she continued with a shrug as light as the French on her tongue. There was no reason to feel defensive. Yet she did, and she resented it. She wanted to strike him for it. She turned and examined the piazza again. “Has Deacon already come and gone?”

“No.”

Irena frowned. Deacon hadn’t known how to contact her; she hadn’t met with him since she’d begun using the satellite phone that allowed other Guardians to reach her no matter where she traveled. But the American law enforcement agency, Special Investigations, had made itself known to vampire communities worldwide, offering them the Guardians’ protection against the nephilim, demons, and nosferatu. Deacon had called SI and asked for Irena specifically. The text message had come through her phone—sent by Lilith, the hellspawn who headed the agency . . . and who often directed Alejandro, as well.

And if Alejandro had come, he must have thought
she
wouldn’t.

“I would never shirk my duty,” Irena said.

“You shirked it when you didn’t respond.”

He left the rest unspoken: that, because this was Rome, whatever Deacon had to tell them might be critical in the Guardians’ fight against the nephilim. SI couldn’t assume she’d received Deacon’s request. They had to be certain.

She met his gaze again. “I don’t answer to hellspawn. Send the message yourself, or have another Guardian or vampire do so. Then I’ll respond.”

Alejandro’s dark eyes glinted with emotion before he concealed it. Did she anger him? She wanted to, but wasn’t sure if she had. Reading his face was impossible. His only reply was a short nod.

“Have you sensed Deacon?” she asked.

“No.”

“Any other vampires?”

“None.”

The flash of a tourist’s camera whitened the right side of Alejandro’s face. Even in shadow Irena could clearly see his features, but the burst of light made her realize how her gaze had been tracing the angular lines of his cheekbones, his jaw.

She looked away, scanning the square. Their reflection in a passing vehicle window revealed that Alejandro still watched her.

Always, he watched her. She didn’t know what he searched for.

Even pinched by the French, Alejandro’s voice tugged over her nerves like fine kid gloves, tight and supple. “You will recognize this vampire?”

“Yes.”

“You know him well?”

“Well enough,” she answered simply, though Alejandro would want more than that. After a moment of silence, she gave it to him. “Forty years ago, I tracked a rogue vampire near

Prague. He’d already murdered several humans. I caught him and returned him to his community.”

“You didn’t slay the rogue yourself?”

She’d wanted to see what sort of community it was. “I let them decide the proper punishment. Deacon leads them, and he carried it out.” Once Deacon learned of the murders, he hadn’t hesitated to execute the rogue. It was one of the reasons Irena liked the vampire so well. “I return now and again to see that all is well with him.”

And the last time she’d visited, all
had
been well. Why, then, had Deacon come to Rome? Had he brought the entire community?

She couldn’t believe he’d be so foolish.

The nephilim, led by the demon-spawn Anaria—one of the grigori and Michael’s sister—intended to overthrow Lucifer’s throne in Hell and enslave human free will in the name of Good. And, because of a prophecy that predicted the nephilim’s destruction by vampire blood, the nephilim had been killing vampires, one city at a time. Just because the nephilim had already slaughtered the vampires in Rome didn’t mean the city was safe for others to move in.

Not remotely safe. And Irena was beginning to worry now.

Relief replaced her concern when a man with a farrier’s shoulders came out of a hotel several blocks down the road. “There he is,” she told Alejandro. “Black hair, dark gray suit.”

A wrinkled suit, as if he’d spent his daysleep in it. His white shirt was untucked and half unbuttoned. Peach lipstick stained the collar. Deacon pushed his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, tying it into a queue as he walked.

“Are those your swords that he wears?” Alejandro asked quietly.

“Yes.” Vampires had no mental cache to store their weapons, so Irena had designed Deacon’s short swords to be concealed beneath his clothing, yet still easily accessible. Deacon carried the swords in sheaths that crossed between his shoulder blades; he only had to reach behind his waist for the handles. When he lifted his arms, as he was doing now, the grips disturbed the line of his jacket over his hips.

His hair and clothing were rumpled—who had he been with? The vampire was upwind. Irena tested the air, and caught the odor of alcohol, sex, and blood mixed with Deacon’s individual scent.

Human blood.

He’d fed from a
human
woman? Irena did not like this. She had not expected this. What had forced him to use a human?

Vampires were slaves of a different sort: to bloodlust. The accidental offshoot of the nosferatu, their existence was the result of an attempt—a failed attempt—to honor a proud and strong girl. Though nosferatu and vampires both burned in the sun, the similarities ended there. Vampires, though stronger than humans, were much weaker than nosferatu. And although nosferatu suffered from bloodlust, they didn’t need to feed to survive; vampires had to regularly consume living blood. Drinking it from humans threatened exposure, however, and so vampire communities required their members to find a vampire partner—or partners—to feed them.

Where were Deacon’s partners? He wouldn’t have left them behind. Eva and Petra didn’t just share blood with him; the two vampires were his friends and lovers, as well.

Yet they must not be with him if he’d used alcohol. Vampires weren’t affected by the drink. But after a human drank enough, she’d probably forget that a vampire had fed from her. Even if she did remember, a few drops of vampire blood would heal the bite and erase evidence of it.

From behind her, Alejandro said, “I trust that, despite the drink, she was willing.”

Irena clenched her teeth. Though Alejandro employed polite words and phrases, he was lying; he didn’t trust it.

She slid her right hand behind her back, and used the Guardian’s sign language to reply.
Of course she was willing. Deacon knows the Rules.

Although vampires weren’t bound to follow the Rules as Guardians and demons were, Irena had made it clear to Deacon that if he didn’t, she would slay him. Feeding wasn’t the same as hurting or killing humans, however. Guardians would tolerate his drinking from human women if he had no other option.

On silent feet, Alejandro came to stand beside her.
Willing to invite him into her bed
and
to take her blood?

Irena gave him a disbelieving look. When a woman invited a man into her body, what did it matter if, in addition to her mouth and her sex, he also tasted her blood? “You split too many hairs, Olek.”

“You clump them all together.”

And that, Irena thought, was the difference between them: details. She refused to focus on them.

There was a saying in English that the devil lay in the details—the little flaws brought down the whole. And that was exactly how the demons worked: focusing on the details, boring at tiny weaknesses until the entire structure was so brittle it collapsed. They talked in dizzying circles until nothing was left of meaning, and only their purpose remained. They smoothed everything with slick words, until nothing was left to grasp.

Irena preferred rough edges, even though they scraped and tore. But Alejandro, he was all sleek speed and elegance, from his words to his body. The leopard to her bear, the fox to her wolverine. Solitary predators who avoided one another, respecting too well the teeth and claws of the other—and when they couldn’t keep apart, they ripped pieces from one another in passing.

Wounded
predators, she admitted . . . and wounds were weaknesses. Irena had been trying to excise hers for centuries. But this one wouldn’t heal, so she tried to ignore the pain.

And Alejandro was correct: She did lump many things together. But wounded predators were also dangerously short-tempered, so she gave him no response but a sneer before heading across the piazza to meet Deacon.

Olek did not follow her.

She had not expected him to.

The first time Alejandro had seen Irena, she’d been standing with a group of her friends on the opposite side of a courtyard in Caelum—the Guardian realm. It had been almost one hundred years after his transformation; although his training neared completion and he would soon return to Earth as a full-fledged Guardian, Alejandro had still been a novice.

And he’d known
of
Irena, who—at the time more than twelve hundred years of age—was one of the oldest Guardians. He’d known of her Gift to shape metal. He’d known she had created the exquisite swords he practiced with, and that Michael had assigned her to oversee Alejandro’s final weapons specialization and his transition to Earth.

He’d known all of that, but he’d not yet met her.

And so he hadn’t known who had mesmerized him with a single toss of her head, her long braids bright auburn beneath Caelum’s sun. Hadn’t known who had hardened his body with one shout of her loud, brash laughter. It had fallen silent when his gaze had caught hers. Without hesitation, she’d stridden toward him across the white marble square—just as she was walking toward Deacon now.

He’d been arrogant enough to think that she’d be impressed when he introduced himself. His talent with the swords had been praised by Guardians centuries older than he was, and there were already predictions that, given another century, his skill would surpass Michael’s. And when she’d said her name, he’d been bold enough to challenge her, to suggest there was nothing she could teach him.

She’d accepted his challenge. When she’d offered up a single dagger against his swords, he’d been foolish enough to imagine that she wanted to lose—that she wanted to be under him as badly as he wanted to sheathe himself within her.

Before ten seconds had passed, she’d had him laid out on the marble pavers with blood filling his mouth and his vision floating in and out of focus.

Until she’d straddled his waist and kissed him—then everything had become sharp and pointed, and devastatingly clear.

He’d still been reeling when she lifted her head and said, “When I am satisfied that your training is complete, I will take your body as I have just taken your mouth. Until that time, young Olek, there is only this. Only the fight.”

Then she’d driven her dagger into his side, and chided him for letting his guard down.

It was fitting, Alejandro thought, that their only kiss had been flavored by blood and followed by pain.

Too much pain, because she’d been wrong: There hadn’t just been the fight. There had been her laugh and her temper. Her unrelenting schedule, her unexpected moments of tenderness.

And there had been the days spent in her forge, where he discovered his Gift of fire complemented her affinity with metal. Where they’d created weapons, where firelight had danced across her pale skin. Where he’d pretended to study manuscripts, but watched over the pages as Irena shaped her intricate sculptures—where he’d posed for her more than once. And he’d trained tirelessly, waiting for the moment she was satisfied.

For months, there had only been swords and Irena—his heart, his life.

And with a single misstep and a demon’s monstrous bargain, it had ended. Ended with the destruction of Alejandro’s honor as she traded her body for his life. Ended with Irena holding the demon’s head, his face a mirror image of Alejandro’s. Ended with Alejandro walking into a bedroom whose iron walls had been decorated by blood, seeing what she’d done to the demon’s body—and knowing how the demon must have used hers.

And he’d known that he’d failed her. Utterly failed her.

She’d cut off her braids one by one, tossed her hair and the demon’s head onto the bed, and asked him to burn it all. Then she’d walked away without looking back.

Two centuries had passed before he’d seen her again.

In the two hundred years since, every infrequent encounter had been accompanied by his wish that he’d never laid eyes upon her. And with every encounter, it was an effort to tear his gaze away.

He made the effort now, turning to examine the memorial statue for a boy poet that stood beside a remnant of the ancient wall. Alejandro well remembered the gate that had once led into the city. It had already been falling to ruins in the late fifteenth century when, still a human, he’d journeyed to Rome. Now only a plaque marked the gate’s former location, and it described how Roman slaves had opened the gate to the invaders who’d sacked the city. Irena, he knew, had been one of the slaves, serving in a senator’s household.