Demon Forged (49 page)

He swung around. Stafford was already on him, sword in hand. The demon struck fast, disarming Deacon with two flicks of his wrist, blows that felt like they’d shattered the bones in his forearms. Stafford vanished his sword, wrapped his fingers around Deacon’s throat.

Deacon kicked at the demon’s knee. Stafford didn’t react. He slammed Deacon against the stone wall. His eyes glowed crimson.

Stafford’s lips peeled back from his teeth. An iron spike appeared in his left hand. “Now
that
was a shame, Mr. Deacon.”

The demon stabbed the spike toward his forehead.

Rosalia didn’t save him.

The scent of blood—human, demon, and vampire—assaulted Alejandro the moment they teleported into Deacon’s apartment.

Jake sucked in a breath. “Jesus flippin’ Christ.”

Stepping around the young Guardian made Alejandro aware of a fine grit beneath his boots. He didn’t glance down to see what it was. He stared at Deacon, pinned to a stone block wall in the same manner Rosalia had been. Blood—still wet—covered his face, but didn’t obscure the relief and gratitude in his expression. His short swords had been stabbed through his palms, holding them outspread, as if in welcome.

Alejandro looked over at Jake. Horror filled his eyes, and beyond him, Irena’s face was stricken.

Quietly, Alejandro said, “Leave us, Jake.”

Jake glanced at Irena, nodded, and disappeared.

Irena’s throat worked. “Rael knew I would come to kill Deacon.”

“Yes.” If Rael hadn’t been counting on that, no doubt the vampire would be dead instead of pinned—waiting for Irena to finish it.

Her eyes closed. He could feel the debate raging within her. The decision to slay Deacon had been hard enough; now she fought her instinctive need to act opposite of what a demon wanted from her.

Alejandro knelt, ran his fingers through the gray powder. Only a small amount dusted the wooden flooring here, but piles of it were heaped near the wall, more had been trampled and saturated with blood. Two urns lay broken and tipped on their sides. He rubbed the powder between his fingers.

“Irena.” When she opened her eyes, he said, “It is vampire ash.”

She blinked slowly. Her gaze sharpened, and when she looked around the room again, he knew she was reading the story of the blood splatters, the footprints in the ash. She crouched next to the pool of human blood, and slid her knife through it. The blood had already thickened.

“This was first,” she murmured. “But there was no violence. The human lay quietly here while he bled, and later walked away.” Frowning, she reached for a dagger half-hidden beneath the edge of the sofa. She brought the blade to her nose, sniffed. “Human, vampire.”

“Transformation,” Alejandro realized.

“Yes. The ash was spilled after the human’s blood. And the demon’s blood after that.” A bitter frown bent her mouth. “I think Deacon did what they asked, and they gave him back his partners.”

Mother of God.
He looked up at the vampire again. “Tell me, Irena, which punishment is worse: killing him now, or forcing him to live?”

Her eyes narrowed and flared a poisonous green. Then she scanned the room again, her gaze softening and deepening as she looked. The grief and sadness in her psychic scent pulled him to her. “Living,” she said. “Killing him now would be mercy. A part of me wants to do it for that reason alone.”

“And the rest of you?”

She stood and strode toward Deacon. Some of her earlier anger returned, hardening her voice. “Is going to make him live with it. Let us get him down.”

Irena had changed her mind. Alejandro tugged Deacon’s swords from the vampire’s hands, feeling as if a sledgehammer had pounded into his chest. Dear God, how he loved her. Not because she’d agreed with him, but because she’d done exactly as she’d promised in Caelum: tried to look from different angles.

He hadn’t known if it’d been something she vowed only in the aftermath of their lovemaking. And he hadn’t been certain she
could
do it, if he would always be the one to compromise, just to stay with her. He would have, endlessly, if giving in had been the only way to fight for her—though it would eventually leave him with little pride, and leave her with a companion not worth having.

But Irena was fighting for them, too. And perhaps they would never agree again, but her effort alone told him how much he was worth to her.

Irena reached for the spike. Her Gift pulsed.

Another Gift echoed it, like a dark, thick slide beneath his skin. He looked over his shoulder.

Rosalia stepped out of the shadows behind a screened corner, her cloak swirling around her. She lifted her crossbow to her shoulder when she saw them. “You are not slaying him.”

“No,” Irena said calmly. “We are not.”

She yanked out the spike. Alejandro caught the vampire, dragged him over to a blue sofa.

Rosalia lowered her weapon. “Caym is dead.”

“You killed a demon?” Alejandro asked. Rael’s accomplice, most likely.

“No. Deacon did.”

“You watched,” Irena said flatly.

“Rael didn’t intend to kill Deacon—and I had not yet decided if I would.” Her brown eyes, usually warm, were tortured as she looked to Alejandro. “Is it true that the nephilim invaded the warehouse? Or did Rael lie?”

“It’s true.” Irena knelt, vanished all of the vampire ash, leaving the human and demon blood behind. “We will have a gathering for Dru within a day or two. Perhaps Ben and Echo, if they wished to have their remains rest in Caelum. And now, these vampires.”

Rosalia closed her eyes, nodded. “I will not be there. But I will pay my respects.”

Guilt colored Rosalia’s psychic scent. Alejandro frowned as suspicion bit at him. “Did you know Deacon would betray us?”

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, as if hugging herself. “No. But I knew that something was not right with him. I’d hoped . . . I’d hoped he might reveal what troubled him. He did not.” She swallowed and looked down at the vampire. “I intend to take him.”

“Take him?” Alejandro looked around at Irena, saw similar surprise on her face. “Why?”

“I haven’t decided.” A faint smile curved her lips. She flicked the hood of her cloak up over her hair, hiding her features in shadow. “Either I will chain him to my bed, or give him a five-minute head start before hunting him down with my crossbow.”

Irena came to stand beside Alejandro. “He’s completely broken. He will not be good for fucking or hunting. He wanted to die, and so he might not even run.”

“Then I will let him go kill himself. I will not be stuck for another two centuries, caring for someone who cannot care in return.” Rosalia’s Gift pushed out, carrying a hollow yearning, as if she’d made a wish she already knew wouldn’t be fulfilled. Shadows crept from beneath the sofa and wrapped around Deacon’s still form. “I have not been in Caelum for years, and so perhaps my voice and opinion do not matter. But I cannot understand how Rael was given enough room to maneuver as he has. His bargain with my brother, what he has done to Deacon, his association with the nephilim—all could have been prevented if we had slain him instead of allying ourselves with him.”

“Yes,” Alejandro admitted.

SI had never trusted Rael, so they’d thought that if the demon turned on them, they’d be prepared to counter him. And so their decision to align themselves with him, born of desperation— or arrogance—had led them down a grievous path. Alejandro couldn’t deny that, or the knowledge that his decision to replace Rael and sever SI’s ties to the demon had come too late.

Irena, of course, did not respond. And she could have easily indulged in an
I told you so
, yet he knew she never would. She’d rather have been wrong; being proved right had cost far too much.

“Good. And when you find Rael, perhaps save a little piece for me.” Rosalia paused, then added, “After Rael and the human—vampire—left, I followed, but did not find an opportunity to slay them. Rael called him Lukacs, and I am almost certain he killed Rael’s wife in exchange for immortality.” She projected an image of an emaciated man, his eyes dark and hungry. “If that is not his true name, perhaps he will have a medical record. He’d been through chemotherapy.”

If Lukacs was a vampire, his true name would not matter much now. He would never face a human court. “We’ll find them both,” Alejandro said.

By the movement of her hood, Rosalia nodded. “I trust that you will. Be well.”

“Be safe,” Irena said.

As soon as Rosalia and Deacon disappeared, pulled into the shadows beneath the sofa, Irena turned to Alejandro with a frown. “Why did I do that?”

“Let her take him?”

“Yes.”

She would probably not admit, even to herself, that she still hoped for the best for Deacon; her pain and anger were too sharp. But Alejandro could turn her away from them for a moment.

“Because you regret never doing the same to me.” When her frown deepened with confusion, he said, “Hunting me down and fucking me.”

A laugh as loud as Irena’s should not be able to lift quietly through him, gently lightening his own spirits, yet it did. But they were not in a location where laughter could last. When she sobered, her soft steps took her through the apartment. She paused now and then, as if remembering a time when life had filled each room.

Finally, she returned to the living area. “I liked these women,” she said. “And I will not be able to hold my blades back much longer.”

She did now only for him. But even if Alejandro had not been ready to take the demon’s place, the attack at the warehouse had changed everything. Perhaps Rael thought the Guardians’ reliance on his support in Washington would save him. The demon couldn’t have been more mistaken.

“When you next see Rael,” Alejandro told her. “You do not have to hold back at all.”

Irena didn’t see Rael.

She didn’t see Alejandro, either, except for in passing. For two days, she and Jake followed the sun’s path around the world, visiting the heads of vampire communities—she’d lost count of how many. Some, she only had to give contact information, and remind them about the dangers the nephilim posed; others, the reminders and warnings had bordered on threats.

She’d slain four demons posing as vampires. It would have been five, if Jake had not used his teleporting advantage to race ahead. As soon as he could better control his electrical Gift, she thought he would not even have to teleport to slay a demon ahead of her—but she had only let him practice that Gift on her twice. They had too much to do; she could not lay unconscious for hours at a time. And after Cambodia, where she’d seen him throw off a lightning bolt that had struck a limb from a tree and left the vampires too frightened to do more than nod at them, she realized that
unconscious
might have traded up to
dead
.

Jake had talked constantly. Some of it, she knew, was his natural inclination. Grief drove the rest, and after Cambodia, nervous energy and dread, so Irena hadn’t put a stop to his chatter. Every region they visited, he’d told her about the military history or described in detail archeological ruins particular to the area, and she’d learned more about forty-year-old rock music than she’d ever cared to know. By the time they’d finished, and returned to the SI warehouse for the final time, her need for quiet was a physical ache.

So was her need to see Olek.

Irena knew what he’d been doing, even if she had rarely seen him. She and Jake had frequently jumped back to SI to check in. There, depending upon the hour, Lilith, Hugh, or Michael updated them on Alejandro, Preston, and Taylor’s search for Laszlo Lukacs—who, it had not taken Savi much time to discover, had been a sharpshooter for the Hungarian police. It had taken less time for Lilith to construct evidence that implicated Lukacs in Julia Stafford’s murder. Once they found the vampire, a money trail and physical evidence would surface, wrapping Lukacs up neatly. The vampire himself would be slain.

And as soon as Rael surfaced, his blood would run, too. But Congressman Stafford’s hands would stay clean.

She could accept that,
Irena decided as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. And she had to admit a sense of satisfaction, knowing that a Guardian would take over—and make good—a role a demon had created for his own ends.

She still didn’t know exactly how Olek planned to do it, but she
did
believe that he could.

When she reached the second level, quiet hung over the common room like a pale shroud, but it was not the kind of quiet she sought. The novices whispered in careful tones; their laughter only sounded in quick and uneasy bursts. The pall of grief dampened their psychic scents. The fragile tension would have to break soon—but Irena would not be the one to smash through it. She only spoke with them briefly before heading into the corridor that led to the soundproofed, mirrored room.