Forged in Fire (17 page)

“Amazing,” he repeated Kat’s words. “The night. So fitting.”

“What?” I asked, confused. “The night?”

“Your seal. A moon-bright glow in the night. It suits you.”

“You could see that?”

“I know,” Kat intervened. Jude dropped my hands. “It was like the cosmos had exploded everywhere when I experienced it yesterday. And wasn’t I right? She casts the shield in a split second, Jude!” she yelled exuberantly, snapping her fingers for effect. “It’s like she’s fully aware after only one week of crossing twenty? And she’s already casting without saying the chant aloud! It’s remarkable!”

One week? Was that all it had been? I reeled from all the insane feelings, unable to join in Kat’s enthusiastic celebration.

“It is remarkable,” Jude agreed, watching me closely, voice soft.

“Come on, then. Let’s see what else she has in store. It’s time to learn attack mode,” Kat said, taking my arm and leading me to the center of the room.

“Before we get started, there’s something that demon Garzel said to me. It’s been weighing on my mind.”

“What did he say?” snapped Jude.

It was so unnerving when he focused on me like that, making me feel like an insect in a jar.

“I was trying to find a way out of there, so I mentioned that Danté had marked me, thinking the demon would back off.”

I swallowed hard, feeling a wave of heat shimmer across the room. Kat glanced from me to Jude. His lips tightened into a line.

“Anyway, he said Danté would have to ‘mourn my loss’ and that his master wanted no challenger.”

Silence.

The mood plummeted. Jude shot a look at Kat across my shoulder. She walked past me to stand closer to him, speaking in a low, coaxing tone. “It’s a sign. Don’t you see?”

She placed a hand gently on his crossed forearms. Jude’s eyes remained on me, though the usual intensity faded.

“Jude.” Kat said his name as if imploring him to do something.

“Could someone please tell me what’s going on? A sign of what?”

Kat turned away from the brooding demon hunter as if his silence was what she sought in order to continue. Sympathy was back in her eyes. “The prophecy, the one I told you about.”

I nodded.

“I only have part of it, but the portion I know speaks of signs leading to the end.”

“You mean the beginning,” interrupted Jude.

He’d walked away from both of us, angling his body more toward the wall of practice swords. He seemed to be gazing at something far from this room, perhaps into the future, or the past.

“The beginning?” I asked.

Kat sighed, coming to me and clasping my hands as if to comfort me. The heavy dread permeating the air pressed on my chest. “There are two high demons after you. One wants you for his Vessel; the other wants you dead. We know your would-be killer is another high demon, one of the seven princes of the underworld.”

I nodded, though I hadn’t figured out yet how she knew this to be true. Jude remained with his back to us. She went on. “This fits the prophecy. Here, read this.”

She shot a nervous glance at Jude, then pulled a sleek Blackberry from the hip of her workout pants, strapped somewhere between the fabric and her skin. She flipped through her photos, then tapped on one. “Read it.”

It took a second for me to realize what I was looking at. The torn parchment of a yellowed scroll bore curving calligraphy with swirling curls and flourishes. Not only was the penmanship difficult to read, but the writing was in Latin. I understood a great deal, but these words were beyond me.

“Kat, I can’t understand this. Where did you get this photo?”

“I shot it myself,” she said, taking back the phone and enlarging the screen with her thumb and index finger.

“From where? Who has the original?”

“The Vatican.”

“The Vatican! As in
the
Vatican?”

“Is there more than one?” She smirked. I couldn’t help but laugh a little as she continued. “Well, as the keeper of ancient texts, they still only had this one piece. The original was written down by a medieval monk, whose most probable name was James of Glastonbury.”

“Most probable name?”

“Monks didn’t sign their works, whether it was an illumination or whatever, part of the monastic denial of self and all that. I’ve done a bit of investigating and questioning of Flamma over the years, and there seems to be some debate about the exact time period and the name of the scribe.”

“Does that really matter?” I asked, wondering why the long explanation.

Kat was patient. “Yes, of course it does. Because, you see, the prophet must have been a Vessel with the Sight to have given this specific prophecy. And the monk would have trust in the Vessel in order to scribe the prophecy into their holy books, protected for centuries at Glastonbury. Until, of course, Henry VIII—the big, fat polygamist—had so many of the English cathedrals burned or destroyed. Glastonbury being one of them.”

“I still don’t quite understand how the name of the monk matters.”

Kat focused, apparently realizing she’d been rambling, not making any logical sense. “There are three names attached to this prophecy as the monks who scribed the original text. The names were given to me by different Flamma who’ve been around much, much longer than I have.”

“Was George one of them?” interrupted Jude, which earned him a slit-eyed glare from Kat.

She went on. “Simeon of Glastonbury in approximately 83 AD, John of Glastonbury around 197 AD, and James of Glastonbury in 399 AD. It
must
be James in order to validate the truth of the prophecy. The first Vessel awakened on this earth in 273 AD. Do you see? Only a Vessel with Sight could’ve passed the vision on to James, because no Vessel had been in our world during Simeon’s and John’s time.”

“Two seventy-three AD,” I murmured, disbelieving the fact that Vessels had come and gone all that long time. I staggered from the weight of it. Kat had already told me that of all the Vessels she had ever known or heard of, there were two fates for them—premature death or long-term possession by a demon. I shivered at the thought, wondering how in the world I could ever hope for a different outcome if Vessels had been around for centuries and none of them had escaped. Jude had become as silent as a ghost in the corner of the room.

“Somewhere along the line,” Kat interrupted my thoughts, “the prophecy was ripped in half, either intentionally or by accident, so we only have part of it. The first part.”

“Okay, just tell me what it says.”

I trembled as she peered down at her phone, reading aloud.

“
Beneath the orb that circles round, while hosts of fiends and foes abound,

the Vessel-born shall walk upright, fall from Grace, lose her light.

The sinful reign with demon hand, spread wide the Fallen’s mighty band.

But I, the Chalice with full Sight, do see the One to cast off night.

Time will ebb, Time will flow, Light and Dark combat and grow

a ruthless army of good and ill, to war on Land; humanity kill.

When wickedness will rule on land, and all seems lost to mortal man,

One Great War shall begin, upon the hour She stands within

a ring of wordless, mighty breath; amidst the clutch of endless death.

Two great sons of Morning Star; divided, until death will mar.

One will woo the warrior maid, one will cut her to a shade.

Two sisters of the Vessel Light, blood to blood, will evil smite.

Have mercy on the mindless twin, when Wrath is right and Virtue sin.

Sun and Moon, eye to eye…

“That’s where it ends. Well, that’s where the paper is torn anyway.”

I had no idea what to say, how to feel, what to think, but a trembling had started somewhere in my belly. The Morning Star—I knew the term well enough from Professor Bennett’s class. The name for Lucifer before he had fallen.

“Am I the warrior maid?”

Kat nodded. “Yes. That is, I believe so. Also, you’ll note the two brothers fighting over her.”

“Two sisters of the Vessel Light, blood to blood, will evil smite,” I mumbled, frowning. “What does that mean?”

“I always assumed it meant two women with the gift of the Vessel, sisters in their connection to the unique power.”

“Blood to blood, will evil smite,” I repeated. “Does that mean they smite evil together or evil smites them? It’s not clear.”

“No,” said Jude standing right behind us. I jumped, spinning around. Damn, he did it again. “It isn’t clear. I will agree, Kat, there are events tying the prophecy to the present, but there’s still much that is uncertain. Let’s not make too many judgments based on what we don’t know.”

He said this with such finality, there was no arguing. I didn’t dare. And neither did Kat. I sighed.

“One thing’s for damn sure.”

“What’s that?” asked Kat.

“I want to know how to defend myself, and I want to know now.”

She smiled wickedly.

“Well, what the hell are we waiting for?”

Chapter Fifteen

When casting the shield of protection, you needed to settle into a place of peace. Not so for the cast of battle, as Kat called it. There was no sweet, rhyming Latin phrase either. Only two words to call on this power.

“
Flamma intus!
”

I channeled the
flame within
, the power emanating from my core, double-punching Kat in the abdomen with the heels of my palm, then kneeing her to the floor. A pulse of white light brightened, then dimmed as she slid across the room all the way to the wall, on her behind. The words gave me supernatural strength. Or perhaps the strength was already there and the words simply summoned it forward. Not sure.

Kat laughed but rubbed her bum with a grimace as she stood. We both panted from the last hour of exertion. Jude watched us without a word, leaning against the wall, arms folded.

“Well, you’ve mastered the casting, Gen,” she said, taking a deep breath. I frowned at her familiar use of my name. “But you need a stronger opponent to test it further. Jude?”

His eyes flicked from Kat to me, still stoic as the moment we walked in here.

“Wait, what?” Me? Fight Jude? She’s joking.

“Gen, I’m quite formidable, I’ll admit, but I doubt you’ll be attacked by someone of my build or stature. It’ll be someone much bigger, like Jude. Lower demons choose the big guys to possess for a reason, and all high demons choose a strong masculine build to shift into.”

Jude hadn’t moved, his eyes roving up and down. My sweaty tank clung to my torso and loose hair stuck to the side of my face. Having redone my ponytail twice, I tightened it once more as he shoved off the wall.

“Give her a weapon.”

Kat pulled a dagger from a sheath at her thigh, walking toward me.

“I thought we were practicing without weapons today.”

Jude started to circle. A primitive part of me stiffened.

“A demon won’t give up when you throw a few punches, even with the casting power. You need to cut them.”

“But I could hurt you.”

“You could try.”

His shoulders rounded in a relaxed posture. Muscled arms swung just barely at his sides. He was in no way threatened by me. He probably found this comical.

“No sifting,” I warned

“No need.”

He continued to stalk me with slow precision. Kat handed me her dagger. It was heavier than I thought.

“It’s too big,” I said, feeling the weight of the twelve-inch blade.

“Oh, I think you can handle it.”

A dark mischievous look. Wait. Were we still talking about daggers? Heat flushed my cheeks. He circled. I pivoted. Kat disappeared into the corner.

“No power this time, Genevieve. Let’s see if you can deliver more than karate moves.”

“You don’t think I can cut you?”

An eyebrow lifted. Still smiling. Still circling. Arrogant ass.

“I can,” I gritted out, widening and squaring my stance.

Sparks of gold glittered in his eyes, a predator honing in on its prey. He stalked closer, then stopped two feet from me, speaking in a husky tone.

“Prove it.”

My heart jumped, hearing my own challenge thrown back at me. Last night. Scorching kisses, whispered words, rough angles, soft sighs. My eyes strayed to his lips. One corner quirked up into a knowing smile. He was taunting me right there in front of Kat. What kind of game was he playing? Anger flared in my gut. I lunged, swiping out at his chest. Grabbing one of my wrists, then the other, he twisted me around, pulling me tight against his body, my arms crossed and bound in front of me. Completely immobile in less than a second.

Okay, that was embarrassing.

“Too predictable.” Warm breath close to my ear. I shivered. A short rumble of laughter in his chest. “Again?”

I struggled. He released me at once. This time, I did the circling. Leaping left, then dodging right, I ducked under his outstretched arm, slicing as I went. I popped up behind him. Jude glanced down at the tear along the side of his white T-shirt. A small drop of blood seeped through the fabric. Very small, but I gasped anyway. He laughed, stripping off the T-shirt and tossing it to the side.

“Better. Again.”

Not a good move on my part. My concentration scattered to the winds. Cords of muscle and tight, sinewy limbs flexed in preparation for the next attack. Black swirls and barbs of Celtic interlacing traced over tight pectorals and down his chiseled abdomen. My mouth went bone dry. A shift of his upper body gave me a glance of a feathered wing inked across a powerful shoulder blade.

Concentrate, Genevieve.

I fought the urge to shake my head as if dizzy from intoxication. For that is truly what I was, imagining what it would feel like to have his beautiful body against mine, skin on skin. Trying
not
to imagine what it would feel like.

“Anytime you’re ready,” he said, smirking.

Damn him.

“You know,” I said, thinking to take a different approach, “a demon will attack me, not the other way around. Why don’t you attack first?”

“As you wish.”

Oh shit.

He lunged low. I twisted out of reach, leaping right. He changed position, shot out his leg, tripping me to the floor. I landed on my stomach and pushed up an inch before being summarily pinned by two hundred pounds of hard muscle.
Oh.
Very hard.

A whisper against the shell of my ear: “Mmm. Close, but not quite. Again?”

“Get. Off!”

He obliged. Another haughty laugh. “The key is to not become distracted or let your anger control you. You must find a way to get the better of your opponent, no matter if you’re outmatched in size.”

Before I’d even rolled completely over, I clipped him behind the knees. He buckled to the floor as I leapt, swinging my body over his. I straddled his chest, pulling his head to the floor with my left hand knotted in that pretty hair of his, exposing his throat and thrusting the point of the dagger beneath his chin.

“Like this?” I hissed.

A genuine broad smile lightened his face, making me more breathless than I already was. Amber and gold shimmered in his irises, nearly cutting out all the black. Nearly. His hands were on my hips.

“Exactly like this.”

“Whoohoo!” Kat cheered, reminding me of the girlfriend present.

I popped up, not offering him a hand. He didn’t need one anyway.

“Genevieve, you’ve got it, my friend.” Her friend now. Great. “Combining that with the battle cast, you’ll be dynamite. Let’s say we go for a test run tonight.”

I found it difficult to maintain my pissy attitude with Kat’s enthusiasm filling up the room.

“What kind of test run?” I asked, handing her the dagger.

“You know, let’s go hunt some demons, get you in a fight, see what happens.”

“Is this the way demon hunters train?”

“Yes,” two demon hunters replied in unison. I rolled my eyes.

“I’m not going to that damn Dungeon place.”

“I wouldn’t take you back there anyway,” Jude admitted, making me wonder at the statement. “We’ll go somewhere easy, where lower demons hang out. Tartarus.”

I frowned. “Wait, that place I first met you at? In the business district?”

Jude nodded. I felt sort of stupid, realizing now he wasn’t there just checking me out that night, but actually hunting his usual prey.

“I think the name of the place makes them feel more at home. I’ve never gone there without catching a demon or two.”

“Sounds good,” said Kat, walking toward the door. I followed with Jude behind me. “I’ll meet you guys there about nine o’clock.”

“Shouldn’t I have a weapon?”

Kat stopped and leaned down in the hallway. “Here, take these,” she said, unstrapping the sheath from her left leg.

“No,” interrupted Jude. “I’ll have something that suits her better. Go on in.”

He gestured toward one of the closed doors next to the hall bathroom. As I walked in, Kat touched his arm.

“Jude, can I talk to you a minute?”

He waved for me to enter the room and followed Kat farther down the hall. I heard her say “speaking of George”, then I was lost in the splendor around me.

A wall-to-wall showcase gleamed with sharpened stainless steel crafted in a forgotten age. I didn’t need an appraisal to know these weapons weren’t made in the here and now. Some were roughly made, some finely so. Artisans of old must’ve forged the one like a medieval war sword with a thick blade and handle-less hilt. There was another, seemingly as ancient—a long, thin saber with an ornate T-handle embedded with red jewels. Were they rubies? There was a set of powerful blades with simple hilts. Square Crusader-like crosses circled the tips. The metal didn’t glint like the others. Possibly iron. How did he get this stuff?

I practically choked when my eyes slid to the last case where a four-foot-long claymore stretched the entire length of the blue-velvet-backed case. My dad’s all-time favorite movie was
Highlander
. I’d watched the hero Connor MacLeod decapitate his enemies with the long Scottish sword a hundred times. The mere thought of Jude wielding such a monster made me shiver.

I faced away from the wall, realizing the room held antiques of every kind. On a small mahogany writing desk stood an ivory vase painted with the goddess Artemis on the hunt, the finish crackled with age. A feathered quill pen stood in a pewter rose-shaped inkwell. The gray feathers were frayed from use, the hollow quill worn smooth from the hand that had held it. Were these relics of Jude’s past he could not part with? What sentimental attachment could he have to these things? Had he written love letters with this quill? To Kat or some other woman?

My ire started to rise again. I moved around the desk, past a huge ornate armoire to the wall behind. And my heart stopped beating altogether.

I stared into a painting of a midnight pool where a golden goddess floated in death. Garments spread wide like an angel’s wings. Pale wrists bound at her waist. Yellow hair fanned in a rippling halo. I could almost hear the water lapping, trying to pull her down. Her expression—no fear, no pain. Only tranquility touched the unblemished perfection of her ethereal face. A luminescent aura shrouded her in death, promising the peace she so deserved in the afterlife. No eternal darkness for this fair maid. Above the pool, hovering in shadow, stood a guilty figure, the executioner, fleeing the scene.

I had no idea tears streamed down my face until Jude appeared silently at my side.

“What is this?” I asked.

I barely noticed he’d changed into a dark blue T-shirt and his leather jacket.

“Le Jeune Martyre
.
”

“I know damn well what the painting is!” I nearly choked, swiping angrily at my cheeks to rid any sign of weakness. “I mean, how the hell do you have this painting in your house? A replica of the very one my mother painted shortly before she died!”

“This isn’t a replica. This is the original by Paul Delaroche.”

I blinked, unable to comprehend.

“The original is in the Louvre in Paris,” I spluttered, completely incredulous.

“They do have an original by Delaroche, a second the artist modeled after this one. This is actually the first I commissioned for myself.”

Hold up. The one in Paris was painted in 1850-something. I’d researched it for a project in high school as I struggled in angst-ridden teenage years, while still grieving the loss of a mother who obsessed over this beautiful drowning martyr.

“Do you mean you’re like one hundred sixty years old or something?”

“No, Genevieve.”

Whew. Because that would make him freakishly old. I stepped away from him. His pupils were inky orbs of pitch. No spark of light at all.

He faced the painting. He was remembering. “This woman was the first Vessel ever to walk the earth.”

His voice became steady, even, almost too calm. My mind flipped to what I remembered about the history of the painting.

“She was a Christian martyr, according to the history books,” I said softly.

“She was that,” he agreed, tone thick with disdain. “But she was so much more.”

I waited, thinking he wouldn’t continue. But he did.

“She was twenty-four when a high demon found her. She’d learned to cast illusion on her own. Actually, the summoning chant we use now was of her own making.”

I wanted to interrupt and ask how, why. I thought demon hunters had created the cast of illusion. But he was in a trance. I dared not stop him.

“She had evaded the high demons for four years past her awakening. But when he found her—”

I felt heat rolling in waves. The orange shimmer of fire barely caressed his shoulders.

“He used her. Most foully.”

I winced at the gruffness tinged with pain in his voice.

“The stain of his evil threatened to steal her very soul, so rather than let him abuse her further, she sought an honest death. She did die as a Christian and a martyr, but she was also a sacrifice so that the damned, pernicious demon Ru’um could not use her as an instrument to do his evil.”

The name tingled cold up my spine. I tried the pronunciation in my head.
Roo-um
. I didn’t know the name, yet something tugged deep.

“Ru’um?” I asked.

Jude faced me then. The black had not crawled beyond his irises, but I knew he ventured too close to the edge.

“You know him by another name. Danté.”

I sucked in a breath, unable to move or make a sound. He wasn’t speaking of a history handed down to him by others. He was speaking of memory, his memory, of a past pain lodged deep within him. My heart raced.

“Do you mean that, that you knew this Vessel?”

A single nod.

“She was my duty to protect, and I failed her. So she died.”

Soft, soft words. I felt the blood drain from my face. Two things threatened to make me faint on the spot. One, there was no doubt whatsoever that Jude had loved this woman, still loved her fiercely. The pain of her loss was written in every line of his chiseled face. And second, Paul Delaroche’s painting was based on the Christian martyr in the era of Emperor Diocletian around 300 AD. Jude was seventeen hundred years old!