I did as I was told without further argument. For once.
Seemingly satisfied, he glanced down at his T-shirt, stained from my blood, and walked into what must be his bedroom. I could see the foot of a bed and a black dresser with nickel hardware. I sat up as he disappeared near the dresser, feeling the skin stretch tight over my stomach.
Facing away from me, he stripped off his soiled shirt. I tried not to gasp, failing miserably. Covering the entire expanse of his broad back was the scene of St. Michael the Archangel defeating the devil. Great wings aloft, spear held high, an expression of deepest calm and utter concentration fixed on the archangel’s face as he speared the serpent. Strangely, I’d seen that expression before. On him. The beauty of the artwork sucked the breath right out of me. I cannot imagine how many hours he lay under a needle, bleeding for this wondrously detailed image.
As he turned and pulled on a white T-shirt, I saw another massive tattoo of a magnificent Celtic cross encased in a vine of thorns spanning his chest and abdomen. Chiseled abdomen. Oh my. The horizontal design fell right below his pectorals; the vertical part of the cross divided his chest in half up to his collarbone and disappeared down into his jeans. I saw it for only a second. Long enough. I quickly lay back down, throwing an arm over my eyes to cover my reddened face. I didn’t need a mirror to know I was blushing.
I knew lots of people with random tattoos—butterflies, hearts, tigers and dragons. I knew others with carefully chosen ones—poetic verses, philosophical quotes, religious symbols. Personally, I was a blank canvas, never finding something I wanted branded on my skin for life. If I did, it would be small and inconspicuous. Jude’s ink screamed to the world—justice with a sword, the smiting of evil and faith encased in pain. Who was this guy?
I envisioned him as he was that night in Tartarus—the stunning, sexy guy across the smoky club, shrouded in mystery. The vision changed. In reality, he was far more mysterious and bewitching. No less sexy or stunning, mind you, but each discovery added another question mark to who or what he actually was.
My mind drifted farther. I yawned. That blue pill lulled me to a dreamy place where a black-eyed man with an aura of fire whisked me away into the night.
Chapter Five
“Mother?”
I knew I was in a dream. A nightmare. Warning bells rang loud and clear even in my unconscious, sleep-induced state. I stood in her studio, watching her paint white walls in hues of red. I called out. She wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t even acknowledge my presence. Her blonde hair fell long around slim shoulders, shrouding her face, as she streaked the room in scarlet shapes—winged angels falling from the sky, mouths gaping and twisted in horror as they fell into a blood-red abyss. Somewhere, staccato, operatic voices chanted in Latin, urging her onward. I called her name again. She swiveled. Soulless eyes widened, the color of her dripping brush, staring from a ghostly pale face. Her mouth opened to speak or scream, I wasn’t sure.
I awoke in the dark, bolting upright. A cold sweat dampened my scalp and neck. I nearly choked on my own fear. Pain rippled across my stomach where my stitched wound throbbed.
“Ow!”
I sucked in a breath and pushed a fleece blanket off me, vaguely wondering when Jude had put it there. What time was it? Glancing down, I realized I was barefoot and wearing an oversized gray T-shirt that was definitely not mine. I panicked for a moment, wondering how the hell I’d slept through that. Some blue pill. I calmed when I realized I was still in my bra and jeans. Okay. Not too mortifying, I suppose.
The vision of my mother had faded, yet the music still played in my head. No. It was coming from down the hall.
Jude’s bedroom door stood open. A desk lamp revealed an empty room, a made bed. I followed the operatic music, easily recognizing Carmina Burana. I didn’t know the music from my mother, however. Professor Minga had made us translate the Latin lyrics as a class project last quarter. Songs about wine, women and lascivious behavior, ironically composed by a randy gang of defrocked monks in the 12th century. My classmate Mary and I had snickered like adolescent schoolgirls through the whole translation, imagining “monks gone wild” with their brown robes and tonsured heads.
I padded farther down the hall, edging closer to the source, realizing his home was much bigger than it appeared from the outside. I passed several closed doors. A sliver of light peeked from a crack in the last one on the left. I tiptoed closer, pushing the door open as the final and most famous song of the piece blared from within.
O Fortuna, velut luna, statu variabilis. (O Fortune, like the moon, you are changeable.)
As the door creaked ajar, my eyes landed on Jude, wearing nothing but a pair of loose-fitting, black workout pants. He swiveled and spun across the wood floor, swinging two great broadswords in fluid movements. It was a long empty room with no furniture but an iPod docking station and tiny, powerful Bose speakers in each corner. The back wall was windowless with brick facing, typical of older homes in the Quarter, but I barely registered any of this since my eyes were glued to the dark god moving across the floor with his eyes closed.
He seemed to be working through a memorized routine, almost dancing, with sharpened steel in each hand. As he moved, sinewy muscles rippled, accentuating the contoured lines of his body and dynamic works of art covering his skin. A faint golden glow shimmered along his limbs, shoulders, back. Raw energy pulsed in the room. All the while, a choir chanted the Latin song about fate.
Sors immanis et inanis… (Fate, monstrous and empty…)
He swung his left arm low, slicing through an invisible enemy, shifting right to swing at another. The heavy weapons appeared like something out of Gladiator. I’d watched that movie a thousand times with my dad, mesmerized by Russell Crowe’s epic sword-fighting skills. No offense, but Crowe had nothing on this man. The size and bulk of the weapons should weigh a man down with dull, heavy strokes. Not Jude. The Latin chorus steadily grew louder, leading him into a rhythmic dance of sweat and steel. Always in control, he’d never shown an ounce of emotion on his face until this moment. The pain and sorrow now etched into his brow as he fought an unseen rival broke my heart and fascinated me at the same time.
Status malus, vana salus, semper dissolubilis. (You are malevolent, well-being is vain and always fades to nothing.)
As the music built to a climactic frenzy, words of despair screamed in perfect harmony. I trembled at the sight of him, as if he was in the midst of a great battle, doomed to fail.
Quod per sortem, sternit fortem… (Since Fate strikes down the strong man…)
Then it happened. My senses sharpened on every level—sound shattered my eardrums, heat burned my skin, sweat and fear coated my tongue, and the sight of him whirling like a warrior in agony slapped me into another time and place altogether. The room shimmered. For a split second, I saw Jude, thinner, perhaps younger, bare-chested with no tattoos and much longer hair, braids at the temples. Clad in some kind of natural-leather pants and covered in blue war paint, he wielded a single sword, surrounded by thatched-roof houses engulfed in flame. The fire roared into the night, mingled with the screams of women and children. Grim faced, Jude clanged metal against metal. His weapon bore down upon the head of a beautiful, fair-haired man dressed in a Roman tunic. His enemy grinned back at him with malice. The overpowering feeling of hatred mingled with fury stemming from Jude filled my veins as if I were there battling the sneering foe, not him.
Mecum omnes plangite! (Everyone weep with me!)
I sucked in a loud, gasping breath, like coming up for air after being submerged too long underwater. The vision came and went in a blink, tearing through me like opening a wound. I trembled from the strange, almost painful sensation of being thrust into the horrific memory of the man standing before me. I knew without a fraction of doubt that this was part of being a Vessel. Whatever vision I’d conjured, the power came from within me. I quivered in my bare feet from the aftershock, rage still coursing through my frame as I stood in the doorway.
Silence.
His chest rose and fell in rapid succession. He glared at me with black eyes before finally snapping out of his trance. Walking to the wall at my right, he popped open a cabinet. Inside, a case for swords in various lengths, widths and designs was stacked in sheaths from top to bottom. He found the home for the two broadswords and put them in place, breathing heavily.
I suddenly felt intrusive and overwhelmed with what my mind envisioned and with his current state, glistening skin and all. I struggled to regain composure, still shaking with the lingering taste of rage, his rage, sharpening my senses. Still, I couldn’t help but notice his ink—harsh and beautiful, delicate and jagged, soft curves with razor tips. Just like him, a paradox of beauty and predator. Alluring and lethal at the same time.
“What did you see?”
I flinched. How did he know? “What do you mean?”
“Don’t be coy, Genevieve. It’s written all over your face.”
Holy hell. He can tell what I’m thinking? Then I’m in a world of trouble. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his back and the perfect way his shoulder blades gave way to strong lines rippling with each movement, sinewy muscle disappearing into the waistband of his pants. He toweled off then slipped a black T-shirt on. Thank God.
“I can sense the change. You’re becoming aware.”
Oh. Maybe he couldn’t read my thoughts, just sensed something different. I didn’t follow. “What does ‘becoming aware’ mean?”
“You are beginning to see past the alucinatio.”
I frowned. “Past the ‘illusion’?”
He nodded.
“Do you mean like glamour? Like vampires?”
“There’s no such thing as vampires.”
“Oh, sorry, I forgot. Those monsters are mythical. Right.” He walked over to his iPod station, ignoring my sarcasm. “So who exactly can use alucinatio to hide their true selves?”
“Not hide, but mask. Any of the Flamma.”
“Wait. That means fire or flame.”
“Yes, this is the name given to those who are, shall we say, touched by fire.”
“Now I’m even more confused. Who are these Flamma exactly?”
“Any intelligent, sentient being other than human.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question. You’re only confusing me even more.”
“I’ll answer almost any question you have, Genevieve. Be specific.”
I didn’t miss the slip of the word almost in there, but I was on a mission. “Define Flamma. Touched with fire by whom? God, the devil, angels, demons?”
Black eyes measured me carefully. “All of the above.”
Again, I found myself wavering between fantasy and reality, wondering how the hell all this was happening to me.
Jude had unplugged his iPod, turned off the machine and walked closer.
“So tell me, what did you see?”
I closed my eyes, struggling with the truth. “I saw you.”
“And what was I doing?”
“You were fighting someone, but you were younger than you are now.”
I kept my expression as blank as I could, not wanting him to know what I really saw, what I felt coursing through me. Bitterness, rage and utter despair. Was that who he truly was?
He stepped even closer. I hated when he did this, inching inside my comfort zone, scattering my brain cells to never-never land. To make matters worse, a sweaty Jude was a hotter Jude—literally and in every other way.
“And what did you feel in that moment of Sight?”
“Everything.”
My heart pounded faster. Poor little thing never could keep up with my ridiculous emotions.
“Define everything.”
He held my gaze, throwing my own sassy remarks back at me. I stared back, trying to appear like an open book, while turmoil swirled inside.
“I felt heat. I felt as if the music were beating inside my chest, almost to bursting. I saw you. I heard metal on metal. I felt…everything. But it’s gone now.”
He stared a moment longer. Finally, his rigid shoulders slackened ever so slightly.
“Yes. You’re becoming aware. It may happen more often than you like from here on out. When you are fully awakened, you will be able to see the Flamma no matter if they try to hide behind illusion or not. You’ll even be able to foresee them, perhaps, depending on your gift with the Sight.”
I sighed. Foresee them? As in psychic?
“I don’t mean to sound obtuse,” I said, using higher diction to fit into his style of vocabulary for a moment, “but what does heightened sense have to do with being a Vessel? What good does that do?”
“A Vessel needs her own weapons against the enemy. And she has many. Your heightened senses are a warning that you are near one or more of the Flamma. Ninety percent of the time, that will be a demon.”
“But you’re not a demon.”
His eyes sharpened, sending a cold shiver up my spine.
“When you feel your senses heightening,” he continued, ignoring my comment, “observe who is around you and what they are doing. You’ll feel all your senses, all six.”
“Six?” Was he kidding me? “Um, I know I didn’t do very well in biology, but as far as I know, there are five senses.”
“There are six.”
“Of course there are.”
In true Jude fashion, he ignored my attitude and barreled ahead. All business.
“The sixth encompasses intuition, which comes in many forms—sensing their signature, or you may have a vision, what we call the Sight.”
“What do you mean by signature?”
“All Flamma have a distinct signature that you can either feel, see, sometimes even taste or smell.”
“Wow. What’s your signature?”
His granite features didn’t crack. “If you don’t know yet, you will.” Electricity prickled in the air. I remembered the aura of flame, the constant heat rippling off him, wondering if I’d already felt his signature but hadn’t recognized it.
“So why didn’t you tell me any of this about being a Vessel before?”
I was completely overwhelmed—visions, becoming aware, signatures, Sight, Flamma, more crazy Latin terms. He was withholding all kinds of information I needed.
“And when would that have been? In the dark alley where I first met you? On campus, in front of a dozen coeds, after you refused to go somewhere private to discuss these events?” His voice remained eerily steady, so calm, yet the flash in his dark eyes made me want to retreat. Fast. He stepped even closer. Of course. “Or when the last three demons were trying to assault you? Or perhaps when I was stitching up your injury? How is it, by the way?”
I scowled back at him. “Fine,” I snapped, realizing I sounded like a petulant child.
Silence again. There seemed to be many of these moments between Jude and me, where we said nothing but the quiet was heavy, weighted. I had an English teacher once who called this a pregnant pause, a stillness filled with thoughts growing rapidly that would at some point give birth. I wondered when that time would come between Jude and me, when we’d stop withholding information and spill it all.
The wicked laugh opening Ozzy Osborne’s “Crazy Train” sounded from Jude’s pocket. I jumped at his ring tone. Interesting. He pulled his cell out and answered.
“Yes.”
Pause.
“Good.”
Longer pause.
“This evening. I’ll meet you there.”
He slipped his phone back into his pocket without any sort of explanation. Not that he was obliged to tell me anything anyway, but I really wanted to know who would be calling him at whatever ungodly hour this was. What kind of friends did a demon hunter have?
“It’s time to get you home. I’ll escort you to ensure you arrive safely.”
�
�How will you get home if you drive me home?”
“There are other modes of transportation.”
“Modes of transportation? Who talks like that?”
He made no reply, walking toward me. Knowing he was about to squeeze into my personal space as he liked to do, I ambled back down the hall to get my things.
“Your phone is still on the coffee table. I sent your roommate a message. She texted you thirty-eight times to find out where you were, threatening to call your father.”
“Oh no! Mindy!”
He was right. She had texted me exactly thirty-eight times. Her messages were repetitious: Where R U? Who R U with? Why aren’t U texting me back? I need more Easy Mac. David isn’t coming over till later. Why won’t U answer me? Is your phone dead? If your phone’s dead then U can’t get this message. OK, you’ve never not answered me. WHERE R U? OK, if U don’t answer me, I’m calling the police. No, I’m calling your dad, which is worse and U know it!
Her string of messages finally ended. Then a brief reply from my phone: I am okay. Do not call my dad. I am in good hands and will explain to you when I arrive home in the morning.
This was a bit stiff coming from me, but she must’ve bought it. The message after read: In the morning? Are U sleeping at a guy’s house? OMG! Are U at Malcolm’s? No, U wouldn’t be with Malcolm, not like that. Did U run into that hot guy from Tartarus? The one U told me about? Details! I want DETAILS! David’s here now. See U in the a.m.
I literally felt the blood drain away from my face as I read this last text. Please tell me Jude did not read her response. I wanted to crawl under a very large rock in a very deep hole in a very dark cave and never come out. I wish I’d never told Mindy about meeting Jude that night. Of course, I withheld nearly our entire encounter, but I had to tell her about the dance floor incident since Steven wouldn’t shut up about it on the way home. The sad thing was, my thoughts of the “hot guy from the club” had morphed into something entirely different. Yes, he was still hot—hotter, actually—but the attraction was tempered now with a sense of dread.
“Are you ready?”
“Ah!” I squealed.
Forged in Fire Page 5
