Forged in Fire

by Juliette Cross

  I ran to my childhood room, closed the door, and fell onto my bed and wept. The world had dealt me a cruel, cruel hand, and I wasn’t up for it. I grieved. My old life was dead, and the new one was too much for me to bear. Thunder rumbled in the near-distance, reverberating off my windowpane. As sobs subsided onto my damp pillow, I drifted into a broken, dreamless sleep.

  The soft sound of pattering rain against the window woke me. The day had darkened, making my white room gray. I roused and trudged downstairs. The television still hummed with football commentators, but for another game. Dad had dozed too. I sat on the end of the sofa, gazing at the man who’d shaped my world. Dad was a tall physical powerhouse. Not to mention that several of the single moms coming in to the dojo tried their damndest to get his attention. To me, he was Dad—protection, safety and love. Though I knew he loved me, he could no longer protect and keep me safe. There is only one person I knew of who could, and I’d sent him away.

  Dad shifted and opened his eyes. “Hey, there,” he said, voice groggy.

  “Hey.”

  “Why so down? Still thinking of your mother?”

  He knew I only went to the upstairs gallery when I missed her and needed to connect in some way. I nodded. He sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. His hair was sweetly tousled.

  “Did you…?” I started. I stopped. Unsure whether I could ask this question.

  “What is it? Go ahead.”

  “Was she, was she sick in the end?”

  He sobered, angling toward me. Rain poured onto the deck outside, mirroring my emotions. “Gen, your mother was sick. Of course she was. Anyone who would do what she did must be.”

  “But what I mean was, had she gone crazy? Like, really and truly crazy?”

  I had no more tears to shed on the matter. I wanted to know the truth. I was only ten when she killed herself. I’d gone through all the emotions a child does—blaming myself, blaming my father, blaming the world. Now I just wanted to know really and truly—why?

  “Toward the end, she became restless, obsessed, painting all the time and never painting the beautiful things she used to. She was angry, afraid and depressed. I took her to a psychiatrist, but nothing helped. Not even medication. In the end, she only saw one way to end her suffering.”

  He reached over and took my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  “It had nothing to do with you. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, Dad.” I nodded and tried to smile.

  I gave him a hug to reassure him I hadn’t fallen into my own depression. Sometimes he watched me with an odd expression. I wondered now if he was waiting for my mother’s madness to rear its ugly head as if it were hereditary or something.

  “I’ve gotta go, Dad. Class early in the morning.”

  He saw me out to the porch. I made a mad dash for my car, realizing with a sharp pang that Jude’s motorcycle was nowhere in sight. Nor was he.

  The awful things I’d said started spinning through my head on the drive home. He didn’t deserve my anger, my bitterness. The worst part was that he had been right, and deep down, I knew it all along. Why he became so cold while staring at the painting, I don’t know, but no matter what, I was still the one in the wrong.

  “Oh hell!”

  I hit the steering wheel with the palm of my hand and headed for the French Quarter. The streets were empty with the downpour settling in. Lightning flashed. I pulled onto the curb a block down from Jude’s place, the closest spot I could find.

  Of course, I had no umbrella. I never did. Mindy kept like four in her car, all in varying shades and patterns to match whatever ensemble she happened to be wearing when caught in the rain. Me, I never had one. I ran as fast as I could, realizing the rain had pushed in a cool front. I could feel the air dropping by degrees since I’d left my dad’s ten minutes ago.

  I ran into the alcove and found the gate locked. I was nearly soaked through, shivering and wishing I could get into Jude’s warm living room and wait there. Perhaps I should come back later. My emotions had caused me to react irrationally, defensively. Discovering that my mother had indeed been ill, choosing suicide over fighting another day, left a trail of bitterness in my gut. I could never face the truth before now. Before Jude. I didn’t even know what I was going to say to him. I just knew I needed to apologize. He didn’t deserve my anger.

  The temperature was dropping, and I had no idea when he was coming back. I had decided to leave when my VS tingled. I felt him approaching. He rounded the corner, swathed in shadow.

  “Jude, I wanted to—”

  My pulse sped up frantically. He stalked toward me in long, smooth strides. Wearing black jeans and a white button-down, wet and clinging to his skin, he moved with determined purpose straight toward me. As if he knew I was there. As if he knew I was waiting. His eyes gleamed molten gold, and in them I read only one feral emotion—hunger. Never had I seen this hue or emotion shining in his eyes. Not like this, edged with steel and violence. I knew he was something other, but in that moment, I truly feared where he’d come from and who’d made him.

  I couldn’t move. I waited, like a doe in the headlights. He reached me, grasped my wrists and pinned them to the wall above my head. He crushed his lips to mine and covered my body with his in one swift move. A whimpering noise escaped my lips, barely, before he devoured any other sound of protest or pleasure. Demanding submission, he explored my mouth with lips and tongue. God, how I’d imagined what kissing him would be like. This wasn’t it. Fire branded me from the inside out. All thoughts of anything else fled. Gone. All I wanted was this. All I could think, smell, breathe was Jude. His body pressed against mine, a visceral friction clawing between us.

  One hand cuffed my wrists; the other gripped my jaw firmly, keeping me in place so he could do as he pleased. I could hardly breathe from the shock of the assault to my senses. His hand trailed down my body, over my soaked shirt, then under. A large hand squeezed my hip, caressing up the side of my waist along bare skin. He nipped at my lower lip as if he longed to consume me, bit by bit. I wasn’t complaining. He released my mouth, biting along my jaw. So rough.

  “So sweet,” he whispered.

  Words I’d never imagined he’d say. I panted, trying to catch my breath. He trailed scorching kisses down my neck. My skin burned, like being licked by fire. My Vessel sense flared into orbit, screaming for these sensations to stop. I wondered fleetingly how my mind and my body could have totally different opinions on the matter.

  He shifted away just enough so his hand could trail over my rib cage, then higher. He clasped my breast—a proprietary feel, not a lover’s caress.

  “Wait, Jude,” I murmured.

  He apparently was as overwhelmed as I was. He lowered his hands to my outer thighs and lifted me up, pushing his pelvis to hold me in place, showing me the extent of his desire. It was more than evident. My thoughts scrambled from the sensations burning through my body. Too much. Too much. The dynamic of our relationship had changed in a blink.

  Feeling faint, knowing I needed to reel this in as we were both overcome, I tried to lower myself. He pushed harder against me, growling. Dropping one leg, he hooked his fingers over the collar of my blouse and yanked it down over one shoulder, popping the top three buttons. Sharp teeth grazed the skin along my lower neck near my pulse.

  “Jude!”

  Warning bells clanged inside, trying to wake me up. I heard them. Too late. Pointed teeth punctured my skin. I cried out. Stinging pain ripped through me as he drank from the bite, sucking hard and fast.

  “Stop!”

  Panic seized me. I shoved at his chest, moving him only an inch, but enough to get both feet on the ground. He released my throat with a groan, his tongue licking one more time over the bite. I stared where my hands landed, splayed across his chest. Through the thin shirt and along the V of the open neckline, I saw…nothing. No sharp-edged, lovely lines of a cresting Celtic cross. My heart hammered like a rabbit who’s been caught by the cat, waiting f
or the death blow.

  “You have no tattoos,” was all I could say, stupidly. The truth dawning second by second, the air growing colder.

  “I have no use for that.”

  Not Jude’s voice. Somehow, I found the courage to look up into his eyes. Molten gold glimmered, then bled into crimson.

  “Oh God,” I whispered in a trembling broken voice.

  His lips contorted into a lopsided grin, exposing a full row of sharp teeth, two extending longer than the rest.

  “No, baby. Guess again.”

  Chapter Ten

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. I was in the arms of the high demon who wanted me as his own.

  “So lovely,” he said, trailing a finger down my cheek. I flinched, feeling as if I’d been cut with an icy blade. “So soft.”

  My Vessel senses protested, registering every sensation on an agonizingly painful scale. A freezing fever began to spread from every point of contact—his thighs against my hips, his chest against mine, one hand at the nape of my neck, the other petting me where he pleased. The bite on my throat throbbed with chilling pain. A paramour of ice had me in his clutches, and I was helpless to do anything about it.

  He looked like Jude, a distorted, monstrous version of him. An abomination of beauty and beast. Nausea swelled in my stomach. His touch produced a flash of memory.

  I was seven years old and sitting next to a bubbling cauldron, wearing my witch costume for Halloween. Dad dropped blocks of dry ice into a pot with gloved hands. I dared to touch a piece with my bare finger, yanking it back in pain.

  “Don’t touch, sweetheart. It’s so cold, it burns.”

  My eyes fixed on the not-Jude, demon eyes grazing over me with a hungry expression that made me sick. I trembled. So cold, it burned.

  “Stop,” I choked out, panting.

  Desperately trying to regain control, I called on my Vessel Sense, not knowing how or what to do. I closed my eyes, seeking that place that opened when I needed it, yearning for some form of protection. My VS responded. Like a beacon in the night, an inner light pulsed outward. I felt an expansion of warmth from my core.

  The beast pressed his finger to my lips. I winced, jerking my eyes open, blue flames burning wherever he touched. The pulse died away as swiftly as it had come.

  “Shh, pretty little thing. No need for all that. I’m not going to climb inside just yet,” he said in a silky voice, threading both hands through my hair along the sides of my head. I feared he would crush my skull. Perhaps he just wanted to show me he could. “Too pure in there at the moment. But we’ll take care of that, won’t we?”

  Red eyes narrowed; a beastly grin widened. He licked a drop of blood from one pointed canine. I trembled and couldn’t stop.

  “Perhaps you’d prefer a more pleasing form.”

  Dark hair lightened to gold, fiery eyes iced to sky blue, sharpened teeth smoothed to a fine row of pearly whites. A perfect face—angular lines, chiseled, not sharp.

  “There, now. Better? I don’t much care for wearing the hunter’s shell anyway.”

  Fear prickled like needles through my veins. My body was stone. I’d seen this face before—beautiful, grinning, glacial, menacing. He was the one locked in combat with Jude in my vision. Lightning struck nearby, brightening the face of my captor for a fleeting second.

  “Who are you?” I managed to whisper in a quivering breath.

  “You may call me Danté. You are far more lovely than I thought. I couldn’t wait any longer to meet my bride. The temptation was too much. I never have been one for patience.”

  Bride! My body cringed, wanting to fold inward upon itself. I stared in shock at the beautiful demon entrancing me with storm-cloud eyes. He trailed a finger along the bite mark at my neck.

  “And now you’re mine.”

  He angled his head as if he were listening for something. His gaze slid toward the alcove entrance for a split second.

  “One more taste before I go.”

  “No—”

  He crushed his lips to mine before I could form a thought—tasting, demanding. I struggled, tearing my mouth away to the side. Teeth sliced through my bottom lip. I cried out as he backed away, releasing me. I slipped sideways, staring at the beautiful specimen. He smiled, canines at full length again. Blood smeared his wicked grin. My blood.

  “Be sure to give the Master of Demons my name. Till next time, my sweet.”

  He blew me a kiss, then his body evaporated into wispy gray mist, sliding between the bars of the wrought-iron gate and into the air.

  I heard the slide of steel, a sword being pulled from its sheath. Through the alcove stepped Jude, the real one, black-eyed and fuming with iron weapon in hand. My body slipped against the brick wall, falling toward the pavement. He caught me. It seemed Jude was always catching me before I hit the ground.

  “A prince,” he grumbled, gravelly voice vibrating against me, cutting like shards.

  He held me close, a fiery blaze against the bitter cold chilling me to the bone. At first I thought he was squeezing me, but he wasn’t, even though the air was being sucked from my lungs. I gasped. Then I could breathe again. The next thing I knew, we were standing in his living room.

  “Whuh…”

  I was dizzy, but I didn’t pass out. First, we were standing in the alcove, then we were standing in his house next to the sofa in less than a second. I trembled even more. He sheathed his sword and set me down on the sofa, dark eyes assessing. He slanted my chin to the side, catching sight of the bite.

  “Fuck!”

  “Wh-what?” I said through chattering teeth.

  I didn’t know if I shook from the cold, the trauma, the arctic touch of the prince, or the abrasive, angry manner with which Jude was handling me.

  “You’ve been marked.” His voice cut the air. “What did he look like?” he demanded while grabbing the fleece blanket from the armchair and wrapping it tight around my shoulders.

  I could hardly speak through the quivering. He stood up and did something near the fireplace. A sharp crackle, and a fire came to life.

  “What did he look like, Genevieve?”

  He stood directly in front of me, gaze hard and focused.

  “Y-y-you.”

  Jude went still—predator still, deathly still, grim-reaper-standing-on-your-doorstep still. His eyes roved over my open blouse, the loose threads where buttons once held it together, my swollen lips, the abrasions and bite on my neck. His voice dipped so low and so soft I could hardly understand him.

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  His eyes fixed on me in such a way I thought that if I moved a muscle, the tiger would pounce. I was afraid, knowing the demon boasted about who he was and wanting Jude to know his identity. I’d not forgotten the image of a younger, tattoo-free, rage-filled Jude locked in a warlike embrace with this same demon prince.

  “Answer me.”

  “He said his name was Danté.”

  Black. Black. Black.

  Irises, pupils and the whites of his eyes blanched of all color but the deepest pitch. He seemed to be something so other, I feared he might transform into a supernatural beast right before my eyes. A blazing aura whipped in the air. Razor-edged energy cut and slashed in waves around his body, slicing outward across my skin.

  “You’re hu-hurting me,” I whispered.

  He wasn’t even touching me. He closed his eyes, trying to rein in the turbulent rage filling up the room. I scooted back onto the sofa. He spoke, articulating three words in a deep, guttural, almost-animal voice.

  “Do. Not. Move.”

  He vanished. If ever I was in doubt of whether or not he was human, the answer was absolutely, irrefutably no. I sat there for I don’t know how long, wondering if I should flee the premises. Who was I kidding? I was too terrified to go anywhere. Jude obviously had some otherworldly ability to do great harm, but that harm was always directed at the bad guys. The monster that caught me on the street would definitel
y harm me. I tucked my knees to my chest, willing the scene away from my mind.

  I’d given myself over so willingly, thinking he was Jude. I hadn’t objected for a single second. All my lofty thoughts of considering Jude just a platonic protector flew out the window. I wanted him. Bad. My body responded automatically to his lips—no, not his lips. I was going to be sick. I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth, wishing I could erase the demon’s touch.

  “Ow.”

  The cut was puffy and swollen, stinging. Minutes passed. Still no Jude. I knew he told me not to move, but this was ridiculous. I sat there, exposing way more than made me comfortable. I crept into his room—stark, neat and clean—and took a brown T-shirt from the top drawer. I felt a little embarrassed going into his personal things, but I wasn’t going to stay like this till he came back. Heading into the hall bathroom, I jumped at my own reflection. A ghostly pale girl with a trickle of blood dripping from one of the puncture wounds stared back at me. My pretty yellow blouse was bloodstained and ruined on the left side, not to mention the rip exposing me to the world. How many times was I going to end up looking this way—battered and bloody?

  I knew the answer to that and sighed.

  Stripping off the blouse, I dropped it in the waste bin. I splashed my face and neck with warm water, toweling myself dry, cleaning all traces of Danté’s marks. Unfortunately, I couldn’t erase the bite mark at the base of my throat, hissing between clenched teeth as I tried to clean the area. I pulled on Jude’s shirt, which smelled of him, and stared at the pale, blue-eyed girl in the mirror.

  “What did you do?” I asked her, shaking my head.

  To plummet from ecstasy to sheer terror so fast had my head spinning. My heart had expanded with the feel of Jude’s lips and hands on me, retracting the instant I realized it wasn’t him at all. I couldn’t bear for Jude to know the truth—I’d melted into the demon’s embrace, believing it was his arms that held me. I cringed at the shame of it all.

  The demon prince took Jude’s form, knowing I would not run. He pinned my wrists, thinking I might protest Jude’s advances. How elated he must’ve been when I was well and beyond receptive.