Forged in Fire

by Juliette Cross

  I stood in front of a mirror on the wall, staring at my reflection, hardly recognizing myself. Red-rimmed eyes traveled directly to the spot at my neck and shoulder where Danté had savagely bitten, seeming to suck the life right out of me. Nothing. No blood, no gaping wound, no puncture marks of any kind. My fingers traced over the unmarred skin. I gazed as if hypnotized by my unblemished reflection, to my wrists where he’d bound me. How could I bear no trace of what he’d done?

  But, of course, I did bear marks. You just couldn’t see them. I felt scraped and scarred on the inside where he’d poked tender, precious memories. He stirred old heartbreak and laughed at my pain. He toyed with me. He would do worse if he ever had me truly in his grasp. The only way to stop the staggering pain he’d whipped through my body was to succumb, give him what he wanted. I knew now why other Vessels surrendered to their demon hosts. My confident hope that no demon could ever possess me crumbled under the memory of Danté chaining my body and mind. I feared whether I could hold out if he caught me again. Would I then become his possession, a Vessel of darkness?

  I jumped at the furious, bellowing yell and the sound of splintering wood, crashing glass and toppling furniture outside the bedroom door. I crept to the corner behind the bed, sank down, curled into a ball and wept for something precious that was irrevocably lost.

  I awoke in semidarkness, jolting upright with a gasp, not knowing where I was. Nestled into the clean softness of Jude’s bed, under the covers, I was surprised he’d come in after all and tucked me into bed. The house was ghostly quiet. Had he left me here alone? Panic washed over me, sweat beading along my hairline.

  He’d left his closet light on. I pushed out of bed and walked to it, wanting something more over my tank. I thumbed through his closet—leather and denim jackets galore, black slacks, a long trench. I mumbled to myself, “Someone’s afraid of color.”

  Everything in monotones of black, gray and brown. Wait. Except in the back. My hands brushed the delicate garment of soft yellow, my pulse quickening, for I knew what it was before I took it from the rack. My pretty blouse, the day Danté had disguised himself as Jude and forced himself on me the first time. I’d tossed the bloodstained top in Jude’s trash, not wanting a reminder of that painful bite. But Jude had washed it clean of any mark of him, no blood at all, then kept the delicate blouse tucked neatly with his clothes. He’d even found and sewn the buttons ripped away by Danté. Fresh tears slipped down my cheeks, but I swiped them away. Could Jude wash me clean? A darkness hovered inside where Danté had smothered me with his evil spirit, mocking memories I’d hidden from everyone. Even myself. Hands trembling, I put the blouse back, a fresh wave of loss burning inside.

  I found a navy blue hoodie and slipped it on, completely unable to imagine Jude wearing such a thing. Perhaps the great Master of Demons must travel in disguise sometimes. The hoodie dwarfed me, which was exactly what I wanted.

  When I opened the door, I stood staring in shock. I’d forgotten about the violent crashes and noise I’d heard before I fell into a weary sleep. The mantel had been ripped from the wall, now in a heap of splintered fragments of wood. An ugly patch of unpainted, exposed brick framed the fireplace. Both lamps were shattered into tiny pieces on the floor. His overstuffed chair was embedded halfway through the large window overlooking the courtyard.

  A slight breeze squeezed through the shattered glass, making a soft whooshing sound. Other than that, everything was still and quiet. I peeked down the hall. The door to his room of weapons and antiques was ajar, but no light emanated through the crevice. I stepped in quietly, not seeing him. Still, I sensed him here. Treading on light feet, I found him sitting underneath the painting, “Le Jeune Martyre”. Back against the wall, slumped forward, knees drawn up and one bloody hand gripping the wrist of the other. His head bent, he didn’t seem to notice me.

  As I passed the writing desk, I turned on the Venetian lamp. The click snapped Jude’s head up. He regarded me for a second, then glanced back at the floor. I sat silently in front of him, crossing my legs Indian style. The rage now subdued, I needed some answers.

  “Why couldn’t you get inside that place?” I asked.

  He didn’t reply at first, and I thought perhaps he’d fallen into some sort of trance, but finally he looked up at me.

  “He used a blood cast to keep me out.”

  “A blood cast? He used my blood to keep you out?”

  The idea struck me cold, knowing it was my fault I’d let Danté get close enough to bite me. Of course, I thought he was Jude at the time.

  “Not yours, Genevieve. Mine.”

  What?

  “Your blood? How did he—”

  He shook his head and exhaled in an exasperated way, seeming to rouse from a deep reverie. His head fell back against the wall.

  “I can’t believe a mistake I made so long ago would come back to haunt me now. Now when—”—he stopped and gazed at me, his features shadowed in the semidarkness—“I have so much to lose. The irony is laughable.”

  But he didn’t laugh. Simply gazed at me as if he couldn’t believe I was still sitting there before him.

  “What do you mean irony?”

  A brief pause.

  “At the time, I cared about absolutely nothing. Not my blood. Not my body. Not my soul. And now, I—” He stopped. I’d never heard Jude so much at a loss for words. He whispered so softly to himself, it could’ve been the voice of a child. “So this is the price of a devil’s bargain.”

  He lapsed into silence again, but I needed to know.

  “Jude, why did you let him take your blood? Did you know he could use it for a blood cast?”

  His eyes closed in a sign of resignation, looking almost ashamed.

  “Actually, no. I knew blood casts could bind people to demons, but I never knew it could block someone out of a demon’s domain. It was such a long time ago.” He paused, shaking his head with a snort of sad laughter. “I gave my blood willingly as a trade to save her.” He nodded upward. “He’d said it would save her. Fool that I was, I believed him. He used my blood to summon me on occasion, to torture me and manipulate her.”

  More pain creased that noble brow. I wanted to trace my fingers along those frowning lines and wipe them away. But I didn’t.

  “So you sacrificed yourself for her, though he lied.”

  “I never thought of it as a sacrifice.”

  No. He wouldn’t.

  “You loved her very much, didn’t you?”

  He lifted his head. “Of course, I did. She was my mother.”

  “Your mother?” I’d assumed the woman was his wife or lover, not his mother. “But, she was so young. You said you were responsible for her. How could you be?”

  A heavy sigh. He tilted his head against the wall behind him. “She married my father when she was thirteen years old. I know. Seems young to you, but at that time, it was commonplace. I was born the same year. As a Vessel, she expelled demons for several years, until she was twenty-four. That’s when Danté found her.” His voice dipped dangerously low. “I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say, she refused to become his”—he glanced at me meaningfully—“his slave. She begged my father to kill her before Danté could take her away. He’d already threatened to kill me and my father if she didn’t bend to his will. So my father did as my mother wished. He bound her hands, drowned her in a pond near our home, and then hanged himself from the nearest tree.”

  I gasped, glancing up to the painting above his head. The man in shadows wasn’t simply her executioner. He was her beloved, Jude’s father. Tears pricked my eyes, realizing the extent of Jude’s grief. Jude and I shared the same feeling of abandonment, though his outweighed my own.

  “And what happened to you?” I asked.

  “Me? Danté sold me into slavery to a Celtic war party not long after. I was twelve years old, on the cusp of manhood. Again, that probably seems young to you, I’m sure, but then I would’ve been nearly a man. I was big for my age,
so I was summarily sold into fighting another man’s battles as another man’s property.”

  His lips compressed. I knew this was all he would tell me for now. My heart ached—for him, for myself.

  “Jude, I’m—”

  His gaze locked on me—intense and burning. Nothing I wanted to say could possibly come out of my mouth. Jude, I’m sorry. Sorry for you. Sorry for me. I’m broken. I’m furious that you couldn’t save me. I hate you for it. I need you to hold me. I want you in the worst kind of way, but I’m terrified to let another man touch me. I’m falling into a dark place, and I don’t want to go. Please, don’t let me go.

  Jude reached out slowly, hands gripping my waist in a gentle hold, and pulled me across the floor to him. Barricaded between his legs and arms, he buried his head in my hair, resting his forehead against my shoulder, and I felt…safe. My heart quieted.

  I’d been in Jude’s arms many times at this point, but I hadn’t felt the gentleness of his touch, not like this. His hands fisted in my hair and the back of the sweatshirt, clutching me to him. No words were needed. He knew my soul-deep anguish.

  I wrapped an arm across one shoulder, cupping the back of his head to cradle him against me. We didn’t say anything but simply held each other for some time. When he pulled back, he wore an unreadable expression, everything hidden once again. He traced his thumb along my cheekbone before pulling both hands into his lap and looking at them. I held them palms down.

  Dried blood caked in brown splotches and scratches on both hands. Rough abrasions with skin scraped clean off from the tip of his pinky fingers all along the outer edge of both hands to his wrists. Knuckle bones exposed white on the middle and forefingers. I flipped them. A gash ran along the fleshy part of his left palm.

  “Let’s get this cleaned up,” I said.

  In the bathroom, he ran his hands under the water, still silent.

  “Where’s your medical kit, that one you used for my stitches?”

  “Bottom cabinet,” he said, scrubbing his hands clean.

  I found it and opened it up, searching for gauze or bandages or something. Jude dried his hands on a towel, then slid the kit closer to him on the counter. I watched as he took the stitching needle and thread and, without anesthetic, closed up the gash on his palm with seven perfectly spaced stitches.

  “That doesn’t hurt?” I asked as he snipped the ends expertly. I realized then he moved with the deft swiftness of an expert who’d done this countless times.

  Having set aside the stitching tools in the kit, he fixed dark eyes on me, the whites now showing but no sparks of amber in the irises. The air was heavy with too many things said and too many unsaid.

  “Genevieve, you do realize I would never jeopardize your safety. For any reason.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes,” I replied honestly.

  “He won’t be able to soul-sift you again,” he said, holding my gaze.

  “Why not?”

  “He may have some power over us with the blood casts, but I have connections of my own, more powerful than him. He’ll never—listen to me—never be able to soul-sift you again.”

  “There’s a way to keep him from soul-sifting me.” My voice quivered with an accusation. He answered my question before I could ask it.

  “Yes. I didn’t think it would be necessary to go to such extremes. My protection cast should’ve been enough. But I—” He caught my gaze in the mirror. Pain bracketed his eyes and mouth.

  “But what, Jude?”

  He leaned sideways against the counter. “Danté could never break through my cast of protection before. He was never strong enough to beat me.”

  “But he is now,” I added, unable to hold my tongue. The truth was that his opponent had bested him. He’d underestimated Danté’s strength, and his error had cost me dearly. But while Danté had invaded my heart and soul with his malevolent essence, he hadn’t taken me in every way. My VS made sure of that.

  Jude gripped the edge of the counter with one hand, white-knuckled. “Apparently. But there are others stronger than him.”

  “Friends of yours?”

  “A friend. Yes.” He sighed and crossed his arms, shoulders drawing tight. “He’ll help us.”

  Us. Jude saw this as our problem, not mine. I should be grateful for that. He had made a mistake. A big one. I needed to accept that and move on. Allowing him to wallow in his misery only hurt us both. I blew out a breath and leaned with one hip against the counter.

  “Jude, can I ask you something?”

  A sharp nod.

  “How did you know he’d soul-sifted me? I mean, how did you know to come for me?”

  He paused. “Honestly, I’m not certain. I was lying in bed. I felt a tremor, a disturbance, and somehow I knew you needed me.”

  I frowned, wondering how that could be possible. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure, but I can tell you this. No matter what, I’ll always come for you,” he said softly, tucking a lock of loose hair behind my ear, then pulling his hand away, fixing me with a look that made me breathless. “Always.”

  I gulped hard, unable to speak.

  “I’ll be damned,” he added, “more so than I already am, before I let him take you again.”

  More so? I gazed up at his beautiful face hardened by grave determination, such depth of feeling etched in every line. I needed this man beyond reason, and I couldn’t explain why.

  “Jude, would you do me a favor?”

  “Anything, Genevieve. Anything,” he said with such emotion I thought my heart would break in two.

  “Kiss me.”

  I wanted Jude to erase the memory of the demon’s lips, so rough and cruel against mine. I wanted the sensation of touch from someone who cared about me. I wanted…I wanted Jude.

  He stared as if memorizing my face. Obsidian eyes lingered over cheek, brow, nose, lips. He hesitated, then cupped my cheek, letting the tips of his fingers edge into my hair. Leaning down, he brushed his lips lightly against mine. As he coaxed a soft kiss from me, I met him with tenderness. He did not deepen it but only showed me with feather-lightness that I was still his.

  “So strong, my Genevieve,” he whispered against my lips. “My warrior woman.”

  I’m not sure if he knew what it did to me when he claimed me in such a way. I shivered from head to toe.

  “Cold?” he asked, planting gentle kisses up my cheek, across closed eyelids.

  “No.”

  “Scared?”

  “Yes.”

  He paused. Words so soft. “I’d never hurt you. Never.”

  He made his way across my brow and descended, giving me assurance of my safety and of his feelings for me. He angled his head and pressed in a little deeper, barely opening his mouth. After the slowest, most languorous kiss I’d ever experienced, he lifted away, pressing warm lips to my forehead.

  My heart hammered against my ribs, partly from fear, partly from desire. I pressed my cheek against his chest, hearing his own heartbeat racing. A wave of relief swept through me. Fear hadn’t ruled me. One stitch closed a seam in the fracture caused by the demon prince.

  I mumbled low, lower than a whisper, “Thank you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The trickle of water calmed my nerves. I stared at the frozen figures of Eros and Psyche, wrapped in a passionate embrace. Psyche had fallen for Eros blindly, not knowing the man, the god, who made love to her every night in the dark. When she finally saw his true form, she lost him, forced to wander and seek him out across the heavens, earth and the underworld. I wondered at this as the slow, waking sounds of the city rose with the gray morning light.

  Knees tucked under my chin, I listened to the world coming awake—a pleasant, comforting sound. Two larks flitted and chirped on the stone wall surrounding the courtyard. On Dauphine Street, a car door opened and shut, then the engine started and was gone. The distant murmur and shuffle of vendors opening booths at the French market rose over the wa
ll. Someone laughed. It all seemed so strange, but soothing at the same time. My personal troubles didn’t keep the world from turning. Funny, but that actually made me feel better.

  “Good morning.” Kat walked toward me, bright smile beaming.

  “Morning,” I replied, but not so brightly.

  In faded jeans and a gray peacoat with her platinum hair twisted in a messy bun, she appeared so much younger than she normally did in her kick-ass attire. She sat next to me and slid a white baker’s box across the stone bench. “I thought you’d want some breakfast.”

  I tried to smile. She opened the box to a tempting assortment—chocolate éclairs, bear claws, cinnamon twists, chocolate-glazed donuts.

  “Oh, come on. Chocolate always makes a girl feel better.” She picked up an éclair and took a bite, smiling encouragingly.

  “He told you?”

  She nodded, setting the pastry down, and sighed.

  “He told me that Danté soul-sifted you last night and that he’d…possessed your soul before you could get away.”

  Her eyes dropped, then met mine with a knowing look. More green than black, they held empathy. A horrible thought struck me.

  “Danté’s taken you before?”

  She shook her head. “Not him. Another.” She stared at the fountain. “He kept me for a long time and possessed me in every way possible.”

  Something shifted inside. This bad-ass beautiful woman reeking of confidence and I-don’t-take-no-shit attitude had been through an ordeal even worse than mine—dominated and humiliated through pain and shame for the sick pleasure of another.

  “How are you holding up?” she asked, her tone sharp.

  “Barely.”

  She wiped her fingers on a napkin in the pastry box and stared at the bench a minute, stalling, it seemed.

  “I’m sorry, Gen,” she said awkwardly. “I’m just glad Jude was able to get you out of there before he could do worse to you.”

  “He didn’t. I got myself out.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”