Until she’d straddled his waist and kissed him—then everything had become sharp and pointed, and devastatingly clear.
He’d still been reeling when she lifted her head and said, “When I am satisfied that your training is complete, I will take your body as I have just taken your mouth. Until that time, young Olek, there is only this. Only the fight.”
Then she’d driven her dagger into his side, and chided him for letting his guard down.
It was fitting, Alejandro thought, that their only kiss had been flavored by blood and followed by pain.
Too much pain, because she’d been wrong: There hadn’t just been the fight. There had been her laugh and her temper. Her unrelenting schedule, her unexpected moments of tenderness.
And there had been the days spent in her forge, where he discovered his Gift of fire complemented her affinity with metal. Where they’d created weapons, where firelight had danced across her pale skin. Where he’d pretended to study manuscripts, but watched over the pages as Irena shaped her intricate sculptures—where he’d posed for her more than once. And he’d trained tirelessly, waiting for the moment she was satisfied.
For months, there had only been swords and Irena—his heart, his life.
And with a single misstep and a demon’s monstrous bargain, it had ended. Ended with the destruction of Alejandro’s honor as she traded her body for his life. Ended with Irena holding the demon’s head, his face a mirror image of Alejandro’s. Ended with Alejandro walking into a bedroom whose iron walls had been decorated by blood, seeing what she’d done to the demon’s body—and knowing how the demon must have used hers.
And he’d known that he’d failed her. Utterly failed her.
She’d cut off her braids one by one, tossed her hair and the demon’s head onto the bed, and asked him to burn it all. Then she’d walked away without looking back.
Two centuries had passed before he’d seen her again.
In the two hundred years since, every infrequent encounter had been accompanied by his wish that he’d never laid eyes upon her. And with every encounter, it was an effort to tear his gaze away.
He made the effort now, turning to examine the memorial statue for a boy poet that stood beside a remnant of the ancient wall. Alejandro well remembered the gate that had once led into the city. It had already been falling to ruins in the late fifteenth century when, still a human, he’d journeyed to Rome. Now only a plaque marked the gate’s former location, and it described how Roman slaves had opened the gate to the invaders who’d sacked the city. Irena, he knew, had been one of the slaves, serving in a senator’s household.
In his human life, Alejandro hadn’t been a senator, but almost the equivalent in the Spanish courts. Born into the position rather than elected—but still responsible for his people and his lands, even if it meant trying to protect them from the fanaticism of his king and queen. A politician, always maneuvering, staying a step ahead, making alliances with men he’d hated just to keep the long, dangerous fingers of the Inquisition from touching his people.
For years, he’d performed that subtle dance. Every movement was calculated. He’d married as one step, made alliances as another. And when a demon had outmaneuvered him, he’d died for it.
Irena’s hatred for politicians almost burned as hot as her hatred for demons. Alejandro thought she had forgiven him for being one only because he’d died protecting his wife and children.
At the time, Alejandro’s youngest son had almost been the same age as the poet memorialized here. All of his sons had all grown into men, he prayed, but he only remembered them as boys. He had small statues of them in his cache—statues that Irena had made for him after he’d projected the image of his sons into her mind. She’d captured them perfectly, giving each figure details that were heartbreakingly realistic.
Even after five hundred years, he found it too painful to pull the statues out of his cache to look at them, but he took comfort knowing they were there.
Irena called out a loud greeting in Italian, and Alejandro’s gaze returned to her as she threw her arms around the vampire’s waist.
When in Rome, they all did as Romans do. Among the public, Guardians almost always spoke the local language. Unlike her French, Irena’s Italian carried a Slavic accent, as it had when he’d heard her speak to the wastrel on the street.
And his body reacted in the same way as the wastrel’s had. In those months Alejandro had spent with Irena, she’d spoken Russian—but even then, her voice held the flavor of something older. And just as it was Guardian custom to speak the local tongue, so it was for a novice to speak the language of his mentor. Alejandro had defied custom, and answered her blunt commands in Spanish to signal that he’d had as much to show her, that he was her equal.
But after the demon’s bargain, when they’d finally met again in Paris, she’d greeted him in French. But for his name, she’d spoken nothing but French to him since, and Alejandro had replied in no other language.
Four centuries had passed, yet he still responded to her husky accent. He listened for her every word and wished himself deaf. It was madness.
The vampire smiled as he returned Irena’s embrace, but not enough to show his fangs. His broad hands splayed over the long muscles of her back, her pale skin bare but for the two leather ties that fastened her apron-like shirt. Over her head, Deacon’s flat gaze targeted Alejandro.
The vampire didn’t appear apprehensive. Perhaps Deacon didn’t know Irena well enough to guess what was coming. Alejandro did, and he returned the vampire’s stare until Deacon pulled back to look at Irena.
With a swift punch to Deacon’s jaw, she laid the vampire out flat.
Yes. There was more than one reason Alejandro didn’t often take his eyes off her.
CHAPTER 2
“What the hell was that for?”
Deacon’s new lisp prevented Irena from taking his anger seriously. She picked up his fang from the sidewalk and wiped the long, pointed tooth against her leather stockings. Deacon sat up and snatched it from her fingers.
“That was for coming to Rome.” Before he could resume snarling at her, she added, “Put your tooth back before your mouth heals.”
Deacon pushed the fang into the bloodied gap between his upper teeth as he got to his feet. “Is Rome forbidden now? Fucking make up your mind, Irena. You Guardians talk about free will, but—”
“You idiot. The nephilim might still be here, and they are out for vampire blood.”
“Ah.” The fingers holding his tooth in place ruined his sudden grin. “So you were worried about me?”
“You are too stupid for me to care.” She hooked her thumbs into her belt, took a casual glance over her shoulder. Around the piazza, humans lost interest when no more punches were thrown. She’d heard exclamations of surprise and a few whispers when she’d slugged him, but little other response. Irena wondered whether they’d have interfered if she’d been a man and Deacon a woman. She turned back to him. “And I wouldn’t have hit you if you couldn’t take it.”
“Thanks, Irena. That makes it hurt less.” Deacon managed sarcasm even with his hand stuffed in his mouth. He nodded over her shoulder at Alejandro. “Would you hit him?”
No. That meant touching him. “I would never have to, for he is never stupid.” If only Olek had been a fool. Then she would not admire him so much. “He is Alejandro Sandoval de Córdoba y Hacén. A Guardian and a friend.”
“Does your Guardian friend ever change his expression?”
“No.”
“He doesn’t look like your usual type. Too many brains, not enough muscles.”
Irena smirked. “And so you are my type?” Not that the vampire lacked brains. She continued over his muffled laugh, “Why are you in Rome, Deacon? Has your community been threatened?”
“No. They’re fine.” His gaze shifted from hers. “And it’s not my community anymore.”
Irena stared at him in disbelief. He’d been leading the Prague community for mor
e than sixty years. “What happened?”
“Another vampire moved in. Strong. Nosferatu-born, maybe.”
Vampires transformed by nosferatu blood were stronger than those who transformed with vampire blood. And in most communities, leadership was determined by deadly combat—so the most powerful vampires led.
Cleverness and skill could overcome strength, however; it surprised her that Deacon had been outmatched physically and mentally. And where had this new vampire come from? The nosferatu-born were uncommon. Unless a Guardian interfered, the nosferatu would kill its human prey.
Had any Guardians recently created a nosferatu-born vampire? She would have to find out.
Alejandro came up beside her, and regarded Deacon with a flat, unwavering stare. “The one who defeated you allowed you to walk away?”
Yes, Irena also found that strange. Only a foolish vampire would leave a rival alive—unless he thought slaying Deacon might cultivate resentment instead of inspiring loyalty. Deacon was beloved by his community; mercy might win his successor more support than ruthlessness could.
“He claimed he didn’t want to kill me. Only to take over—and he didn’t need to finish me off to do that.” Deacon looked to Irena, bitterness in his psychic scent. “Let’s just say that yours wasn’t the first hit I’ve taken in the last month. And that this healing was nothing in comparison.”
Irena met Alejandro’s gaze and saw the same question that she knew was in hers. In the past two years, since the Gates to Hell had been closed, several demons had tried to pass as vampires. If a demon insinuated himself into a community and assumed leadership, he could force the vampires to kill humans or deny their free will. As long as the vampires carried out his orders, the demon didn’t break the Rules.
“He hit you?” Irena asked Deacon. “With his hands?”
“You know any other ways to hit?”
“Yes. Were his fists cold?” A demon’s skin was hot.
A demon’s skin—and, at times, Alejandro’s.
“As cold as mine.” Deacon flexed his jaw and released his tooth. “So, I came to Rome because there aren’t any of us here. If I’d gone to another community, the heads there would be looking to kill me, sure I’d be gunning for their spot.”
That was probably true, but Irena suspected that he avoided other vampires chiefly out of pride. Vampires throughout Europe respected Deacon; those who didn’t feared him enough that he’d rarely been challenged. His defeat would have destroyed the reputation he’d spent decades building.
“Why aren’t Eva and Petra with you?”
Another snarl twisted his mouth. “I was beaten in front of them, Irena. Beaten to a fucking pulp. Would you have come with me?”
She’d have thought Eva and Petra would. She didn’t like being wrong. “You should have come to me.”
“To your forge, out in the middle of Siberia? Who would I feed from? Would you make me your whore and pay me in blood?”
Irena sucked in a breath, clenched her hands. Violence came easily to her; it always had. But although she might hit her friends out of fear or worry, never would she do so in anger. She backed away.
Alejandro stepped in, patrician disdain stiffening his tone and posture. “I presume you did not contact Irena over a community squabble.”
Deacon looked past him to Irena, but the flicker of regret in his psychic scent didn’t soothe her temper. “No. I called her because there’s a nosferatu setting up house beneath a church.” He smiled with brittle humor. “And if I can’t take down one of the nosferatu-born, I’m sure as hell not going to try slaying one of their daddies.”
Irena set a rapid pace through Rome’s streets, leaving Alejandro and Deacon to walk in silence behind her. It was not just fury that quickened her stride, Alejandro knew—she was anticipating the hunt. Alejandro looked forward to it, as well; slaying a nosferatu would repair her mood . . . and by doing so, repair his.
Irena’s temper always ignited his own. And even if he hadn’t been the one to infuriate her, inevitably they turned on each other.
Alejandro was not proud of the man he became in response to her anger.
Yet they were friends—or so they told anyone who asked. Alejandro didn’t think anyone who spent more than a few minutes with them believed it.
Deacon hadn’t yet caught on. If he had, Alejandro doubted the vampire would look to him as an ally.
Beside him, Deacon asked, “You’ve been friends with Irena awhile, then?”
For an eternity, it seemed. “I have.”
“You know her well?”
Alejandro’s gaze caressed the bare skin from her shoulders to the wide leather belt circling her hips. Her figure was sturdy, but she wasn’t tall—her head didn’t reach his shoulder. Her imposing personality took up more space than she did, giving the impression of a much larger woman.
Yes, Alejandro knew her. Long enough to memorize every inch he would never touch.
“I do,” he finally said.
“So when I’ve pissed her off like this, how do I keep her from chopping off my head?”
That was simple. “Toss another nosferatu in her path.”
“And I will throw you both in line after it,” Irena bit out over her shoulder, and Alejandro’s rigid tension began to ebb. That she’d answered meant her temper had cooled. She stopped and waited for them, her gaze fixed on Deacon. “How did you come by the nosferatu?”
The vampire must have realized her anger had passed. He relaxed, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I’ve been looking for a location on this side of Rome to hole up in if I was caught out near sunrise—mostly tombs and catacombs that aren’t open to tourists during the day. I scoped out the one we’re heading to last night, and just missed being seen on my way back up. That’s when I called you.”
Irena nodded, but the explanation didn’t settle well with Alejandro. For a nosferatu to be seen without the creature detecting a vampire in return stretched his belief. Nosferatu did not just see. Like Guardians and demons, each had sharply attuned senses.
For that reason, they made no attempt at silence as they walked. Any nosferatu would hear their approaching footsteps, their heartbeats. As long as Irena and he did not use their psychic senses or Gifts, they might be mistaken for human, and the nosferatu taken by surprise—not because of their presence, but their strength.
At the edge of a small, deserted square, two modern apartment buildings flanked a narrow church. Scaffolding climbed its ornate façade, the stone used for the repairs darker than the weathered original. Aluminum fencing separated the square from the broken plaster and limestone rubble piled just inside the chained and padlocked gate. Despite the Renaissance-era façade, the church was nearer to Irena’s age than Alejandro’s. Like many other churches in Rome, this one had been rebuilt on an ancient site.
A plastic sign wired to the chain-link fence said the church would reopen to visitors by the next season. Alejandro’s gaze searched the upper levels of the building for light; he heard no movement from within.
Irena cocked her head as she listened, then turned to him. A question joined the glitter of anticipation in her green eyes.
Her Gift could slice through the metal locks. It’d give them away, but Irena wouldn’t want to take the nosferatu by surprise. No, she wanted it to run, so that they could hunt it down.
Alejandro didn’t want to give it the opportunity to escape. He shook his head.
“We climb,” he said for Deacon’s benefit. Flying or jumping over the gate would also reveal them to the nosferatu—and would risk them being seen by humans.
Irena narrowed her eyes, but a smile curved her lips as she clambered over the fence. They traversed it more quickly than humans would—but lingering would risk exposure, too, and the authorities being notified. Although Alejandro had developed connections within the Roman police force when he’d led the Guardian team that had covered up the vampire massacre, they’d be smarter to avoid police involvement from the outset.
Deacon produced a set of lock picks and made quick work of the front doors. Alejandro dipped his fingers into the stoup of holy water as he entered.
Irena’s mouth flattened when he made the sign of the cross, and she followed Deacon down the nave’s bare aisle. Carpets had been rolled up and tucked beneath benches; paint-dotted plastic draped the altar and the pews. “You will give Deacon the wrong impression of Guardians by performing such an empty ritual.”
His eyebrows drawn, Deacon glanced over his shoulder at Irena. “Don’t drag me into this.”
Ah, it hadn’t taken much time for the vampire to catch on. Alejandro allowed himself a smile. At least his Latin invocation had not invited comment. The first time Irena had heard him recite a prayer, she’d laughed tears into her eyes. Then she’d taught him the language as she’d once known it, bringing life to a tongue that had grown stale over the centuries.
Her laughter would have been a welcome interruption to many a boyhood mass.
“It has meaning to me, and therefore it is not an empty ritual,” he countered, walking beside the altar rails surrounding the sanctuary. “When you hunt, Irena, you eat a piece of the animal’s heart—that is meaningless. It does not sustain you. You receive no strength from it.”
“It is respect. I honor the life that was given.”
“So do I. Self-sacrifice is the one thing all Guardians can appreciate.” Every Guardian had sacrificed his life to save another, earning him the right to transformation.
Irena looked to the plastic-wrapped figure hanging behind the altar. Her brief smile kicked at his stomach. “As you like,” she said. “I’ll be grateful my sacrifice didn’t take that form—or yours—and leave it at that.”
On the left side of the sanctuary, Deacon pushed aside a heavy curtain, revealing a hallway. He turned to frown at Alejandro. “I know Irena jumped over a cliff with a nosferatu. What happened to you?”
She hadn’t just jumped over a cliff—she’d saved the tribe of slaves she’d led after escaping Rome. And he . . .
Demon Forged Page 3
