“Forgive me.” He gave a short bow, and paused at the end of it. “You will, of course, tell me why.”
Even bowing, he still looked down at her. “You placed yourself behind me at the courthouse. It was an idiot’s decision. Don’t do it again.”
He straightened abruptly, as if she’d struck him. She had. She’d slapped at his pride, his warrior’s pride. “You are the stronger of us—”
“Yes,” Irena hissed. “I do not need protection from a bullet.”
“The stronger of us,” Alejandro repeated, circling her with his silent, deadly stride—forcing her to move in a wider circle to prevent him from maneuvering around behind her. “And we did not yet know the scale of the threat. One bullet might have been followed by fifty from an automatic weapon.”
Which would cause much more damage, but—“I would recover more quickly than you.”
She put her back to the wall and planted her feet. She would not let him push her off balance.
He stopped in front of her. A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Yet you would have to recover. If I place myself behind you and take that injury, you—the stronger of us—can better face a threat if it becomes larger than we anticipate.”
“The stronger exist to protect the weaker, you self-important mule.”
“Guardians protect weaker vampires and humans, yes.” His eyes darkened. Her breath stilled. Powerful emotions made her eyes glow; in his, the color deepened. “But in battle, the weaker Guardian must sometimes be used to hold a threat at bay, until the stronger Guardian is positioned where she is most effective.”
Damn him. She’d taught him that. But it only applied when the threat was dire. Not when they faced a bullet.
“That battle and that time was not today.”
“I determined that it was, Irena, and I will again.” He pushed closer, leaning in. “And I vow that I will cover your body with mine whenever I see fit.”
The vow echoed in her ears. His smoky scent surrounded her. Her blood heated. No—her blood was already boiling. She’d been so focused on him, but now her focus shifted to the tightness of her skin. The cool, flat press of the wall against her shoulder blades. The molten heat at her core.
Oh, gods, she was wet. He could push at her, slide inside without any resistance. She’d take him all. Make him hers.
“No.” He straightened. His eyes shuttered. “I will not fight. I do not like the man I become with you.”
The words stabbed her chest. Reflexively, her hands fisted. Irena held them at her sides, struggling against the fury and hurt that urged her to batter them into his face. He stared down at her, and she thought, prayed, that he might take the words back.
Olek shook his head and turned. “Your vampire friend has gone into the city.”
He walked away. Irena watched, her heart hammering.
I do not like the man I become with you.
He should have hit her. She’d have known how to respond to that. But this pain, she did not.
CHAPTER 8
The city sparkled below her. Sitting atop a building that rose into the night sky like a flaming spear, Irena looked toward the bay. The dark water was all she recognized from two centuries ago, toward the end of the two hundred years that she’d spent walking this part of the world. She smoothed her hand over her leggings. And she’d made friends during those two hundred years, even as she’d tried to escape the pain that had brought her here.
Between then and now, you learned what a demon is.
Yes. She had.
She’d known from the beginning that there were three types of demons: one who relished pain and suffering and death; one who cared for nothing but his own ambitions; and one who delighted in shredding souls, ruining lives—who reveled in emotional anguish and despair. She’d known that in the same way she knew letters of the alphabet—she was able to name them, to know their sounds, but when they were put together they shifted around so that she had trouble pinning the words down and wrestling out meaning. But with demons, it was simple—it did not matter that there were three types. She killed them all, and it was a job done well. She didn’t need to know more than that.
When she’d found Olek on his back, and the demon’s blade against his throat, she’d thought it was the first type of demon. She’d guessed wrong. But even if she’d known, she would’ve still made the bargain to save his life.
Irena closed her eyes, but the image of Olek and that demon was still clear behind them.
He’d been ready. Alejandro with his swords was magnificent to behold. Sleek and deadly. And so when she’d learned that a magistrate near the southern edge of her territory was a demon, she’d taken Olek with her to the demon’s residence. When they’d separated to flush out the creature, her worry had been a soft thing. When she’d come up on them in the gardens behind the house, fear had dug into her throat.
She knew what had happened. The soft earth recorded the tracks of their battle; the fight was as clear to her as if she’d witnessed it. Olek had been on the offensive, the demon falling back. Its blood streaked Olek’s sword; drops, splatters, and streams ran over the soil.
And in the dirt lay a rock, as big as her fist, freshly overturned. Olek had stumbled—enough to signal the end in most battles between Guardians and demons. But the demon hadn’t killed him. He’d cut off Olek’s hands as protection against his Gift, then straddled him after shape-shifting into a lush female body. The edge of the demon’s blade had been buried in Olek’s neck, blood sliding down the sides of his throat—but not so deep that Olek couldn’t talk.
So that the demon could hear him beg, she’d thought. Olek wouldn’t. He’d die first.
And Irena couldn’t allow that.
The demon had been the one to suggest the bargain. And no wonder—Irena would have killed it. The demon had no way out; if it killed Olek, the demon would be dead a second later.
The bargain had been simple: Irena would go into a room with the demon. She wouldn’t fight, wouldn’t try to kill him, wouldn’t use her Gift against him—and at no time would she use more strength than a human. In return, the demon wouldn’t kill either of them. And the bargain would be over when he grew bored.
Irena had known what she’d be in for: pain, torture, rape.
Alejandro had realized it, too. In a voice thick with horror, he’d told her, “You cannot do this.”
She’d had no choice. She’d ordered him to silence.
And again, he’d defied her. Argued with her. If he’d responded any other way, if he’d accepted her decision, she did not know if she’d have hated him. But he fought. She’d known then that she loved him as she had no other. Lovers had touched her heart before, but Olek had wrapped his hand around it and taken hold.
But if he’d felt the same for Irena, it had been her decision that destroyed those feelings.
He’d pleaded. For her, he’d pleaded. “Please do not do this. If you trade yourself this way, Irena, I will be nothing. Let me die here, still a man. With honor.”
She hadn’t agreed. His honor would hold as long as he fought. It hadn’t been his honor at risk, but his pride.
And so Irena had chosen between his pride and his life.
She’d wanted to cry, to scream. But she’d held on to her calm and ordered the demon to give Olek back his hands, so that they would heal quickly. Her heart had ached. But she’d walked into the room and used her Gift to seal it.
Her body would withstand this bargain. But if Alejandro came in, fought, Irena would fight beside him and break her bargain—and her soul would be lost. So she’d locked the room, and locked her heart and soul away, too.
The first form the demon had taken resembled Michael. No one could copy the Doyen’s appearance, but only try to mimic the bronze skin and close-cropped black hair. She’d expected pain, but he’d been gentle. He’d played with her like a lover. He’d licked and kissed, had whispered compliments into her ears. He’d put himself inside her, easing his way with practiced cares
ses that her body responded to, but that Irena hadn’t felt. She couldn’t physically resist him without losing her soul, and so she went to the same place she had when she’d been violated as a human. She’d sculpted in her mind, practiced with her swords, imagined the smile of Alejandro’s eyes. For two days, maybe three, the demon had used her body—but he didn’t touch her. And the only pleasure she’d felt was in his frustration that she didn’t respond.
Then he’d shape-shifted into Alejandro’s form.
It had been her shock and anger that had done it—formed a tiny crack in her defenses. And for an instant, when his lips had touched her neck, she’d wished it was Olek. Had imagined it was him.
And in that instant, she’d lost. She couldn’t physically resist him, and so there was only herself to fight as he’d touched her. By the time his mouth had moved between her legs, she’d raged at him to get off her.
She’d battled the first orgasm—and every one after it. Fighting, resisting her reaction, hating that her need for Alejandro had given the demon a tool to use against her.
She hadn’t stopped fighting. It was the only thing about those two weeks that didn’t shame her.
She hadn’t stopped fighting—but she’d felt the urge to give in. To stop resisting and clutch him to her. To move with him and glory in every physical sensation.
Demons had their own specialties. For that one, it had been destroying humans through their own need. He’d done his job well, and she’d learned what a demon was. Their evil was not just that they hated humans, that they loved pain, that they wanted to destroy mankind; their evil was that they led humans to hurt themselves—and to crave the very thing that destroyed them.
Irena still didn’t know if she’d have broken, or how long it might have taken. It didn’t matter if she could have resisted for centuries—she’d seen the possibility in herself, and that recognition had been more horrifying than anything the demon might have done.
But she hadn’t reached that point. Michael had come looking for them. He’d teleported into the room and beheaded the demon while it labored over her rigid form. Without a bargain to hold her, she’d kicked the dead demon off. She’d snarled at Michael to leave. And when he’d gone, she’d taken out her rage on the demon’s body.
She had no memory of tearing it apart. Only of how shocked she’d been when awareness had returned, and she’d seen what she’d done. There were a few pieces of the demon larger than her fist—but not many.
And so she’d learned that about herself, too—that she could completely lose herself to anger.
Devastated, she’d staggered out of the room to find Alejandro attempting to melt his way in through the thick walls. The deep well in the iron had shown how long he’d been trying. His hands had been burned down to stumps.
The pain that had descended on her then crushed her. She’d wanted to kiss his hands, to hold him—but she’d also been burning with a rage and need that wasn’t only for him, and she hadn’t been able to separate them. And how could she tell him that she’d almost been broken? She could not. Shame had added its weight. She barely remembered cutting off her braids, vanishing the blood-spattered iron, and telling him to burn it all.
Then she’d flown, and hadn’t stopped until she’d crossed an ocean, mountains—until a great forest passed beneath her.
She’d landed between the pines and sobbed until she had no more tears. When she was done, she’d begun to walk. She’d traveled between the two continents almost six times in those two hundred years. And when she’d seen that so much of it had become as Europe had been—when the same languages had been spoken—she’d flown back.
The devastating weight had still weighed on her, but not as heavily. And she’d been so careful when she’d seen Olek. She’d spoken to him, not as mentor and novice, but on equal terms and in the language of the city they were in—and in a language that had always forced her to consider her words, to think about their sound and order before they left her mouth.
But despite that care, despite the need, anger, guilt, and shame stood between them like an enormous wall. The blow to his pride had been too great—as had the stain on her soul.
And so the demon had won.
Irena sighed and opened her eyes. Yes, the demon had ruined something good. Something right. That was all demons offered—ruin, pain—no matter the faces they presented. Their kind corrupted everything they touched. Good might come out of an agreement with one—such as saving Alejandro’s life—but something else was always destroyed in the process.
She didn’t know why Alejandro couldn’t see that the alliance with Rael would taint them, and that they should kill the demon before it was too late. Eventually, the demon would exact a price—one that she feared would be too dear to pay.
The whisper of feathers added to the sounds from the city. She glanced left. Michael touched down on the ledge beside her, the wind blowing at his white tunic and loose pants. His black wings folded and disappeared.
She hadn’t expected him. “How did you find me?”
“I came to the highest building in the city.” He looked over the edge, straight down. She didn’t like doing that unless her wings were already formed—she looked out, but not down. “Alejandro said you would be here.”
Her laugh came out soft and raw. Olek knew her so well. And he still did not guess what she had hidden from him.
Hidden from him—or had she lied to him?
Her fingers clenched. Guilt coated her throat. Guardians often lied, both directly and by omission, and they often hid truth. But would Olek see her omission as a betrayal?
A betrayal of what? What had been left after the demon was done with her?
But was she only splitting hairs to protect herself from more pain if Olek reacted to the truth as she feared he would?
Whatever it was, her omission was not the same as Michael’s, who’d still led them, who’d still allowed them to think he’d been a human man before he was a Guardian. Who’d never told them he was the son of a demon.
When she looked at him, she felt a different weight, but one almost as crushing. Michael had trained her himself. For sixteen centuries, she’d looked up to him. She’d admired his quiet and restraint, his ruthless skill. She hadn’t always agreed with him, but she’d always valued his opinion and the millennia of experience behind it.
But those sixteen hundred years had been a lie. And in sixteen hundred years, she had learned to deal with physical pain, but she still could not handle emotional pain. She knew that about herself. But it didn’t make her any less angry, or see his deception as any less a betrayal.
And the hell of it was, she took comfort from his presence now. Even knowing how he’d lied, she was glad not to be alone on this ledge.
The wind stung at her eyes. “Why come to me?”
“I have just learned about Julia Stafford. And that Lilith has asked you to help Alejandro.”
She laughed. How much of a help she’d be remained to be seen. But she could start now. “What can you tell me of Rael?”
Michael lowered to his heels beside her. “He’s ambitious. When he lived in Hell, he battled his way up Belial’s ranks. He’s ruthless. It did not matter if the demons were Belial’s or Lucifer’s; if they stood in his path, he found a way to destroy them.”
“With his sword?”
“Sometimes. Other times he arranged events so that the demons would fall in status, or be killed by another.”
Not just a warrior—a cunning schemer. “And since he has left Hell? When was that?”
“Two or three thousand years ago. I don’t know the exact date.” He smiled slightly. “And since that time, he has lived as a saint. Apparently.”
And appearances were almost always deceiving. “Because that is what Lilith knows of him.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know of anything different?”
“No.”
But Rael had been successful in Hell. Why move to Earth and remain h
ere? Why not defend his position Below? Did he have his own reasons—or did he follow Belial’s orders? “Why the change? What does he gain?”
“I don’t know.”
She met his gaze. His eyes were amber—and they appeared so human. “Why haven’t you killed him?”
“He concealed himself well. Not just psychically, but physically. He knows human habits. He was not in the public eye until after the Ascension—and after the Ascension, he was not a priority. Those demons who were trying to harm humans were.” His gaze didn’t waver from hers. “Now, he is useful.”
Useful? Irena clenched her jaw and seethed.
“It makes me no more happy than you.”
“But less angry.”
He smiled. “Perhaps I should be angry, too.”
She wanted something from him, but it wasn’t anger. She wanted to believe in him again. “Is Rael’s change genuine?”
Michael brows rose, as if she’d surprised him with the question—not the question itself, but that she had asked it.
He took his time answering. “Demons cannot be judged by their actions, because even those might have a purpose.”
Manipulation. As she’d always thought.
But now, it was why she didn’t know if she could take Michael’s actions—and his history as the Guardians’ leader—for what they appeared to be. “You have said your father was a good man. How do you judge that?”
He looked out over the city. “When the rebelling angels were tossed down from Heaven and changed into demons, I don’t know if they were given the corruption that is in all of them, or if the corruption had always been there, and the transformation merely stripped the layers that hid it.”
“So you don’t know if he was truly good,” Irena said.
“I don’t know if the dragon blood changed him in the same way,” he countered. “It allowed him to have children with a human, but like the transformation from angel to demon, it might have been more than a physical change. His treatment of us—Anaria and I—was not what Lucifer had asked of him. I say with certainty that he loved us—and my mother, too.” A quick smile curved his lips. “Loved my mother more than us, perhaps. She was . . . a good woman.”
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