Demon Forged

by Meljean Brook

  “But you think it’s important?” Important enough to mention.

  “He was . . . not himself.” Her tattoos seemed to retreat beneath Alejandro’s fingers, as if seeking protection. “He watches over Taylor now. I don’t know if I should have watched him.”

  She didn’t conceal the tremor in her voice, and Alejandro’s chest tightened. He wasn’t certain what to think of Michael’s parentage, but he was inclined to trust the Doyen. Irena, however—she had known Michael longer. Had been mentored by him. And she’d always plainly worn her admiration, respect, and loyalty toward him.

  Discovering that Michael had hidden the truth from them hadn’t only angered her. She’d been disillusioned. And after more than sixteen hundred years, she hadn’t just lost faith in the Doyen—faith had been torn away from her.

  Yes, he could understand why she felt betrayed and wary around Michael. “Yet you didn’t watch him. You came here, instead.”

  Had come here, though she never had before. He wanted to show his home to her, to watch her face as she looked at each room. He would tear it down and start over if he sensed even a hint of displeasure.

  Her gaze remained on his hands. “I want you to pull strings.”

  “Whose?”

  “Whoever we need to have Taylor assigned to SI and this investigation into Rael.”

  Ah. This was Irena’s method of preventing conflict—she removed herself from the equation. Amusement eased the tightness that had been squeezing at his chest. “And so you want me to ask Lilith to pull the strings.”

  “You are more . . . diplomatic than I. And you know SI better—the American police better—and can imagine a way that will work for Taylor, as well. She doesn’t know about Khavi’s prediction, and even if she did, I doubt she’d accept protection. But if we involve her in the investigation she’ll be working near us, and Michael will not be the only one who protects her.”

  He capped the aloe and used the action to cover his silence. Dear God, how she amazed him. Irena could be so stubborn, so unwilling to see any view but her own narrow and unyielding one. And yet she was also this. Able to see the nuances of a person’s soul—to know how someone thought, how they would react. Able to anticipate conflicts, and maneuver around them.

  Always as blunt as a sledgehammer, but never as dull. Little wonder that she fascinated him. He would never understand how she could be a hammer and a sword, all at once.

  “I will ask Lilith,” he agreed.

  “Now.”

  “She is sleeping now.”

  Did Irena know that when she flashed that grin at him, he would move mountains for her—and enjoy every second of the effort? Suddenly, irritating Lilith had never been so appealing.

  “Very well,” he said.

  She turned. But not to go, he saw. She stepped out of the solarium and onto the patio, looking out over the bay. The puncture in her back had faded to a pink line.

  “This house is yours?”

  “It belonged to Carlos Marquez . . . a demon that I killed three decades ago.”

  This time, her grin twisted him up. Though he’d seen no harm in taking the demon’s house and assets, he’d thought she would disapprove.

  She turned curious eyes on him. “Why do you keep a house?”

  “Why do you keep a forge?”

  He didn’t expect an answer and didn’t receive one. Quietly, she studied the city across the bay.

  She probably saw it better than he did. Cádiz was a city of columns and arches, walls and gates. Alejandro was drawn by the city’s strong Moorish flavor, which had been most familiar to him as a human—but Rome’s powerful hand was still visible, and was the foundation on which the rest of the city had been built.

  Not unlike him, Alejandro thought. Though she’d been missing from his life for centuries, she’d shaped a significant part of it.

  She turned to him. “It is like Caelum, but with color.”

  And she saw the other half that shaped him—his Guardian life. “Unlike the tundra.”

  “The tundra is not always white.” She smiled slightly. “And it is solitary.”

  Except for once. Irena accepted visitors to her forge, but none of them stayed as long as Alejandro had.

  God. They weren’t even fighting, and the ache filled him. He didn’t want to feel this. Not this.

  The breeze teased her hair, lifting it away from her forehead. “But you are not always alone here. There was . . . Emilia.”

  “Yes.”

  She seemed to take a deep breath. He only recognized how false her smile was because he’d never seen her force one before.

  “She didn’t please you?”

  He stiffened. This was what friends did—they spoke of their lovers. He and Irena were not friends. And if this was what friendship meant, he did not want it. “She tired of me.”

  Irena began to laugh. His jaw locked. Abruptly, her laughter stopped.

  “You’re serious?”

  Off-balance, he stared at her. She’d thought he was joking? He hadn’t expected to be flattered by her disbelief that a woman would leave him—not flattered by the one woman he’d failed too badly to have.

  Reminded of that truth, Alejandro recovered. “Yes.”

  “What were her reasons? They could only be stupid.”

  “I didn’t give her the passion she needed.” Pleasure, yes. But Emilia was a woman who demanded more.

  Now Irena stared at him as if judging whether he were joking. “I’ve never seen you that you did not burn.”

  For you. He had little left over for the others.

  “Another man burned for Emilia. And so she left.” Flinging shoes and screaming. Alejandro’s calm acceptance had only made her angrier.

  “And you didn’t fight to keep her?”

  “No.”

  Irena looked away from him. “Then she wasn’t foolish to leave you.”

  If you stop fighting you should feel shame.

  The memory set his temper on his tongue. He snapped out his reply. “We had nothing worth fighting for.”

  “Apparently not.”

  Pain scored her voice. Pain—and disillusion. Alejandro shook his head, trying to deny it. Had she thought he meant her, and that what they’d had wasn’t worth fighting for? And had she thought the same when they’d met again in France?

  What in God’s name had she expected of him? Because of his stupid error, to save his life, she’d been raped and tortured by a demon. She hadn’t let him die with honor intact—and he hadn’t been able to break or melt through the iron walls to save her. Only Michael, who’d appeared at Alejandro’s side and taken a single look at him before teleporting into the iron room, had been able to help Irena. Alejandro had accomplished nothing, and so by the time she’d come out of that room with the demon’s head in her fist, he’d had nothing left worth offering her.

  But he’d tried to reclaim his honor. Had tried to make himself a man of worth, with a life he could take pride in. That couldn’t be done by chasing a woman who didn’t want to be chased.

  And he couldn’t have chased Irena, regardless. She wouldn’t have allowed it—she’d have stood her ground and fought him, instead. Was he supposed to have battled her? Forced himself on her? Doing so would have erased any shred of pride he’d had left and destroyed any honor he’d reclaimed.

  Yet Alejandro knew that, despite their fights, despite her insults, Irena had never thought he lacked honor.

  He could not bear that she thought so now. “That was not the same.”

  “But similar.” She edged backward across the patio—watching him as she would an enemy. “So it was practice, yes?”

  He couldn’t refute it. After Irena, he’d never tried holding on to even one lover. He gave them his house, his bed, his time as duty allowed . . . but little else. And the passionate women he’d gravitated toward always wanted more. So, yes—he had perfected letting them leave without a fight.

  And Irena . . . she had perfected walking away.<
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  He turned his back to her, so he wouldn’t have to watch her leave. He tried to take in the sound of the ocean. Tried to find calm in the soft chirping of the birds and the sighing breeze. But that calm was only on the surface.

  His will cracked, and he went after her.

  Too late. He searched the skies and didn’t see her. He listened, but couldn’t hear where she’d gone. With the ache building, he walked slowly back to his study and stared down at his abandoned reports. Ice settled into him. He hadn’t felt cold since an executioner’s fire had licked at his feet.

  He sat at his desk, vanished his reports, and began to plan. If Irena thought he gave up over everything, then he would teach her differently.

  He’d take her down slowly. A fall so gentle, it’d be over before she realized it had begun—before she found ground to stand on. She’d see that they’d had much worth fighting for.

  But he would not allow her to fight him.

  CHAPTER 10

  Irena hunted. She’d hoped to clear her mind, to think of anything but Olek and their argument in Cádiz. But it had come back to her, over and over, until she’d examined every word, every inflection.

  For so long, her emotions toward Olek had been lumped together, like coal tossed into a furnace. They burned and were too bright and hot to look at for long. But now that she could not avoid him, that she saw him more often, she’d begun to pick out pieces of her emotions, examine the sides. She did not always like what she saw—in him, in herself.

  Irena hadn’t known, until she’d spoken the words, that she had long thought he hadn’t fought for her. She’d always been conscious of all the other factors—what Olek thought had happened in that room with the demon, and her own shame. She could not forget those. But the very simple truth was: He’d let her go and it had hurt. And hurt, she’d been angry.

  She still was both. How could she still be both? Wounds were supposed to heal. This never had. It only festered.

  But it didn’t fester so badly now. Only a few hours had passed since she’d realized how much his failure to fight for her had hurt, but in that time, Irena had been forced to make another realization: She had not fought for him, either.

  She hadn’t felt as if she could fight for him; shame had tied her hands and silenced her tongue. When they’d met again and he had not given her a sign that he wanted to continue what they had begun in her forge, she’d been certain too much damage had been done. Now, she had to accept that Olek’s pride had bound him as tightly as her shame. He wouldn’t have felt that he could fight for her, either.

  Yet where did that leave them now? She did not know. Seeing the effect of her shame and his pride in this new light did not make them—or the past—disappear. Though she hurt less now that she understood why he hadn’t fought for her, nothing had truly changed. Everything that had prevented them from moving forward still lay between them.

  And even if they could move forward, she did not know if Olek wanted to.

  These thoughts plagued her throughout the hunt; though she had sought to clear her mind, when she finished she was more uncertain than when she’d begun. Jake found her as she was cleaning the last carcass, then teleported her to three villages that could use the meat before they returned to SI.

  Though the air hummed, Irena didn’t even feel a spark as Jake teleported her into a conference room.

  Jake hefted the double-bladed staff before vanishing it. “That thing works.”

  Irena shook her head. It hadn’t just been the staff. Jake was getting his Gift under control. After he’d left her at Alejandro’s, she’d bet that he’d spent every minute practicing.

  “I do not know how you separate two Gifts.”

  “I’m starting to recognize the feel of it. They’re different. It’s a different push. The second Gift just needs a little more finesse.”

  She didn’t want to be in here while he finessed it. Irena turned toward the door. “Be safe.”

  “Yeah. Irena, hold on a second.” Jake shoved his hands into his pockets. “Becca’s worried that you’re thinking of slaying Lilith. I told her you wouldn’t, and if you said that to Alejandro then you were probably just trying to piss him off, but it might help if you tell her.”

  “It will help what?”

  “Well, she’s feeling like she has to decide between being loyal to a fellow Guardian, or to Lilith and SI.”

  What a stupid thing to worry about. “What makes you think that I will not kill Lilith?”

  Jake shrugged. “Because you’re hard, but fair. You hate that Lilith is in the position she’s in—and I can’t really say I blame you for that—but you also know she’s done a damn good job. And if you’d planned to kill her, you’d have already done it.”

  Irena stared at him. Why did it always surprise her that one so young saw so well?

  He shuffled his feet. “Unless I’m totally wrong and it wasn’t about your thing with Alejandro.”

  “What thing? We are friends.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  How easily he gave ground. Irena frowned. “What do you imagine we are?”

  “Well, you both have that smoldering thing going on, especially when you use your Gift. I just assume that after you’re done fighting, you find a closet and bang each other. So you’re whatever that’s called—the opposite of fuck buddies, I guess. Fuck fighters? That sounds like a bad rock band. Or porn-star wrestlers. Not that that’s bad. Maybe fuck enemies. Fuck nemesis . . . es. Nemeses?” He stopped to ponder the word, and glanced at her. His eyes widened. He took a step back. “Yeah, and now I’m going to find Alice before you kill me.”

  The hairs on Irena’s arms rose when he disappeared. In his hurry, he’d forgotten to use his electrical ground. If Alice bore the brunt of that mistake, he would not forget again.

  She turned toward the door again, but paused when it opened and Alejandro came into the room. She felt her eyes widen as she took in the black suit and tie he wore—and he’d bared his chin and upper lip.

  Her stomach performed a strange, hollow swoop. A shallow cleft divided his chin. She hadn’t known the dent was there. Every time he’d stroked his thumb over his goatee, the sensation must not have felt anything like she’d imagined it would.

  And her statues of him were all wrong.

  She felt unbalanced, unsettled. She knew this must be his law-enforcement appearance, and except for his clothing and his lack of facial hair, he looked the same. He moved the same. And he still only smiled with his eyes.

  He smiled now. Irena thought about finding a closet.

  “Good morning,” he said, and the world shifted beneath her feet again.

  He’d spoken in English, with an American accent. She didn’t know what that meant. Was it only because of the role they played today? She’d have to remember to watch her words, to smooth away her own accent.

  She said carefully, “Good morning.”

  He smiled again as he approached her. His steps were still quiet. She glanced down and saw that his shoes were like any other man’s on top, but the soles were soft and supple.

  “Lilith is still negotiating with Captain Jorgenson, Taylor’s superior. We will be delayed past seven.”

  She already missed the music of his native tongue. “What was decided?”

  “A multiagency task force. But Taylor is not the police department’s first choice, so Lilith is applying pressure.” His voice deepened. “You still have the smell of the hunt on you.”

  “It was a good one,” she said, and watched his gaze slide down her form.

  He stopped within an arm’s length. “You’ll need to change.”

  Yes. Irena closed her eyes and tried to picture the right clothing. Something like Taylor’s. But she could not focus on the details of buttons, of seams. She could only think of Olek, there in front of her. He had the scent of the flame upon him. Of smoke and heat.

  “Irena.” He passed beside her, and laid a booklet on the conference table, open to a flagged pag
e. “If you need a visual.”

  She joined him at the table and recognized a clothes catalog. “You carry this with you?”

  “No. Lilith asked Selah for it.” He tugged on the side of her brief shirt, his fingertips skimming her waist. A shiver raced over her skin. “She has only seen you in this and thought you might need the help.”

  “And she gave it to you to pass on?”

  “I believe Lilith wished to make sure Selah was not harmed in the delivery.”

  Irena laughed, then turned to study the catalog. She visualized trousers, a jacket, a white shirt. She vanished her clothes and replaced them with the newly created ones. Alejandro’s shoes served as the model for hers.

  His eyes darkened as his gaze lifted from her face to her hair. His brows rose. She knew what he was asking. The style should be smoother—and better suited to the occupation.

  She pushed her fingers through the strands until there were no more tangles. That would have to do. Her gaze dared him to argue. He didn’t, but he didn’t back away, either. “And these are for you.”

  She took the identification, credit cards, and wallet that appeared in his hand. Her picture had been altered so that she wore the appropriate clothing and hair. Irena’s gaze skipped over most of the data, and she didn’t try to make sense of it. She searched for her name, instead.

  “Irena Steele?” They could not be serious.

  Humor flashed through Olek’s eyes again. “Savi’s idea. Your title is special agent, but aside from introductions, we will use surnames.”

  “And what name do you use?”

  “Alec Cordoba.”

  The name fit him, she thought. Not perfectly, but there was some of this agent in him that felt right. She looked down at the identification again. She ran her thumb over the delicate, looping signature, trying to see it as hers. She could not. Her writing was blunt, heavy.

  Uncertainty fluttered low in her gut. Investigation wasn’t the same as protection, or even a hunt. Hunting required similar stealth and cunning—but there were few rules to heed while hunting, and no need for a delicate touch.