by Sunny
His hair and clothing rumpled—who had he been with? The vampire was upwind. Irena tested the air, and caught the odor of alcohol, sex, and blood mixed with Deacon’s individual scent.
Human blood.
He’d fed from a human woman? Irena did not like this. She had not expected this. What had forced him to use a human?
Vampires were slaves of a different sort: to bloodlust. The accidental offshoot of the nosferatu, their existence was the result of an attempt—a failed attempt—to honor a proud and strong girl. Though nosferatu and vampires both burned in the sun, the similarities ended there. Vampires, though stronger than humans, were much weaker than nosferatu. And although nosferatu suffered from bloodlust, they didn’t need to feed to survive; vampires had to regularly consume living blood. Drinking it from humans threatened exposure, however, and so vampire communities required their members to find a vampire partner—or partners—to feed them.
Where were Deacon’s partners? He wouldn’t have left them behind. Eva and Petra didn’t just share blood with him; the two vampires were his friends and lovers, as well.
Yet they must not be with him if he’d used alcohol. Vampires weren’t affected by the drink. But after a human drank enough, she’d probably forget that a vampire had fed from her. Even if she did remember, a few drops of vampire blood would heal the bite and erase evidence of it.
From behind her, Alejandro said, “I trust that, despite the drink, she was willing.”
Irena clenched her teeth. Though Alejandro employed polite words and phrases, he was lying; he didn’t trust it.
She slid her right hand behind her back, and used the Guardian’s sign language to reply. Of course she was willing. Deacon knows the Rules.
Although vampires weren’t bound to follow the Rules as Guardians and demons were, Irena had made it clear to Deacon that if he didn’t she would slay him. Feeding wasn’t the same as hurting or killing humans, however. Guardians would tolerate his drinking from human women if he had no other option.
On silent feet, Alejandro came to stand beside her. Willing to invite him into her bed and to take her blood?
Irena gave him a disbelieving look. When a woman invited a man into her body, what did it matter if, in addition to her mouth and her sex, he also tasted her blood?
“You split too many hairs, Olek.”
“You clump them all together.”
And that, Irena thought, was the difference between them: details. She refused to focus on them.
There was a saying in English that the devil lay in the details—the little flaws brought down the whole. And that was exactly how the demons worked: focusing on the details, boring at tiny weaknesses until the entire structure was so brittle it collapsed. They talked in dizzying circles until nothing was left of meaning, and only their purpose remained. They smoothed everything with slick words, until nothing was left to grasp.
Irena preferred rough edges, even though they scraped and tore. But Alejandro, he was all sleek speed and elegance, from his words to his body. The leopard to her bear, the fox to her wolverine. Solitary predators who avoided one another, respecting too well the teeth and claws of the other—and when they couldn’t keep apart, they ripped pieces from one another in passing.
Wounded predators, she admitted . . . and wounds were weaknesses. Irena had been trying to excise hers for centuries. But this one wouldn’t heal, so she tried to ignore the pain.
And Alejandro was correct: she did lump many things together. But wounded predators were also dangerously short-tempered, so she gave him no response but a sneer before heading across the piazza to meet Deacon.
Olek did not follow her.
She had not expected him to.
THE FIRST TIME Alejandro had seen Irena, she’d been standing with a group of her friends on the opposite side of a courtyard in Caelum—the Guardian realm. It had been almost one hundred years after his transformation; although his training neared completion and he would soon return to Earth as a full-fledged Guardian, Alejandro had still been a novice.
And he’d known of Irena, who—at the time more than a thousand years of age—was one of the oldest Guardians. He’d known of her Gift to shape metal. He’d known she had created the exquisite swords he practiced with, and that Michael had assigned her to oversee Alejandro’s final weapons specialization and his transition to Earth.
He’d known all of that, but he’d not yet met her.
And so he hadn’t known who had mesmerized him with a single toss of her head, her long braids bright auburn beneath Caelum’s sun. Hadn’t known who had hardened his body with one shout of her loud, brash laughter. It had fallen silent when his gaze had caught hers. Without hesitation, she’d stridden toward him across the white marble square—just as she was walking toward Deacon now.
He’d been arrogant enough to think that she’d be impressed when he introduced himself. His talent with the swords had been praised by Guardians centuries older than he, and there were already predictions that, given another century, his skill would surpass Michael’s. And when she’d said her name, he’d been bold enough to challenge her, to suggest there was nothing she could teach him.
She’d accepted his challenge. When she’d offered up a single dagger against his swords, he’d been foolish enough to imagine that she wanted to lose—that she wanted to be under him as badly as he wanted to sheathe himself within her.
Before ten seconds had passed, she’d had him laid out on the marble pavers with blood filling his mouth and his vision floating in and out of focus.
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 lo
cation, 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 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.
SUNNY is a physician by training, and an author by lucky happenstance. A graduate of Vassar College and mother of two, this PRISM Award-winning author lives with her husband, author Da Chen, in New York’s beautiful Hudson Valley. Please visit her website at www.sunnyauthor.com.
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