Forged in Fire

by Juliette Cross

  “Like this?” I hissed.

  A genuine broad smile lightened his face, making me more breathless than I already was. Amber and gold shimmered in his irises, nearly cutting out all the black. Nearly. His hands were on my hips.

  “Exactly like this.”

  “Whoohoo!” Kat cheered, reminding me of the girlfriend present.

  I popped up, not offering him a hand. He didn’t need one anyway.

  “Genevieve, you’ve got it, my friend.” Her friend now. Great. “Combining that with the battle cast, you’ll be dynamite. Let’s say we go for a test run tonight.”

  I found it difficult to maintain my pissy attitude with Kat’s enthusiasm filling up the room.

  “What kind of test run?” I asked, handing her the dagger.

  “You know, let’s go hunt some demons, get you in a fight, see what happens.”

  “Is this the way demon hunters train?”

  “Yes,” two demon hunters replied in unison. I rolled my eyes.

  “I’m not going to that damn Dungeon place.”

  “I wouldn’t take you back there anyway,” Jude admitted, making me wonder at the statement. “We’ll go somewhere easy, where lower demons hang out. Tartarus.”

  I frowned. “Wait, that place I first met you at? In the business district?”

  Jude nodded. I felt sort of stupid, realizing now he wasn’t there just checking me out that night, but actually hunting his usual prey.

  “I think the name of the place makes them feel more at home. I’ve never gone there without catching a demon or two.”

  “Sounds good,” said Kat, walking toward the door. I followed with Jude behind me. “I’ll meet you guys there about nine o’clock.”

  “Shouldn’t I have a weapon?”

  Kat stopped and leaned down in the hallway. “Here, take these,” she said, unstrapping the sheath from her left leg.

  “No,” interrupted Jude. “I’ll have something that suits her better. Go on in.”

  He gestured toward one of the closed doors next to the hall bathroom. As I walked in, Kat touched his arm.

  “Jude, can I talk to you a minute?”

  He waved for me to enter the room and followed Kat farther down the hall. I heard her say “speaking of George”, then I was lost in the splendor around me.

  A wall-to-wall showcase gleamed with sharpened stainless steel crafted in a forgotten age. I didn’t need an appraisal to know these weapons weren’t made in the here and now. Some were roughly made, some finely so. Artisans of old must’ve forged the one like a medieval war sword with a thick blade and handle-less hilt. There was another, seemingly as ancient—a long, thin saber with an ornate T-handle embedded with red jewels. Were they rubies? There was a set of powerful blades with simple hilts. Square Crusader-like crosses circled the tips. The metal didn’t glint like the others. Possibly iron. How did he get this stuff?

  I practically choked when my eyes slid to the last case where a four-foot-long claymore stretched the entire length of the blue-velvet-backed case. My dad’s all-time favorite movie was Highlander. I’d watched the hero Connor MacLeod decapitate his enemies with the long Scottish sword a hundred times. The mere thought of Jude wielding such a monster made me shiver.

  I faced away from the wall, realizing the room held antiques of every kind. On a small mahogany writing desk stood an ivory vase painted with the goddess Artemis on the hunt, the finish crackled with age. A feathered quill pen stood in a pewter rose-shaped inkwell. The gray feathers were frayed from use, the hollow quill worn smooth from the hand that had held it. Were these relics of Jude’s past he could not part with? What sentimental attachment could he have to these things? Had he written love letters with this quill? To Kat or some other woman?

  My ire started to rise again. I moved around the desk, past a huge ornate armoire to the wall behind. And my heart stopped beating altogether.

  I stared into a painting of a midnight pool where a golden goddess floated in death. Garments spread wide like an angel’s wings. Pale wrists bound at her waist. Yellow hair fanned in a rippling halo. I could almost hear the water lapping, trying to pull her down. Her expression—no fear, no pain. Only tranquility touched the unblemished perfection of her ethereal face. A luminescent aura shrouded her in death, promising the peace she so deserved in the afterlife. No eternal darkness for this fair maid. Above the pool, hovering in shadow, stood a guilty figure, the executioner, fleeing the scene.

  I had no idea tears streamed down my face until Jude appeared silently at my side.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  I barely noticed he’d changed into a dark blue T-shirt and his leather jacket.

  “Le Jeune Martyre.”

  “I know damn well what the painting is!” I nearly choked, swiping angrily at my cheeks to rid any sign of weakness. “I mean, how the hell do you have this painting in your house? A replica of the very one my mother painted shortly before she died!”

  “This isn’t a replica. This is the original by Paul Delaroche.”

  I blinked, unable to comprehend.

  “The original is in the Louvre in Paris,” I spluttered, completely incredulous.

  “They do have an original by Delaroche, a second the artist modeled after this one. This is actually the first I commissioned for myself.”

  Hold up. The one in Paris was painted in 1850-something. I’d researched it for a project in high school as I struggled in angst-ridden teenage years, while still grieving the loss of a mother who obsessed over this beautiful drowning martyr.

  “Do you mean you’re like one hundred sixty years old or something?”

  “No, Genevieve.”

  Whew. Because that would make him freakishly old. I stepped away from him. His pupils were inky orbs of pitch. No spark of light at all.

  He faced the painting. He was remembering. “This woman was the first Vessel ever to walk the earth.”

  His voice became steady, even, almost too calm. My mind flipped to what I remembered about the history of the painting.

  “She was a Christian martyr, according to the history books,” I said softly.

  “She was that,” he agreed, tone thick with disdain. “But she was so much more.”

  I waited, thinking he wouldn’t continue. But he did.

  “She was twenty-four when a high demon found her. She’d learned to cast illusion on her own. Actually, the summoning chant we use now was of her own making.”

  I wanted to interrupt and ask how, why. I thought demon hunters had created the cast of illusion. But he was in a trance. I dared not stop him.

  “She had evaded the high demons for four years past her awakening. But when he found her—”

  I felt heat rolling in waves. The orange shimmer of fire barely caressed his shoulders.

  “He used her. Most foully.”

  I winced at the gruffness tinged with pain in his voice.

  “The stain of his evil threatened to steal her very soul, so rather than let him abuse her further, she sought an honest death. She did die as a Christian and a martyr, but she was also a sacrifice so that the damned, pernicious demon Ru’um could not use her as an instrument to do his evil.”

  The name tingled cold up my spine. I tried the pronunciation in my head. Roo-um. I didn’t know the name, yet something tugged deep.

  “Ru’um?” I asked.

  Jude faced me then. The black had not crawled beyond his irises, but I knew he ventured too close to the edge.

  “You know him by another name. Danté.”

  I sucked in a breath, unable to move or make a sound. He wasn’t speaking of a history handed down to him by others. He was speaking of memory, his memory, of a past pain lodged deep within him. My heart raced.

  “Do you mean that, that you knew this Vessel?”

  A single nod.

  “She was my duty to protect, and I failed her. So she died.”

  Soft, soft words. I felt the blood drain from my face. Two things threatened t
o make me faint on the spot. One, there was no doubt whatsoever that Jude had loved this woman, still loved her fiercely. The pain of her loss was written in every line of his chiseled face. And second, Paul Delaroche’s painting was based on the Christian martyr in the era of Emperor Diocletian around 300 AD. Jude was seventeen hundred years old!

  Those eyes—inhuman, otherworldly, unnatural and mesmerizing beyond reason—paralyzed me into a statue. I didn’t move a muscle as one side of his mouth quirked up in a sad sort of smile. He brushed a long finger along my jaw, then pulled away, as if touching me now caused him even more pain. My heart clenched into a tight ball.

  “Do you see, Genevieve, why I protect you?”

  I nodded, biting my bottom lip and refusing to cry. He needed to redeem himself, pay for his past failure to save the first Vessel of Light who still held his heart in a gilded cage, locked away from the likes of me. He needed to avenge her, especially since the high demon Ru’um was the same one stalking me. I felt sick.

  “Can you take me home now?”

  He went to the wall of steel and iron, pulling open a drawer hidden away in the shelf at the bottom of the case. He held out what appeared to be a pile of straps with two small sheaths.

  “It’s a vest. You loop it across your chest and shoulders like this,” he said, gesturing how to pull it through the arms but without offering to touch me and show me how. No need to get too close, I suppose. “The sheaths fall flat to your ribs.”

  “What goes in them?” I asked, trying to sound businesslike.

  Before I could even finish the question, he’d pulled out two sleek silver daggers, black-handled and beautiful. The blades were only an inch longer than the handles, but sharp as razors.

  “The distribution of weight makes it easier to wield. Much more accurate if you should need to throw them at your attacker from a distance.”

  I thought of throwing those Chinese darts with Erik, wondering if Jude had some sort of telepathy to know about my hidden talent. I nodded, sliding both weapons into their sheaths.

  He ushered me out of the room. The door closed with an audible snick, closing his pain away from the world and prying eyes like mine. Ironically, the sting of this discovery made me want him even more—to hold him, comfort him. But that was Kat’s job, not mine.

  We walked in silence down to the street. Of course, Kat had left her car for him. A girlfriend does those kinds of things. A girlfriend does all kinds of things. Like kissing him good night, tucking him into bed, tucking into bed with him, kissing him good morning.

  “What?” asked Jude, opening my passenger door.

  “What do you mean, what?”

  “You made a sound. What were you thinking about?”

  The hell if I’ll ever tell you!

  “Nothing.”

  We rode all the way to my apartment without saying a word. Jude didn’t seem to be brooding or anything, just thinking. I was doing my damnedest not to think of the man next to me in bed with the perfection that is Kat. Of course, my stupid mouth doesn’t always listen to my brain.

  “Kat is very beautiful.”

  A sidelong glance. Dark eyes glimmered with gold. “Yes.”

  Hmph.

  “She’s pretty tough, too,” I admitted.

  “Yes.”

  “And smart.”

  “Very.”

  So last night’s kiss—well, more than a kiss—was just what? Proving he was the big, bad alpha male? Point taken. He obviously regretted it, knowing he’d misled me with some pretty strong signals. I let out a huff as we pulled up the drive, opening the door and slamming it shut, practically stomping like a child to the door.

  “Genevieve, is something…?”

  “What time are we meeting at Tartarus?” I snapped, rounding on him at the door.

  He wore a quizzical, I’m-not-amused expression. Like I cared. What reason did he have for that look of censure? I was the one being led on, the one being kissed, then dismissed, and on top of that having to take lessons from the goddess girlfriend.

  “I’ll pick you up about eight thirty.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  One dark eyebrow shot up as he pushed into my space. I don’t think so, Mr. Hotness. I backed to the door.

  “Mindy and I were supposed to have a girls’ night tonight, so I’ll have her with me.”

  “That’s not a problem. I’ll pick you both up.”

  “No, Jude. Listen, Tartarus is only a ten-minute drive. If you really think me completely incapable of making that short jump without your constant guardianship, then by all means follow us, but I’m driving my car with my best friend.”

  I sounded snippy and petulant. I didn’t care. I needed space. Badly. He must’ve seen something in my eyes, because he stepped away from me.

  “Fine. Nine o’clock sharp. Don’t be late,” he commanded, low and menacing.

  I opened and closed the door in his face just about as fast as I’d done to Malcolm the night before. I doubt that had ever happened to R-and-B. Ha! I went into my room and tossed my net-o-daggers on the table.

  “Eeeeeeeeeee! Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!”

  A little blonde cannonball launched into my room and knocked me to the bed in a tumble of squealing excitement.

  “What, Mindy, what!”

  Thankfully, she was laughing, or I would’ve thought something was terribly wrong. She waved a black-and-gold embossed square of cardstock in my face so fast it was a blur.

  “What is it?” I asked, giggling.

  She stood up on the bed, hiding the expensive-looking invitation behind her back. Clearing her throat and straightening her shoulders, she gave me her best British accent, which was horrendous.

  “Ms. Drake, you and I shall be shopping for very expensive formal gowns, as we are cordially invited to”—she paused, taking a deep breath and screaming the last—“the Crescent City Masquerade!”

  She squealed again and thrust the invitation in my face, bouncing to sit beside me while I read. I scanned to the date and place—October 31st, Oakwood Plantation.

  “What! How did you get this?”

  “It so happens that my mom’s boyfriend, Bill, who I thought was pretty worthless up until now, had an extra invitation, which counts for two. So, hello, my lovely date. We’re going to the freaking Crescent City Masquerade!”

  I couldn’t help but bounce in giddy excitement with her. This was one of the most posh balls in town outside of the elite Mardi Gras balls. A formal masquerade at a plantation house with full orchestra, where the rich and beautiful of old New Orleans would glitter with the elegance of a bygone era. Mindy had shown me pictures of the last time her mom went with a friend a few years ago. Extravagant, lush, gorgeous!

  “Can you believe it, Gen? First, your dad offers the trip to New York, and now this! It’s like we’re blessed or something.”

  Blessed? Hmph. Doubt that. My jailer hadn’t said if I could go to New York yet. Of course, that’s because I hadn’t asked his permission. And now I’d have to ask him to go to this. I wanted to scream.

  “Well, Mindy, we must celebrate. How about dancing at Tartarus?”

  “Seriously? Eeeeeeeeee!”

  Mindy was the one always dragging me out, not the other way around. Tonight, I had a few demons to hunt, and I planned on looking like a she-devil myself to show a certain someone what he was missing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Daaamn, girl!”

  I grinned sheepishly, knowing I’d turn a few heads tonight, hoping one in particular would snap his neck and get a crick when he did. I glanced in the mirror above the sofa. Dark red skinny jeans, black V-neck top that hugged just right and square-heeled black boots fitted to the thigh. The only jewelry I wore was my St. George medal, falling below my collarbone. The bite mark had faded entirely. I straight-ironed my hair, making it fall in sleek lines to the middle of my back.

  The dagger vest fit snugly on the outside of my top, the blades at angles alon
g each side of my rib cage. I’d summoned the cast of illusion but was still anxious about whether it would work even though I felt the power humming along my skin. Since Mindy hadn’t said anything about the weapons strapped under my breasts, apparently I’d done it right.

  “Not too much, huh?”

  “Are you kidding me? I love it when you dress like that. Here, try this lipstick. It’ll go perfect.”

  Mindy was makeup lady extraordinaire, always equipped with the perfect blush, gloss or eye shadow for any occasion and any outfit. She was right. The burnished mauve shade on my lips made my skin glow even brighter.

  “See?”

  “Did I say you were wrong?”

  “Come on. Let’s go!”

  “You’re lookin’ pretty hot yourself, Min.”

  Sporting a silky silver minidress with black cowgirl boots, Mindy would draw them like flies. I’d have my hands full watching out for her. Ever since we became friends in middle school, I’d felt extremely protective of my petite friend. It started in sixth grade. Though small, Mindy was a voluptuous thing. Developing early was a disaster for her. One day, I’d caught a group of seventh-grade boys cornering her in the gym, singing in mocking voices, “Mindy stuffs her bra-aaaa, Mindy stuffs her bra-aaaa.” That asshole Travis was trying to see for himself if it was true. Fortunately, I was taller than even the eighth-grade boys at the time, so I stepped in, punched him square in the nose and threatened to beat every one of them if they messed with her again. My heroic feat had the desired effect. On the downside, the rumor of me beating the snot out of the scariest middle-school bully also frightened away any boy who might’ve been interested in me for years. Hence, my lack of boyfriends throughout high school.

  For some reason, her sweet-n-sexy demeanor coupled with her small stature lured all kinds of losers, thinking to take advantage. Good thing she had an Amazon for a best friend. And now, thanks to my demon-hunter duo, I had a few more moves and weapons with which to do some damage.

  I locked the door of the apartment. Mindy started singing one of her made-up songs she tended to create when she was super giddy, twirling her wristlet around in the air. “Min and Gen, hittin’ the town, dancin’ all night, and messin’ around!”