Demon Forged

by Meljean Brook

  Impressive, but not perfect. There were always exceptions, large and small.

  On the sidewalk ahead of her, beside the entrance to a wine bar, a small exception slouched at a wrought iron table. His jacket and shirt were unbuttoned despite the crisp autumn evening, and a medallion winked from a bed of dark hair. Empty wine bottles stood next to an overflowing ashtray.

  His bleary eyes sharpened as they fixed on Irena. “Mi sento come un buon pompino. Quanto, puttana?”

  How much? She studied his face as she drew nearer, and dug into his emotions—arrogance, overblown machismo, a need to humiliate, a sharp loneliness—but she was unable to summon either pity or disgust.

  And she felt no surprise at his suggestion. No matter the century, there were always men like this. Men who would see the brief top she wore, the cling of the soft suede from her hips to her upper thighs beneath the belt and straps of her leather stockings, the face that had aroused a Roman senator before she’d reached her ninth summer and assume rights they didn’t have.

  At least this one offered to pay—and she’d known too many whores to be insulted when mistaken for one. She dismissed him, and her gaze moved on. Ahead, a fenced monument marked the Piazza Fiume.

  The human’s derisive command returned her attention to him.

  “Venite a succhiare il mio cazzo.” He cupped his crotch, jiggling his hand as if Irena were a horse and his balls a bag of oats. His mouth slid into a leer. “E si inghiottire troppo.”

  At that, Irena smiled. She would swallow—but only if she bit off a chunk first.

  She didn’t need to tell him so; her expression served as a reply. He dropped his gaze to his table.

  Cowed, but not quieted. Even if she hadn’t heard the word he muttered as she reached him, its shape was unmistakable on his lips. “Stronza.”

  Bitch.

  Irena’s breath hissed from between her teeth in a thin stream. This one, he did not know when to quit. She halted in front of him and bent over to grip the arms of his chair. Her smile was still vicious, but he didn’t glance at her face. Unease slithered through his psychic scent as he took in the winding blue serpents tattooed from her wrists to her shoulders.

  “You are a handsome man,” she told him, and didn’t attempt to suppress the accent that chopped at her Italian, “but you use your tongue in the wrong way.” Irena crooked her index finger beneath his necklace. Gold. Such a worthless metal. Far too soft, even when blended with stronger materials. Irena favored steel, iron, or platinum. She tugged lightly on the chain. “Stand, and I will show you what your mouth is good for.”

  Like a dog, he obeyed. Her fingers drifted down over his chest as he rose from his seat, and she shape-shifted subtly, increasing her height so that his tobacco-scented breath gusted heavily over her lips. His breathing stopped when she reached the waistband of his tight jeans, and she paused to test his emotions. Fear trembled in him, but also lust.

  And this one had no resistance to lust. Even as his flesh hardened beneath her hand, his arousal left him as malleable as gold. Left him easily manipulated. Demons loved humans such as these.

  Irena did not. She dragged her fingertip up his brass zipper, and her Gift melded the teeth together.

  The human wouldn’t sense the psychic touch. If Deacon had already reached their meeting spot, however, he would know she was near.

  And if she’d revealed herself to any other creatures who might be in Rome, she looked forward to meeting them. Killing them.

  Excitement fermented within her, and she imagined rending a demon’s crimson skin when she placed her mouth to the male’s. The flesh behind his zipper swelled as her tongue slid over his, pulling, sucking.

  He reached for her chest and she stepped back. He panted, his eyes glazed.

  She wiped his taste from her lips with the back of her hand, leaving a sneer. “Not good for much, after all.”

  His face reddened. Rage choked him; she’d turned away and walked half a block before he managed to roar “Stronza!” after her.

  She continued on. The insult did not anger her so much now that a plea lay beneath it. A small-minded man, frustrated by such a small thing.

  He would know true frustration as soon as he sought release for his bladder or his arousal.

  Her good mood was restored and her steps were lively as they carried her to the piazza. The evening was cold and clear; on the tundra, this was the kind of night when only the sharp, freezing air separated the earth from the heavens. A night for hunting. All that this moment lacked was the use of her blades. But if a nephilim or demon had felt her Gift, perhaps bloodshed wasn’t far off. She couldn’t detect any nearby, but they could block their minds and hide from her psychic probes.

  She had expected to find Deacon—a vampire’s mind wasn’t as powerful as a Guardian’s, and his shields weaker—but she didn’t sense him, either. Only humans.

  She rounded the stone blocks at the corner of the monument, her gaze sweeping the piazza. It froze near the monument entrance. A tall male stood in front of the iron gate. His dark eyes met hers.

  Olek. Her step didn’t falter. She didn’t betray her surprise with movement or breath, but her heart became a sledgehammer against her ribs. Did it pound with anger, shame, or need?

  It did not matter. With Olek, they were all the same.

  He was Alejandro to every other Guardian, but always Olek to her. Try as she might—and she had tried—she couldn’t think of him as anything else.

  Olek, the silk-tongued swordsman whose idea of honor was to die for nothing.

  Like Irena, he dressed not in modern clothing, but clothing comfortable to him. A black long-sleeved shirt hugged his torso, loose enough to allow movement but leaving little for an enemy to grab. His fitted trousers were tucked into knee-high boots. She knew their soles were as soft as hers—and as sure-footed. Both she and Alejandro would sacrifice a hardened boot and the damage a heel could inflict in order to feel every aspect of the ground beneath their feet.

  Old-fashioned garb, but it hardly drew a second glance from the humans milling near the monument with cameras in hand. There had been centuries when Guardians had been careful to blend; these days, almost anything was acceptable, if unconventional. For all Irena knew, her leather leggings and the ragged cut of her auburn hair might have even been fashionable.

  Alejandro’s haircut was severe. Gone were the overlong, thick curls that he’d worn when she’d met him. Now his dark hair was short, with edges as sharp as his face. It was not a style that invited a touch.

  And she hated her desire to comb her fingers through it. She refused to clench her fists against the urge.

  Alejandro was as controlled as she was. He held his lean body still and his mouth in a firm, immobile line.

  Her gaze rested on the sharp point of his beard. She had seen his facial hair diminish over time, according to human custom, until it was short and tight. The beard no longer extended past his chin; the mustache curved just past the corners of his wide mouth. A devil goatee, her young friend Charlie had once called it.

  The description was more accurate than Charlie knew.

  Irena pushed away the memory of a silken brush against her inner thigh, of heated lips. Pushed away the anger, shame, need.

  “Alejandro,” she said deliberately.

  Dark and unwavering, his gaze lifted from her mouth. He spoke in French, lightly accented with Spanish. “You tread near a line that cannot be uncrossed, Irena.”

  With the human whose zipper she’d ruined. Any Guardian who broke the Rules by killing a human or denying his free will had to Fall or Ascend. But kissing a man without his consent didn’t interfere with his free will—only kissing one who resisted did.

  “Did he refuse my touch? Attempt to escape?” With his Guardian senses, Alejandro would have heard everything that had transpired between her and the male.

  Alejandro didn’t reply, with words or a change of expression.

  “Obviously he did not,” she con
tinued with a shrug as light as the French on her tongue. There was no reason to feel defensive. Yet she did, and she resented it. She wanted to strike him for it. She turned and examined the piazza again. “Has Deacon already come and gone?”

  “No.”

  Irena frowned. Deacon hadn’t known how to contact her; she hadn’t met with him since she’d begun using the satellite phone that allowed other Guardians to reach her no matter where she traveled. But the American law enforcement agency, Special Investigations, had made itself known to vampire communities worldwide, offering them the Guardians’ protection against the nephilim, demons, and nosferatu. Deacon had called SI and asked for Irena specifically. The text message had come through her phone—sent by Lilith, the hellspawn who headed the agency . . . and who often directed Alejandro, as well.

  And if Alejandro had come, he must have thought she wouldn’t.

  “I would never shirk my duty,” Irena said.

  “You shirked it when you didn’t respond.”

  He left the rest unspoken: that, because this was Rome, whatever Deacon had to tell them might be critical in the Guardians’ fight against the nephilim. SI couldn’t assume she’d received Deacon’s request. They had to be certain.

  She met his gaze again. “I don’t answer to hellspawn. Send the message yourself, or have another Guardian or vampire do so. Then I’ll respond.”

  Alejandro’s dark eyes glinted with emotion before he concealed it. Did she anger him? She wanted to, but wasn’t sure if she had. Reading his face was impossible. His only reply was a short nod.

  “Have you sensed Deacon?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Any other vampires?”

  “None.”

  The flash of a tourist’s camera whitened the right side of Alejandro’s face. Even in shadow Irena could clearly see his features, but the burst of light made her realize how her gaze had been tracing the angular lines of his cheekbones, his jaw.

  She looked away, scanning the square. Their reflection in a passing vehicle window revealed that Alejandro still watched her.

  Always, he watched her. She didn’t know what he searched for.

  Even pinched by the French, Alejandro’s voice tugged over her nerves like fine kid gloves, tight and supple. “You will recognize this vampire?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know him well?”

  “Well enough,” she answered simply, though Alejandro would want more than that. After a moment of silence, she gave it to him. “Forty years ago, I tracked a rogue vampire near

  Prague. He’d already murdered several humans. I caught him and returned him to his community.”

  “You didn’t slay the rogue yourself?”

  She’d wanted to see what sort of community it was. “I let them decide the proper punishment. Deacon leads them, and he carried it out.” Once Deacon learned of the murders, he hadn’t hesitated to execute the rogue. It was one of the reasons Irena liked the vampire so well. “I return now and again to see that all is well with him.”

  And the last time she’d visited, all had been well. Why, then, had Deacon come to Rome? Had he brought the entire community?

  She couldn’t believe he’d be so foolish.

  The nephilim, led by the demon-spawn Anaria—one of the grigori and Michael’s sister—intended to overthrow Lucifer’s throne in Hell and enslave human free will in the name of Good. And, because of a prophecy that predicted the nephilim’s destruction by vampire blood, the nephilim had been killing vampires, one city at a time. Just because the nephilim had already slaughtered the vampires in Rome didn’t mean the city was safe for others to move in.

  Not remotely safe. And Irena was beginning to worry now.

  Relief replaced her concern when a man with a farrier’s shoulders came out of a hotel several blocks down the road. “There he is,” she told Alejandro. “Black hair, dark gray suit.”

  A wrinkled suit, as if he’d spent his daysleep in it. His white shirt was untucked and half unbuttoned. Peach lipstick stained the collar. Deacon pushed his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, tying it into a queue as he walked.

  “Are those your swords that he wears?” Alejandro asked quietly.

  “Yes.” Vampires had no mental cache to store their weapons, so Irena had designed Deacon’s short swords to be concealed beneath his clothing, yet still easily accessible. Deacon carried the swords in sheaths that crossed between his shoulder blades; he only had to reach behind his waist for the handles. When he lifted his arms, as he was doing now, the grips disturbed the line of his jacket over his hips.

  His hair and clothing were 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 i
gnore 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 twelve hundred 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 was, 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.