The Talon & the Blade

by Jasmine Silvera

  He pushed the car faster, reveling in the chase.

  The sensible thing would be to rein this desire in, finish the job, and go home to make his report to Azrael. There were dozens of women he could slake this thirst with.

  But not one in hundreds came close to Ana Gozen.

  Maybe Lysippe had been right in seeing their similarities. Crafting and upholding that much distance took the effort of a long-burned heart. Sex and physical contact might be a necessity. But he and Ana were too old—too damaged—for a love story.

  Gregor watched the taillights of the bike disappear into the garage ahead of him. He took his time parking, watching her shake her hair into place from the helmet, contemplating his next move.

  It wouldn’t be prudent, seducing Ana Gozen. But it would be interesting.

  He climbed out of the car.

  She stood by the elevator, turned into a sleek silhouette by the light of the open doors. “Coming?”

  He would be a fool to miss the taunt. “After you.”

  Hell, no one lived forever.

  The freight elevator capable of fitting a compact sedan felt too small with Gregor beside her. Still, Ana made no move to distance herself from him. So they rode up as they had entered, side by side.

  She wondered how it would begin. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d made the first move.

  On the night she turned twenty, Raymond took her to a bar in a frontier town, pointed at a table full of young cowboys. “You should pick one. It won’t do to go into this bargain with anything resembling innocence.”

  She spat on the floor. Cowboys held no interest for her. He’d laughed before the bartender kicked them both out.

  In the end she’d chosen the slight boy who did the labor for the mercantile owner. His son, perhaps. He’d had the temerity to smile at her as she walked into town beside Raymond. She left her swords in her bedroll at the camp Raymond set up among the crimson rocks and returned on foot to the outpost. In the back of his father’s shop, before dawn, she’d placed the boy’s hands where she wanted them, given him permission to go further. In the morning she and Raymond had ridden away. She had not looked back. The next day she traded her soul to become the first of Raymond’s Aegis.

  The sound of the metal gate sliding open brought her back to the present. Gregor stood aside to let her exit first. Perhaps stepping aside came from the same place as bridling his own hunger for blood to remind everyone in the room who—and what—she was.

  He prowled out of the elevator and stood, facing the room in three-quarters profile. He still had the sense not to turn his back to her.

  Tension clenched his shoulders beneath the suit jacket as he shrugged out of his coat. Even without seeing his face, she read the lines of energy coiling, unspent, in his long body.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  Her skin prickled at the invitation. Of all the things she wanted, the numbness of alcohol was not one of them. “I have a better way to take the edge off.”

  His head whipped around at the words, and she could see the nostrils flare in his profile. Oh, this was going to be fun.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the basement sparring room, Gregor checked his watch one last time before laying it on the small table by the door. He walked a circuit of the room, footsteps a susurrus against the sleek floating-wood flooring stained so dark the grain shone in the subtle lighting, and waited.

  “I kept you waiting,” she said by way of apology.

  It was the closest he’d come to being startled in over a century. Reluctantly, his mouth stretched into something resembling a smile. “Not long. Rules of engagement?”

  Ana had given up bloodstained designer jeans and leather boots for a simple pair of black cotton pants and a tank top. She set the dual saya in their places and stepped onto the mat in the center of the room, blades bared. She raised an eyebrow.

  “Seems only right to ask.” Gregor spread his hands and bowed. The blade coalesced on his back. It never weighed so much as it did when he’d been denied a fight. He let his palm find the familiar grip, unsure which came first—the hilt or the touch that sought it. At her pause, he said, “Reconsidering?”

  She twirled the short sword in her left hand and grinned. “Nope.”

  It would have been prudent to strategize, let her come to him, feel out her defense, test her. To hell with that. The blade in his hand was as solid now as any other weapon, but if he’d thought they would meet in a clash of sparks and ringing steel, he was mistaken. Where he struck, she avoided, when he pressed, she slid away. He counted the times they made contact on one hand. His chest heaved with effort, sweat soaking through his shirt when he burned through the first red-soaked rush.

  When he withdrew, he left her breathless—with laughter. “You are insane, you know?”

  He winked. They crossed the room in the swift dance of feet across the floor. “You expected a courtship?”

  Her lips twitched. “I hate a tease.”

  She moved so quickly she blurred even in his eyes. He reacted on instinct, not waiting for thought. It saved him the loss of his sword. She slipped backward, out of his reach, with a smug little glare.

  “You’re holding back.” She sucked her teeth with a little shake of her head.

  “We still have work to do. I’d hate to accidentally kill you.” He kept his voice flippant, but he couldn’t help thinking of how long it took both her and Auger to heal. Gregor’s ability to recover from everything short of beheading owed itself to the speed. Could she bleed out before her body could repair itself?

  She snorted. “I’d like to see you try.”

  This time he let her come to him. Blades kissed with a sweet ring, and he gave himself over to the dance, moving into a space of pure instinct and response. She was waiting for him there. The soft puff of her breath brushed his ear. He didn’t think. When she spun, she met him there. He trapped her long sword and twisted it free, sending it spinning. The delight in her eyes surprised him.

  Then she lifted the short sword, flicking a bead of red from the blade with a circular sweep of her wrist.

  He slid away, his hand finding the open line on his bicep weeping a steady stream of crimson as it sealed before their eyes.

  She blew a kiss. “First blood.”

  He pushed harder. The sweat rolled down her skin in glistening streaks. He knew he had her on the run when her lips parted and a slight wrinkle marred the space between her brows. He pressed until she was on the defense. The moment came and he slipped into the opening, risking a loss of balance for force. He caught her wrist, then the other, dragging her in close and pinching her elbows against his side.

  He leered into her face. “What now?”

  Her forehead met his nose with a force that made him see stars. Her heel slammed into his foot. He staggered a step, impressed by her ability to shed sophistication for the tactics of a back-alley brawler between one move and the next. She followed it up with a kick to the solar plexus, flinging him backward. Before he could recover, she pressed the advantage, disarming him in three strokes. She hooked his knee, sweeping him to the ground. The woodcuttings on the walls rattled. He snagged her ankle and she slammed into the mat beside him.

  On the ground, the elegant dance devolved into bare-knuckle scrabbling. They grappled, hand to hand, in silence punctuated by the odd snarl or sound of tortured cloth ripping under the onslaught of superhuman strength.

  “Are you laughing?” She pinned him, their legs twisted together as they wrestled for control of the hold.

  He was. “You broke my nose.”

  “You expected me to be polite?” She got a hand free and punched him in the throat.

  He grunted, catching her again before she could break the hold. “I had hoped you wouldn’t.”

  “Good.” She sent a knee into the soft spot below his ribs.

  He grunted but kept his grip. “Shall we finish this?”

  “Please try.”

  He bucked
hard, flipping her onto her back.

  She got his wrist, twisted until bones snapped, but pain didn’t even distract him. Still, she used the grip to drag him into a roll and she wound up back on top, her legs straddling him, the length of his erection pressed between them. Her breath hitched against her ribs.

  She bared bloody teeth and ground herself into him. “Another round?”

  The unmistakable heat of her through two layers of cloth almost undid him. His body responded with its own blunt need. He reached for her mouth but she twisted away, preoccupied with shedding the remaining cloth between them. He would have her, but on her terms.

  He could live with that.

  The sudden shock of skin-to-skin contact drove his breath from his chest. He surrendered to the contrast of cold air and the heat of skin damp with sweat as her fingers plowed the flesh of his shoulders on their way to the source of all the tension burning in him. The air escaped his lungs when she gripped him, guiding him to the fluid center of her body. Then he sank into her. The shock made him rigid, but the sheer rightness made him gasp.

  She was muscle and sinew, curve and arch. And for this moment, she was his.

  She grunted, fluid strength clasping around him, and her fingers buried in his hair. The combination of tightness, above and below, unleashed something primitive in him.

  He shoved himself off the floor, bracing on one arm to get closer to her. Not close enough. The other locked around her waist, forearm molding to her spine, fingertips digging into her hip. A groan escaped him and he drove his hips up until he could go no deeper. Her spine bowed, crushing the last bit of distance between them.

  His mouth found the firm mound of a breast as he brushed his stubbled jaw along the soft slope. Fingers tightened in his hair. Ragged breath scraped his ear as she pushed the pace. He slicked a nipple with his tongue before suckling. Her body clenched. Darkness flirted around the edge of his vision. He gripped her hip and for a moment the battle of wills—hers demanding motion, his insisting stillness—clenched them harder than before.

  A note of victory rang in his chest when she surrendered.

  The slow circular grind, her arms around his shoulders, turned out to be much, much more difficult to withstand.

  When his fingers slipped between them, a low growl escaped her chest. He managed to be gentle at first until she pressed herself against his thumb and tugged his hair until he saw stars. He kept it up—damned if he’d stop her from killing him if it gave her pleasure.

  He held himself beyond any sense of his own control. When her body began to shudder around him, her breath and heart thundering ahead in release, he let go.

  All her fierce strength eased against him between one breath and the next. Without thought, his arms went around her in support. He sucked on the skin of her collarbone as their bodies exchanged residual tremors. The damp weight of her hair, the strands so much finer than he’d imagined, tickled his nose.

  The harsh sound of breathing came at a distance. His own. What was left of his pants bunched at his knees. The tattered remains of his shirt hooked around his arm and under his body. It wasn’t exactly a defensible position. Or particularly maneuverable.

  For the first time in a hundred years or more, he didn’t care. Ana shuddered against him. The back of her neck fit in the palm of his hand. He squeezed, and she responded by tilting her head, exposing a long line of pale, perfect neck. He followed the line of her throat to her jaw with his mouth.

  The temptation of her mouth, so close, lured him. Lips like satin. What did they taste like? The rough stubble of his cheek against her triggered microshudders of response. Small nips with a lick and light pressure led him to her jawline, her ear, her cheek. He trailed her chin, rising higher. Her breath tickled his mouth.

  She slipped out of his grasp in a single graceful evasion and rose to her feet. He knew better than to reach for her.

  The rest of her clothes fell away with a few sharp tugs. She blew a lock of hair out of her eyes. Surveyed him. “Better?”

  He watched her collect her swords with what he hoped was a nonchalant gaze. “Much.”

  Her nostrils flared. “I have some leads to follow, and I need to make arrangements to speak with someone who might be helpful.”

  She stalked away.

  In her own room Ana leaned against the closed door and exhaled. The residual burn of combat combined with the languid ache of release made for a potent mix.

  When it came to sex, the body had needs and she could meet them or ignore them with some effort. She stayed in control. Fun. Not essential.

  With Gregor, sex was as intense as the sparring had been. She couldn’t wait to do it again.

  They had a job to finish. They didn’t need distractions. Shower, then work.

  The woman gazing back from the mirror bore fresh bruises—after all, it had begun as a fight. But these were nothing compared to demon wounds—they faded before her eyes as her body’s enhanced ability to heal itself took over. But like the afterimage of the sword between Gregor’s shoulder blades, they remained in her vision, catching her attention out of the corners of her eyes as she showered and dried off.

  A repeat was out of the question.

  She rested her forehead on the door and closed her eyes. Work. She had calls to make, ferry schedules to check.

  “Always giri, always working, Onee-san.” Takami’s voice drifted up from memory, more plea than taunt as Ana went about her chores, leaving her behind.

  When Takami struggled to read in the new language, Ana began smuggling dime novels from the gaijin shops. Takami’s reading ability grew with the new subject matter. Their tutor took the credit, never knowing the source of the improvement. Ana preferred adventures and Wild West tales. Takami lost herself in tales of chivalry and romances where delicate, helpless girls escaped tyrannical villains to run off with rugged, handsome men. Ana blamed herself for Takami and her cowboy.

  The traditional tales from home almost always ended in sacrifice—and the occasional suicide—or at least separation of the lovers for the sake of duty and the inescapable debt one owed to family, liege, or emperor.

  It was a new concept, this happily ever after.

  And a lie.

  Ana had seen that before she swore her vow to Raymond.

  After all, what did a cowboy know about homesteading? The little farm Takami and her cowboy had made etched into her memory. Even before it had been ransacked, it had been rough and poor—a far cry from the finery of the girl’s childhood. Their clothing had been simple and for this time of year. The only thing of luxury from her old life—warm fur on one side, cheap satin on the other—had been wrapped closest to the skin of the child at her breast. Takami had given up her family, her home, a life of wealth and privilege. In exchange, she had her cowboy and their child. Ana knew what life the child would have in either culture.

  The creeping warmth in her belly coiling out to her limbs at the thought of Gregor’s body beneath her receded. There was no such thing as happily ever after. Only after. And after, everything ended.

  She made her calls, planned the timing of their trip, and sent Raymond a brisk status report. Then she let go of the breath it seemed she’d been holding all day and went in search of her partner.

  In the kitchen, Gregor perched on one of the barstools, a half-eaten triangle of toast in one hand, making an intent scrutiny of the newspaper before him. How old-fashioned. And he was wearing another impeccably tailored suit, the tie a satiny crimson. With his hair slicked back and a clean shave, he looked as if he could be on his way to steal some souls for the devil.

  “I managed to coax coffee from your apparatus,” he said without looking up as she entered the kitchen.

  “Thanks.” She started for a cup, but one already sat beside the coffee maker. Her favorite—comic book ninja on a street bike.

  “Omelet in the oven.”

  She slid her plate onto the counter, retrieved her coffee, and when she returned, he pushed a pl
ate of toast and the butter dish her direction. “You’ve already eaten?”

  He made a noncommittal sound and lifted his toast. “I am not much for breakfast served after noon. It’s the best I could do, given the state of your cupboards.”

  The perfect, fluffy eggs folded over scallions and ham and little bites of cheese broke apart on her tongue. She battled the urge to moan with delight. Or shovel them into her face. She was starving.

  But she must have made a noise, because when she looked up between bites, blue eyes fixed on hers. His mouth stopped moving on the toast.

  Carnal knowledge. In all her years, she’d never seen an expression embody those two words as well as his did.

  They’d taken the edge off. But even a dull blade could do damage.

  Unless she got back in control.

  “That was fun,” she said, proud she’d managed to sound flippant in the face of his imperious gaze and the intimate knowledge of the savage passion behind it. “But I am not interested in any ongoing—entanglements. Nothing personal, you understand.”

  “I’m crushed,” he said returning to his paper and another bite of toast. “When you’ve finished, can we get back to work?”

  He’d made worse mistakes. No, a miscalculation, he thought as they descended to the garage a half hour later. The sex hadn’t been a mistake.

  The mistake—miscalculation—had been thinking it would be easy to blow off a little steam without her becoming a distraction. More of a distraction.

  The edge they’d taken off had been honed again the moment she’d come into the kitchen in jeans that had to have been painted on her curvy little ass, her navy sweater cropped at the midriff and revealing a sliver of skin. Now he knew the pliant skin and the hard lines of muscle beneath. The hitch her breath made when she came. The lightness of her spent body on his and the tickle of fine dark strands of her hair. The scent of her, lilacs and steel, and the memory of it mingled with sweat and the sweet salt of her arousal made him rigid.