Demon Blood

too,” he said quietly.
    “I wondered if I should kill you then. When we found you.”
    With a spike through his head, after he’d slain Caym—after Caym had poured out the remains of his partners onto the floor. “Then, I would have welcomed it.”
    “I know. It is why I did not kill you. I thought it would be worse for you to live.”
    Was it? He would have agreed, once. This burden would always be his to bear.
    But worse would have been having no opportunity to pay for his mistakes. No opportunity to grieve. No opportunity to avenge them.
    “You should have killed me, then, if you meant to punish me. This is better.” More painful than death—even more painful than he could imagine Hell—but better.
    She understood. Though coarse and blunt, she wasn’t slow. “So you are still fighting.”
    “I’m trying.”
    “That is good.” She made a vague movement with her hand. “I have something for you. After Rosalia took you from Prague, I gathered this. It did not seem right to leave them on the floor. I thought I might spread their ashes in Caelum, but you would know of a better place for them.”
    He came closer, and his chest tightened, filled with an unbearable ache. She clutched an iron box between her hands. The lid of the box had been sculpted like a bed, and atop it, Eva sat laughing and clutching the sheet to her chest; Petra, lying on her stomach, looked over her shoulder with the sardonically amused expression that she’d aimed at Deacon more times than he could count.
    “I liked them. I didn’t know them well,” Irena said. “But this is how I remember them best. I came to you, do you remember? I dragged you from your bed to take you hunting. And they laughed.”
    “I remember,” he said hoarsely, taking the sculpted urn.
    The iron was heavy. He cradled it in his arm, tracing his fingers over their likenesses. So perfect. Petra’s metal hair moved on a breath, each curl a delicate wire. Eva’s mouth almost soft, her fangs sharp.
    He could not even voice his gratitude.
    Irena must have known. She walked past him, giving him a few moments.
    When he turned, she was surveying a fender, running her hand over the dented steel. “I have never understood why you do this. New automobiles are faster and better, and you have money to buy them.”
    He didn’t point out that he had money because he’d restored those cars. And he didn’t know why himself. He’d always loved it. He liked reclaiming their beautiful design and function.
    “Newer vehicles are faster. I don’t know about better.”
    She smiled and picked up the fender. With her Gift, she could smooth it, strengthen it. He didn’t think he’d enjoy restoring anything if the work was that easy.
    “And I like to work with my hands,” he added.
    “I do, too. But only when it is a new weapon.”
    “You don’t fix them?”
    “My habit is to throw damaged weapons away.” She replaced the fender and looked over at him. “I have been trying to change that habit. With the proper effort, a repaired weapon can also be strong. Perhaps a friendship can be, too.”
    Christ. That fast, he choked up. He’d never expected this from her. Had never hoped for it, had never even considered it a possibility.
    “I’m willing to make that effort,” he managed.
    “So am I.” She came to him, ran her fingers over the urn cradled in his arm. “We have both lost too many friends, Deacon. Let us not lose another.”
    Speechless again, he could only watch her walk across the garage. She paused at the makeshift curtain they’d put on the wall, and turned.
    “I should warn you that I’m more likely to punch friends.”
    “I know.” Her fists had knocked out his teeth more than once.
    She narrowed her eyes, as if considering. “Maybe next time.”
    She passed through the wall, the curtain falling into place behind her. A moment later, he heard Rosalia’s soft inquiry, and Irena’s accented reply. He moved toward the curtain, and lifted heavy fabric aside.
    In the painful flare of light, he saw Irena’s fiery hair, the brilliant color in the blooming garden, and Rosalia’s beautiful smile before his vision went dark.
    A single moment that had been worth ten thousand times the pain.

    As soon as Rosalia saw the wedding planner out, she returned to the garage. Immediately she spied the iron urn on the worktable, recognized the beauty of the sculpture on the lid. Tears stung her eyes. Irena was not always the barbarian, and Rosalia could