Demon Forged

to give them up—and upon his death, Michael had come to offer him the transformation.
    But he’d burned first.
    Deacon shook his head before stepping behind the curtain. “And that is why—except for when I’m hiding—I stay clear of churches.”
    But he hadn’t always, Alejandro wagered. A man did not come by a name like Deacon while avoiding the church.
    “It was not the religion,” Irena said, “but the politicians in Rome and in Spain.”
    “There were also priests.” Alejandro followed them into the hall. “And, of course, the demon.”
    Irena snorted. “In those years, there was no difference between any of them.”
    Irena had once told him that she’d been in Russia while the Inquisition had spread its deadly fingers through Spain, but she hadn’t been unaware of events in the rest of the world. The Guardians had done what they could to curb demonic influence in the courts and the church—but, aside from Alejandro’s trial, the accusations had been brought by humans vying for power and position, not demons.
    Guardians could do little to help humans when humans were the cause of their own misery.
    Deacon led them to a small chamber. A wooden door had been set into the center of the slate floor. On the walls, signs forbidding flash photography and souvenir collection hung over velvet upholstered benches. Alejandro eyed the stick figure clutching its head beneath a warning about low ceilings, and debated the merits of shape-shifting to Irena’s petite height versus stooping his way through the corridors.
    “I was transformed by a beautiful vampire on a bed of silk,” Deacon said as Irena circled the chamber, peering out the small, barred window and testing the lock on a closed door. “All things considered, it makes me glad I’m not a Guardian.”
    Without a word, Irena formed her wings. White feathers arched over her head and swept down to elegant wingtips.
    Seeing her wear them always stole Alejandro’s breath.
    The awe faded from Deacon’s expression, and he sighed. “And now you’ve made me a liar.”
    “I’m sure I am not the first to do so,” she said, kneeling on the floor and pressing her ear to the wooden door. Suede pulled tight across a bottom framed by the straps of her leather stockings and arcs of white feathers.
    “We are none of us saints,” Alejandro murmured, grateful that they had long since passed the altar. His thoughts were far too impure to cross himself now.
    With both relief and regret, he watched Irena stand and vanish her wings.
    “I hear nothing,” she said, calling in her kukri knives from her cache. The angled blades were sharp and sturdy, but at only sixteen inches, their length forced her into closer proximity with an enemy than a sword would.
    Alejandro tightened his jaw against his protest. Using the knives demanded that she was nearer to the kill—and, for that reason, it was also more satisfying to her.
    He understood her; how could he not, when he took so much pleasure in his own weapons? When he anticipated the feel of their grips against his palms and treasured the memory of their creation?
    Irena stilled when his swords appeared in his hands, and he immediately wanted to vanish them again.
    She didn’t lift her gaze from the swords. “Did you repair the blade yourself?”
    He gave a short nod. She studied the fracture, her expression impenetrable. He’d mended the break with his Gift by heating the steel and hammering it back into shape—and no one but Irena would have noticed the faint discoloration of the blade, the slightly uneven balance.
    Oh, he was a fool. He wished he’d brought out any blades but these—the last of the weapons they’d made together in her forge. But he hadn’t considered it; he used no other swords.
    “Why did you not come to me? We could have—” She caught herself with an indrawn breath. Her gaze hardened and snapped up to his. “You thick-brained ass. I should let you be killed when it shatters.”
    “Yes,” he agreed, to punish her for saying it so casually now. When it had mattered, she had not let him die.
    The punishment became his when pain slashed across her features, and she looked away. But he could not unspeak his response.
    Her voice was flat. “Rid yourself of them, Olek. Then open your hands.”
    As soon as he did, a pair of swords appeared in his palms. He examined the intricate hand guards, hefted the deceptive delicacy of the blades, and fought the ache building in his chest. They