Demon Forged

gymnasium at Special Investigations.
    Echo and Ben lay in the center, chests split open, eyes wide with surprise in death. Their weapons lay beside them, un-bloodied. Whoever had done this hadn’t given the vampires a chance to defend themselves.
    And she would not give them time.
    Her gaze darted around the room—empty—and she turned as Alejandro came through the Gate. She saw his shock as he recognized the gymnasium, then his cold fury when he spotted Echo and Ben. She looked past him through the open double doors, where the Gate had formed. Her blood ran cold.
    A single red shoe lay in the hallway.
    No. By the gods, no . Not Dru.
    Alejandro caught her as she stumbled forward. “The Gate, Irena. You can’t go through the door.”
    She’d end up back in Caelum. Her voice trembled. “Make one.”
    He nodded, and passed in front of her. She tried to prepare herself, stepped forward until she stood only a small distance from the Gate.
    Grief hit her, almost doubled her over. Pim sat in the hallway, cradling Dru’s body against her chest. Though her arm was limp, Dru still gripped her sword. Blood soaked her white lab coat and pooled on the floor beneath them. Pim held Dru’s blond head against the body’s neck, and the frantic thrust of the novice’s healing Gift carried her terror, her grief, her denial.
    Swallowing hard against her own, Irena whispered, “Pim.”
    The novice looked up, her eyes glassed over and cheeks wet. Her voice was high and thin. “I can’t fix her. I can’t fix her.”
    No. Dru couldn’t be healed. Her vision blurred, and Irena wiped at her eyes. Not now. Not yet. A loud shredding sound ripped through the room, and she glanced over at Alejandro. He’d lifted his swords over his head, speared his blades through the wall, and was dragging them down to the floor. Within seconds, they’d be out of the gymnasium.
    “Who did this, Pim? What are we facing?” When the novice didn’t answer, Irena sharpened her voice. “Pim!”
    “The nephilim.” Her healing Gift shook against Irena’s psyche again. “She pushed me behind her. I can’t fix her.”
    A shout came from farther within the warehouse, followed by a desperate scream. Irena’s gut tightened. That had been Savi.
    “Hurry, Olek.”
    In answer, he slammed his foot into the wall, sending the piece he’d cut out crashing into the hallway.
    She followed him through.
    They didn’t have to go far. Beyond the end of the hall, at least four nephilim stood in the hub. They’d shifted to their demon forms. Their black wings blocked her view of the opposite hallway, which led to the warehouse entrance, but she could hear several racing heartbeats, someone choking on their breath, a soft keening. Panic and pain raged through psychic scents, all too chaotic to separate.
    She drew abreast of Olek at the end of the hall. He took the right side, she the left.
    No nephilim were guarding the mouth of the corridor. Across the hub and to her left, five stood in a large semicircle that cordoned off a quarter of the room. Each nephil faced outward—protecting someone behind them. Through the gaps between their wings, Irena saw a woman holding Colin Ames-Beaumont against the wall.
    Anaria.
    Though she’d been called the light twin, Anaria had the same coloring as Michael. Bronze skin, waist-length black hair. Beneath a simple linen sheath cinched with a narrow leather belt, her form appeared small and delicate. Her legs looked no more substantial than a yearling doe’s.
    Irena couldn’t doubt her strength, however. The grigori had lifted Ames-Beaumont aloft with one hand around his neck. The vampire was as strong as a novice, but though he pulled at her wrist—was probably trying to crush it—Anaria did not appear to feel his efforts.
    Blood slicked the front of the vampire’s black shirt. A leather-wrapped hilt protruded from his chest. Anaria had impaled a sword through his ribs, pinning him to the wall.
    But not through the heart, Irena saw with relief. Not yet.
    Farther left of the nephilim, near the head of the corridor leading to Lilith’s office, Sir Pup stood in his demon form—taller than Alejandro, his eyes glowing crimson. But the hellhound wasn’t threatening the nephilim; instead, he restrained a struggling figure beneath his forepaws, the jaws of his middle head gently gripping the back of her neck. Savi.
    Irena stepped out of the corridor.
    The nephil closest to her spoke. “No Guardians will die if you do not