Demon Forged

fight us. We have no quarrel with you.”
    Were they cow-fucking idiots? When they’d killed Dru, Echo, and Ben, they’d established a monster of a quarrel with the Guardians. She glanced at Alejandro. He’d stolen farther into open space on the right side of the hub and crouched, attempting to look past the nephilim and the hellhound, into the left corridor.
    Her heart careening against her ribs, Irena glanced back at the stairs. Three novices—Randall, Becca, and Nadia—had gathered at the top, their swords ready. Though their faces were pale with fear, they looked to her for a signal to attack.
    Irena shook her head. Stay there, she signed.
    Three novices, a hellhound, Alejandro, and her—against five nephilim and Anaria. It would not be a fight. It would be a slaughter.
    The choking she’d heard earlier repeated, a tortured gurgling breath.
    “Lilith,” Alejandro said softly, and glanced up at Irena.
    She walked toward the center of the hub, almost within a sword’s length of a nephil, and took a single glance into the corridor. Hugh held Lilith tightly to his chest, agony carving deep lines beside his mouth. Blood slid from between Lilith’s lips. Her body convulsed, but like Dru, she still gripped her sword. Had she tried to protect Ames-Beaumont from Anaria? The grigori would have stopped her with barely a flick of her hand.
    And to a human, even a human as strong as Lilith, a flick of Anaria’s hand was a crushing blow.
    Irena turned and sprinted back down the gymnasium hall, where Pim sat rocking Dru’s body.
    “Pim, you are needed.”
    “I can’t fix her. I can’t—”
    No time for this. Irena ripped Dru’s head out of the novice’s hands. Pim’s shriek became a scream as Irena grabbed a fistful of her black hair and ran, dragging the novice down the hall. She raced into the hub, skirting the nephilim, past the hellhound.
    Hugh glanced up. The desolation in his eyes became a fragile hope.
    Irena shoved the novice down next to Lilith. “Heal her.”
    Doubt seized Pim’s features. “I—”
    “Now!”
    The novice scrambled to her knees. Her Gift reached out, searching for Lilith’s injuries.
    Irena turned, stalked back into the hub. Savi struggled beneath Sir Pup’s giant bulk. Irena’s stomach performed an uneasy dive. Savi’s eyes glowed as red as the hellhound’s. Her bare feet had stretched and lengthened. Her desperate cries had become growls and whimpers.
    The hellhound watched her approach with his left head, his razor-sharp teeth bared. He’d obviously been ordered to protect Savi, but Irena didn’t know whether Sir Pup could hold the young vampire if she shifted.
    Irena sank to her heels. She didn’t need to get low to speak to Savi, but it offered her a better view through the nephilim’s wings.
    And she could see Olek now—and he, her. He held his cell phone. She briefly met his eyes. He shook his head.
    Anaria must have put a shielding spell up around the warehouse, he signed.
    Which meant that they couldn’t call out for help—and no one could come in, either through the warehouse entrance or by teleporting. Only through the Gate—and unless Michael happened to go to Caelum, he wouldn’t know the new portal was there.
    But he wouldn’t teleport to Caelum. Michael was only a few miles—a few seconds —away, watching over Taylor.
    Feeling as if her stomach were lined with lead, she studied Anaria. From this angle, the grigori stood in profile to her. Her black hair was pulled back in a tail at her nape, revealing the graceful line of her neck. Like Khavi, Anaria possessed startling beauty—but she had none of Khavi’s fierceness. Her composed features suggested a deep and reassuring calm.
    The serenity of her expression didn’t alter as she slipped a dagger from the belt at her waist and slashed Ames-Beaumont’s wrist. His blood ran. A bowl replaced Anaria’s dagger, and she held it beneath the crimson stream.
    Bracing herself, Irena glanced at Ames-Beaumont.
    Terror ripped through her. Her muscles trembled with the need to turn and run. Her heart galloped, her blood racing into her head in a dizzying rush. Clenching her teeth, she fought the psychic effect, strengthening her mental blocks. She kept looking.
    Ames-Beaumont’s face was turned in her direction, his beauty a physical pain, a burning behind her eyes. His tortured gaze had fixed on Savi. His lips moved silently.
    Beside Irena, Savi whimpered and begged the hellhound to let her up. The