Demon Forged

demon thought they were similar in any way.
    “You don’t know shit.” And if Stafford could read him, the demon would know he meant that.
    Deacon left him standing there, and crossed the room. Lukacs lay half-dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Deacon considered leaving him to die. The world would be all the better minus one murdering asshole. Someone like that became a vampire, someone like Deacon would inevitably have to put him down.
    But the same reason he’d had for everything else pushed him forward. He used Caym’s dagger, still lying on Lukacs’s lap, and slashed the blade over his own wrist.
    The wound wouldn’t stay open long. He sealed his arm to Lukacs’s mouth. Quickly enough, the man began drinking. Lukacs wasn’t a vampire yet, so it didn’t feel good—didn’t feel bad, either, except for the self-disgust that clung like a slug’s slime trail at the back of Deacon’s tongue.
    When the man had taken enough, Deacon pushed him away. Lying on his back, Lukacs breathed slowly, his eyes wide with wonder. His teeth had already lengthened.
    Deacon turned to Stafford. “Eva. Petra. Now.” He bared his fangs. “Or is this when you kill me?”
    Stafford laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, Mr. Deacon. We aren’t going to kill you. The Guardians are—and it’ll probably be your friend Irena. After all, she’s the one you hurt the most. And although she might hate what she has to do . . . she’ll do it anyway.”
    The slime seemed to fill up Deacon’s lungs, his stomach. Irena had warned him about demons like Stafford—the kind that loved to tear people apart without ever touching their flesh. Told him they were the worst ones. Yet here he was, sick because he’d run headlong into everything she’d told him to avoid.
    But Caym was the kind that got off on the physical pain. So what had been in this for him? Standing just a few feet to Deacon’s left now, the crimson demon wore a smile that exposed his fangs. He looked a little too pleased for a demon who’d only gotten one beating in.
    Another must be in Deacon’s near future. Not killing him, but not letting him go without a scratch, either.
    Deacon braced himself, nodded at Caym. “And him?”
    “He had his fun, too.”
    A clay urn appeared in the demon’s hand, its rounded bottom nestled in his palm. A small knob centered on the lid. Caym opened the lid with a flourish, and with his gaze on Deacon’s face, tipped the urn to the side. Gray sand poured onto the floor.
    Deacon’s stomach lurched. Not sand. Ash.
    “Eva, I believe,” Stafford said.
    The agony of grief staggered him. He stumbled to his knees beside the remains, knowing his pain howled from his chest, uncaring if the demon heard.
    Another urn appeared in Caym’s palm. Stafford added, “And there’s Petra. Returned to you, as promised. I’m afraid Caym wasn’t so good to package up the rest of your community the same way. They are in his cache if you want them.”
    Deacon looked up at the demon pouring his life onto the floor. His grief ripped away, left only rage and revenge. Nothing else remained of him.
    “I want them.” But he’d take his people back by cutting them out of the demon himself. He’d take them back, or he’d join them in death.
    Deacon reached for his swords and sprang, surprising the demon, buying an extra moment of time. With the nosferatu blood, a moment was all Deacon needed. He stabbed his right sword upward beneath the demon’s ribs. Flesh split, and he dug into the heart. Caym fell back, gaping soundlessly. Deacon pushed forward. Hot blood spurted over his hand. With the heart destroyed, the demon was dead, but Deacon wasn’t done. He whipped his left blade up, sliced open a smile beneath the demon’s chin.
    He swung around. Stafford was already on him, sword in hand. The demon struck fast, disarming Deacon with two flicks of his wrist, blows that felt like they’d shattered the bones in his forearms. Stafford vanished his sword, wrapped his fingers around Deacon’s throat.
    Deacon kicked at the demon’s knee. Stafford didn’t react. He slammed Deacon against the stone wall. His eyes glowed crimson.
    Stafford’s lips peeled back from his teeth. An iron spike appeared in his left hand. “Now that was a shame, Mr. Deacon.”
    The demon stabbed the spike toward his forehead.
    Rosalia didn’t save him.
    Thank God.

    The scent of blood—human, demon, and vampire—assaulted Alejandro the moment they teleported into