Demon Forged

Deacon’s apartment.
    Jake sucked in a breath. “Jesus flippin’ Christ.”
    Stepping around the young Guardian made Alejandro aware of a fine grit beneath his boots. He didn’t glance down to see what it was. He stared at Deacon, pinned to a stone block wall in the same manner Rosalia had been. Blood—still wet—covered his face, but didn’t obscure the relief and gratitude in his expression. His short swords had been stabbed through his palms, holding them outspread, as if in welcome.
    Alejandro looked over at Jake. Horror filled his eyes, and beyond him, Irena’s face was stricken.
    Quietly, Alejandro said, “Leave us, Jake.”
    Jake glanced at Irena, nodded, and disappeared.
    Irena’s throat worked. “Rael knew I would come to kill Deacon.”
    “Yes.” If Rael hadn’t been counting on that, no doubt the vampire would be dead instead of pinned—waiting for Irena to finish it.
    Her eyes closed. He could feel the debate raging within her. The decision to slay Deacon had been hard enough; now she fought her instinctive need to act opposite of what a demon wanted from her.
    Alejandro knelt, ran his fingers through the gray powder. Only a small amount dusted the wooden flooring here, but piles of it were heaped near the wall, more had been trampled and saturated with blood. Two urns lay broken and tipped on their sides. He rubbed the powder between his fingers.
    “Irena.” When she opened her eyes, he said, “It is vampire ash.”
    She blinked slowly. Her gaze sharpened, and when she looked around the room again, he knew she was reading the story of the blood splatters, the footprints in the ash. She crouched next to the pool of human blood, and slid her knife through it. The blood had already thickened.
    “This was first,” she murmured. “But there was no violence. The human lay quietly here while he bled, and later walked away.” Frowning, she reached for a dagger half-hidden beneath the edge of the sofa. She brought the blade to her nose, sniffed. “Human, vampire.”
    “Transformation,” Alejandro realized.
    “Yes. The ash was spilled after the human’s blood. And the demon’s blood after that.” A bitter frown bent her mouth. “I think Deacon did what they asked, and they gave him back his partners.”
    Mother of God. He looked up at the vampire again. “Tell me, Irena, which punishment is worse: killing him now, or forcing him to live?”
    Her eyes narrowed and flared a poisonous green. Then she scanned the room again, her gaze softening and deepening as she looked. The grief and sadness in her psychic scent pulled him to her. “Living,” she said. “Killing him now would be mercy. A part of me wants to do it for that reason alone.”
    “And the rest of you?”
    She stood and strode toward Deacon. Some of her earlier anger returned, hardening her voice. “Is going to make him live with it. Let us get him down.”
    Irena had changed her mind. Alejandro tugged Deacon’s swords from the vampire’s hands, feeling as if a sledgehammer had pounded into his chest. Dear God, how he loved her. Not because she’d agreed with him, but because she’d done exactly as she’d promised in Caelum: tried to look from different angles.
    He hadn’t known if it’d been something she vowed only in the aftermath of their lovemaking. And he hadn’t been certain she could do it, if he would always be the one to compromise, just to stay with her. He would have, endlessly, if giving in had been the only way to fight for her—though it would eventually leave him with little pride, and leave her with a companion not worth having.
    But Irena was fighting for them, too. And perhaps they would never agree again, but her effort alone told him how much he was worth to her.
    Irena reached for the spike. Her Gift pulsed.
    Another Gift echoed it, like a dark, thick slide beneath his skin. He looked over his shoulder.
    Rosalia stepped out of the shadows behind a screened corner, her cloak swirling around her. She lifted her crossbow to her shoulder when she saw them. “You are not slaying him.”
    “No,” Irena said calmly. “We are not.”
    She yanked out the spike. Alejandro caught the vampire, dragged him over to a blue sofa.
    Rosalia lowered her weapon. “Caym is dead.”
    “You killed a demon?” Alejandro asked. Rael’s accomplice, most likely.
    “No. Deacon did.”
    “You watched,” Irena said flatly.
    “Rael didn’t intend to kill Deacon—and I had not yet decided if I would.” Her