Demon Forged

Then the fangs were gone, just normal human canines again.
    He looked away from her mouth. “If Ames-Beaumont works with SI, then he doesn’t have a problem with Guardians.” Maybe that was her reason for the vampire disguise; most vampire communities had only recently learned that Guardians existed, and wouldn’t know what the hell to think if someone like Rosalia showed up at their door. “So just flash your wings at the bouncer. Or do your shadow thing and sneak in.”
    She gave him another searching look, then rolled her hips and crossed the street. All right. So flashing her wings in full view of humans wasn’t the best idea he’d come up with, but she had her own idea. She stopped in front of the bouncer. He opened his mouth, began saying something about the line—and her eyes flared a warm yellow. The bouncer opened the velvet rope and held it until Deacon went through.
    The stairwell had been painted black. They hit the lower level, paid the cover fee, and as soon as they pushed through the swinging doors, got a face full of air-conditioning that kept the place as cool as the night outside. Definitely a vampire’s nightclub; anything much warmer, and Deacon would already have been sweating. The club was huge, with an upper level balcony that wrapped around the walls, leaving the ceiling above the dance floor open. They’d gone for an industrial look, with exposed beams and pipes, and thrown in a good dose of English parlor. A crazy mix, but it worked.
    Vampires sat at half the tables. Others danced, although that hadn’t gotten going hard yet. A few vampires had drinks in front of them, each untouched. No point in buying a drink except for appearances—they couldn’t taste anything and couldn’t get drunk.
    “That will be Ames-Beaumont’s table.” Rosalia nodded to a large, horseshoe-shaped booth in the back. The seats were empty. “He’d have a view of everything.”
    “Then let’s make sure he sees us.”
    “I’ll find out if anyone knows when he’s coming.” Rosalia headed for the lightly attended bar.
    Deacon approached Ames-Beaumont’s booth, and wasn’t surprised when he heard the heavy footsteps coming toward him, the gravelly voice that said, “Not that seat, man. You’ll find another—” The vampire broke off. “Deacon?”
    Well, damn. Deacon’s stomach hollowed out, but his grin was genuine. “Darkwolf. You done traveling yet?”
    “I’m settled.” The big vampire gripped his forearm, then pulled Deacon in to slap his back. “Are you done being an asshole?”
    “No.”
    “Tell me about it then.” Darkwolf steered him toward another booth. “I’d give you the best table, but you being who you are, it just wouldn’t look—”
    “I’m not here to challenge him.”
    “I fucking hope not.” Darkwolf dropped onto dark blue velvet, stretched out his leather-clad legs. More black leather strained across his massive chest. “Because as good as you are, Ames-Beaumont wouldn’t even break a sweat taking you down. Taking ten of us down.”
    Us? Deacon looked at him hard. “Did you try?”
    If he did, that meant something was wrong with Ames-Beaumont’s leadership. Darkwolf believed in the strongest leading and protecting, but he wouldn’t hesitate to fight against a corrupt leader.
    “Hell, no.” Darkwolf laughed. “I had to convince the fucker to take the spot. I sure as hell didn’t want it, not after what went down here.”
    Drink in hand, Rosalia slid in next to Deacon. “What went down?” she asked.
    Darkwolf looked at him.
    “Guardian,” Deacon said.
    His eyes narrowed at her. “I know the Guardians around here. I don’t recognize your scent.”
    Psychic scent, as Guardians didn’t have any bodily odor. At least, not that Deacon had ever been able to tell. Irena smelled like smoke and blood, but it was like a perfume covering up the scent of nothing. The only fragrance coming from Rosalia’s direction was the peach and alcohol in the fruity drink she was sipping.
    She held out her hand. Darkwolf took it, let go. He’d checked the temperature of her skin, Deacon realized. A demon could shape-shift to look like a Guardian, but it couldn’t conceal that.
    “All right.” Darkwolf’s gaze moved between them, guessing, measuring, wondering. “Two years ago, or thereabouts, a nest of nosferatu moved into the city, trapped all the elders in here”—he gestured around them—“and burnt it down.”
    “These nosferatu,” Rosalia said.