Demon Forged

Ames-Beaumont was good-looking, though. Pretty as hell. Deacon didn’t usually notice that about men, but with a face like Ames-Beaumont’s, he couldn’t not notice.
    “The novices said that the effect wears off the longer you look at him. The better you know him.”
    “What effect?” Deacon couldn’t stop staring at the guy, but that wasn’t an effect. It was damn smart, now that the vampire was walking in their direction.
    “I don’t—” Beneath the table, Rosalia’s hand suddenly gripped his, hard. Her fingers rubbed up and down his knuckles like they were a rosary. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she whispered.
    Maybe the lights shifted just right. Maybe it was just that Ames-Beaumont had come close enough. Deacon didn’t know, but one second he was seeing an overly-pretty vampire, and the next he saw beauty so striking, it was a physical blow to his chest. His fingers clamped down on Rosalia’s.
    Ames-Beaumont stopped at their table. Jesus Christ, Deacon actually wanted to get up and touch the guy. Kiss him. He sat dumb, transfixed by the impossible beauty of that mouth.
    Cool gray eyes met his. Then Ames-Beaumont bent his head, and the small female beside him rose to her toes and whispered into his ear. A low, incredibly fast whisper, mostly covered by the music, but Deacon heard his and Rosalia’s names—and “Irena.”
    Jesus, he hadn’t even noticed the slim woman until now, but he assumed it was Savitri Murray, Ames-Beaumont’s partner. Deacon forced his gaze away from Ames-Beaumont and focused on her. Her black hair was almost as short as her partner’s, but tamed into little spikes. Her cinnamon skin would never pale as many vampires’ did. Her face was sharp, her chin pointed, and her dark brown eyes were lively. Eva often looked at him with the same combination of mischief and intelligence that this woman had, but where Eva was sturdy and rounded, this woman was delicate.
    When Ames-Beaumont straightened, he wore a slight smile. “Deacon, Rosalia. We did not expect the pleasure of your company this evening.”
    That accent had upper-class and British all over it. He should have guessed. “You are something unexpected, too.”
    The vampire’s grin sent his heart racing. The bloodlust roared to life in his veins. Fucking unbelievable. Another second, and he’d be sporting wood under the table.
    “I imagine I am.” Ames-Beaumont threaded his fingers through his partner’s and began to draw her away. “Come join us when it pleases you. We will be here most of the night.”
    Ames-Beaumont turned his back to them. That was some relief.
    Rosalia let go of his hand. Her breath was as unsteady as his. “That was kind of him. Giving us time.”
    “Yeah.” Maybe not kind, though. Ames-Beaumont probably just didn’t like speaking with awestruck idiots. Deacon dragged his fingers through his hair. “The novices warned you?”
    “Yes, but I didn’t understand . . . Wow.” She shifted a little on the seat.
    Oh, Jesus. Was she aroused? Wet?
    Nothing Ames-Beaumont could have done equaled the need that raced through him then.
    “They said it can be worse if he’s upset,” she added. “Or if his emotions are worked up.”
    Worse? What did that mean—an instant orgasm? “What kind of worse?”
    “Terrifying. Becca said, and I quote, ‘One look makes you cream your panties, the other makes you piss in them.’ ”
    Even quoted, some of those words came a little too easily from her tongue. “It’s been a while since you’ve been a nun, hasn’t it?”
    “A very long time.” She lifted her glass, tipped a piece of ice into her mouth, and started chewing. With a deep breath, she glanced over at Ames-Beaumont’s table . . . and kept looking.
    Getting used to it, Deacon realized, and did the same. Darkwolf joined the couple, sliding into Savitri’s side of the bench. She leaned toward Darkwolf as she spoke with him—and Ames-Beaumont stared at her with an enraptured expression that might have been on Deacon’s own face a minute before.
    “They are both nosferatu-born,” Rosalia murmured.
    Hearing that Ames-Beaumont was didn’t surprise him, but Savitri . . . ? That small, delicate woman was several times stronger than Deacon was?
    “You can tell by looking at them?”
    “The novices said she was.”
    He should have hung around the novices a little longer. “How does he do that . . . effect?”
    “They don’t know, though they each have their theories: a curse,