Demon Forged

details. She refused to focus on them.
    There was a saying in English that the devil lay in the details—the little flaws brought down the whole. And that was exactly how the demons worked: focusing on the details, boring at tiny weaknesses until the entire structure was so brittle it collapsed. They talked in dizzying circles until nothing was left of meaning, and only their purpose remained. They smoothed everything with slick words, until nothing was left to grasp.
    Irena preferred rough edges, even though they scraped and tore. But Alejandro, he was all sleek speed and elegance, from his words to his body. The leopard to her bear, the fox to her wolverine. Solitary predators who avoided one another, respecting too well the teeth and claws of the other—and when they couldn’t keep apart, they ripped pieces from one another in passing.
    Wounded predators, she admitted . . . and wounds were weaknesses. Irena had been trying to excise hers for centuries. But this one wouldn’t heal, so she tried to ignore the pain.
    And Alejandro was correct: She did lump many things together. But wounded predators were also dangerously short-tempered, so she gave him no response but a sneer before heading across the piazza to meet Deacon.
    Olek did not follow her.
    She had not expected him to.

    The first time Alejandro had seen Irena, she’d been standing with a group of her friends on the opposite side of a courtyard in Caelum—the Guardian realm. It had been almost one hundred years after his transformation; although his training neared completion and he would soon return to Earth as a full-fledged Guardian, Alejandro had still been a novice.
    And he’d known of Irena, who—at the time more than twelve hundred years of age—was one of the oldest Guardians. He’d known of her Gift to shape metal. He’d known she had created the exquisite swords he practiced with, and that Michael had assigned her to oversee Alejandro’s final weapons specialization and his transition to Earth.
    He’d known all of that, but he’d not yet met her.
    And so he hadn’t known who had mesmerized him with a single toss of her head, her long braids bright auburn beneath Caelum’s sun. Hadn’t known who had hardened his body with one shout of her loud, brash laughter. It had fallen silent when his gaze had caught hers. Without hesitation, she’d stridden toward him across the white marble square—just as she was walking toward Deacon now.
    He’d been arrogant enough to think that she’d be impressed when he introduced himself. His talent with the swords had been praised by Guardians centuries older than he was, and there were already predictions that, given another century, his skill would surpass Michael’s. And when she’d said her name, he’d been bold enough to challenge her, to suggest there was nothing she could teach him.
    She’d accepted his challenge. When she’d offered up a single dagger against his swords, he’d been foolish enough to imagine that she wanted to lose—that she wanted to be under him as badly as he wanted to sheathe himself within her.
    Before ten seconds had passed, she’d had him laid out on the marble pavers with blood filling his mouth and his vision floating in and out of focus.
    Until she’d straddled his waist and kissed him—then everything had become sharp and pointed, and devastatingly clear.
    He’d still been reeling when she lifted her head and said, “When I am satisfied that your training is complete, I will take your body as I have just taken your mouth. Until that time, young Olek, there is only this. Only the fight.”
    Then she’d driven her dagger into his side, and chided him for letting his guard down.
    It was fitting, Alejandro thought, that their only kiss had been flavored by blood and followed by pain.
    Too much pain, because she’d been wrong: There hadn’t just been the fight. There had been her laugh and her temper. Her unrelenting schedule, her unexpected moments of tenderness.
    And there had been the days spent in her forge, where he discovered his Gift of fire complemented her affinity with metal. Where they’d created weapons, where firelight had danced across her pale skin. Where he’d pretended to study manuscripts, but watched over the pages as Irena shaped her intricate sculptures—where he’d posed for her more than once. And he’d trained tirelessly, waiting for the moment she was satisfied.
    For months, there had only been swords and Irena—his