Demon Forged

had been careful to blend; these days, almost anything was acceptable, if unconventional. For all Irena knew, her leather leggings and the ragged cut of her auburn hair might have even been fashionable.
    Alejandro’s haircut was severe. Gone were the overlong, thick curls that he’d worn when she’d met him. Now his dark hair was short, with edges as sharp as his face. It was not a style that invited a touch.
    And she hated her desire to comb her fingers through it. She refused to clench her fists against the urge.
    Alejandro was as controlled as she was. He held his lean body still and his mouth in a firm, immobile line.
    Her gaze rested on the sharp point of his beard. She had seen his facial hair diminish over time, according to human custom, until it was short and tight. The beard no longer extended past his chin; the mustache curved just past the corners of his wide mouth. A devil goatee, her young friend Charlie had once called it.
    The description was more accurate than Charlie knew.
    Irena pushed away the memory of a silken brush against her inner thigh, of heated lips. Pushed away the anger, shame, need.
    “Alejandro,” she said deliberately.
    Dark and unwavering, his gaze lifted from her mouth. He spoke in French, lightly accented with Spanish. “You tread near a line that cannot be uncrossed, Irena.”
    With the human whose zipper she’d ruined. Any Guardian who broke the Rules by killing a human or denying his free will had to Fall or Ascend. But kissing a man without his consent didn’t interfere with his free will—only kissing one who resisted did.
    “Did he refuse my touch? Attempt to escape?” With his Guardian senses, Alejandro would have heard everything that had transpired between her and the male.
    Alejandro didn’t reply, with words or a change of expression.
    “Obviously he did not,” she continued with a shrug as light as the French on her tongue. There was no reason to feel defensive. Yet she did, and she resented it. She wanted to strike him for it. She turned and examined the piazza again. “Has Deacon already come and gone?”
    “No.”
    Irena frowned. Deacon hadn’t known how to contact her; she hadn’t met with him since she’d begun using the satellite phone that allowed other Guardians to reach her no matter where she traveled. But the American law enforcement agency, Special Investigations, had made itself known to vampire communities worldwide, offering them the Guardians’ protection against the nephilim, demons, and nosferatu. Deacon had called SI and asked for Irena specifically. The text message had come through her phone—sent by Lilith, the hellspawn who headed the agency . . . and who often directed Alejandro, as well.
    And if Alejandro had come, he must have thought she wouldn’t.
    “I would never shirk my duty,” Irena said.
    “You shirked it when you didn’t respond.”
    He left the rest unspoken: that, because this was Rome, whatever Deacon had to tell them might be critical in the Guardians’ fight against the nephilim. SI couldn’t assume she’d received Deacon’s request. They had to be certain.
    She met his gaze again. “I don’t answer to hellspawn. Send the message yourself, or have another Guardian or vampire do so. Then I’ll respond.”
    Alejandro’s dark eyes glinted with emotion before he concealed it. Did she anger him? She wanted to, but wasn’t sure if she had. Reading his face was impossible. His only reply was a short nod.
    “Have you sensed Deacon?” she asked.
    “No.”
    “Any other vampires?”
    “None.”
    The flash of a tourist’s camera whitened the right side of Alejandro’s face. Even in shadow Irena could clearly see his features, but the burst of light made her realize how her gaze had been tracing the angular lines of his cheekbones, his jaw.
    She looked away, scanning the square. Their reflection in a passing vehicle window revealed that Alejandro still watched her.
    Always, he watched her. She didn’t know what he searched for.
    Even pinched by the French, Alejandro’s voice tugged over her nerves like fine kid gloves, tight and supple. “You will recognize this vampire?”
    “Yes.”
    “You know him well?”
    “Well enough,” she answered simply, though Alejandro would want more than that. After a moment of silence, she gave it to him. “Forty years ago, I tracked a rogue vampire near
    Prague. He’d already murdered several humans. I caught him and returned him to his community.”
    “You