Demon Forged

didn’t slay the rogue yourself?”
    She’d wanted to see what sort of community it was. “I let them decide the proper punishment. Deacon leads them, and he carried it out.” Once Deacon learned of the murders, he hadn’t hesitated to execute the rogue. It was one of the reasons Irena liked the vampire so well. “I return now and again to see that all is well with him.”
    And the last time she’d visited, all had been well. Why, then, had Deacon come to Rome? Had he brought the entire community?
    She couldn’t believe he’d be so foolish.
    The nephilim, led by the demon-spawn Anaria—one of the grigori and Michael’s sister—intended to overthrow Lucifer’s throne in Hell and enslave human free will in the name of Good. And, because of a prophecy that predicted the nephilim’s destruction by vampire blood, the nephilim had been killing vampires, one city at a time. Just because the nephilim had already slaughtered the vampires in Rome didn’t mean the city was safe for others to move in.
    Not remotely safe. And Irena was beginning to worry now.
    Relief replaced her concern when a man with a farrier’s shoulders came out of a hotel several blocks down the road. “There he is,” she told Alejandro. “Black hair, dark gray suit.”
    A wrinkled suit, as if he’d spent his daysleep in it. His white shirt was untucked and half unbuttoned. Peach lipstick stained the collar. Deacon pushed his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, tying it into a queue as he walked.
    “Are those your swords that he wears?” Alejandro asked quietly.
    “Yes.” Vampires had no mental cache to store their weapons, so Irena had designed Deacon’s short swords to be concealed beneath his clothing, yet still easily accessible. Deacon carried the swords in sheaths that crossed between his shoulder blades; he only had to reach behind his waist for the handles. When he lifted his arms, as he was doing now, the grips disturbed the line of his jacket over his hips.
    His hair and clothing were rumpled—who had he been with? The vampire was upwind. Irena tested the air, and caught the odor of alcohol, sex, and blood mixed with Deacon’s individual scent.
    Human blood.
    He’d fed from a human woman? Irena did not like this. She had not expected this. What had forced him to use a human?
    Vampires were slaves of a different sort: to bloodlust. The accidental offshoot of the nosferatu, their existence was the result of an attempt—a failed attempt—to honor a proud and strong girl. Though nosferatu and vampires both burned in the sun, the similarities ended there. Vampires, though stronger than humans, were much weaker than nosferatu. And although nosferatu suffered from bloodlust, they didn’t need to feed to survive; vampires had to regularly consume living blood. Drinking it from humans threatened exposure, however, and so vampire communities required their members to find a vampire partner—or partners—to feed them.
    Where were Deacon’s partners? He wouldn’t have left them behind. Eva and Petra didn’t just share blood with him; the two vampires were his friends and lovers, as well.
    Yet they must not be with him if he’d used alcohol. Vampires weren’t affected by the drink. But after a human drank enough, she’d probably forget that a vampire had fed from her. Even if she did remember, a few drops of vampire blood would heal the bite and erase evidence of it.
    From behind her, Alejandro said, “I trust that, despite the drink, she was willing.”
    Irena clenched her teeth. Though Alejandro employed polite words and phrases, he was lying; he didn’t trust it.
    She slid her right hand behind her back, and used the Guardian’s sign language to reply. Of course she was willing. Deacon knows the Rules.
    Although vampires weren’t bound to follow the Rules as Guardians and demons were, Irena had made it clear to Deacon that if he didn’t, she would slay him. Feeding wasn’t the same as hurting or killing humans, however. Guardians would tolerate his drinking from human women if he had no other option.
    On silent feet, Alejandro came to stand beside her. Willing to invite him into her bed and to take her blood?
    Irena gave him a disbelieving look. When a woman invited a man into her body, what did it matter if, in addition to her mouth and her sex, he also tasted her blood? “You split too many hairs, Olek.”
    “You clump them all together.”
    And that, Irena thought, was the difference between them: