his community; mercy might win his successor more support than ruthlessness could.
“He claimed he didn’t want to kill me. Only to take over—and he didn’t need to finish me off to do that.” Deacon looked to Irena, bitterness in his psychic scent. “Let’s just say that yours wasn’t the first hit I’ve taken in the last month. And that this healing was nothing in comparison.”
Irena met Alejandro’s gaze and saw the same question that she knew was in hers. In the past two years, since the Gates to Hell had been closed, several demons had tried to pass as vampires. If a demon insinuated himself into a community and assumed leadership, he could force the vampires to kill humans or deny their free will. As long as the vampires carried out his orders, the demon didn’t break the Rules.
“He hit you?” Irena asked Deacon. “With his hands?”
“You know any other ways to hit?”
“Yes. Were his fists cold?” A demon’s skin was hot.
A demon’s skin—and, at times, Alejandro’s.
“As cold as mine.” Deacon flexed his jaw and released his tooth. “So, I came to Rome because there aren’t any of us here. If I’d gone to another community, the heads there would be looking to kill me, sure I’d be gunning for their spot.”
That was probably true, but Irena suspected that he avoided other vampires chiefly out of pride. Vampires throughout Europe respected Deacon; those who didn’t feared him enough that he’d rarely been challenged. His defeat would have destroyed the reputation he’d spent decades building.
“Why aren’t Eva and Petra with you?”
Another snarl twisted his mouth. “I was beaten in front of them, Irena. Beaten to a fucking pulp. Would you have come with me?”
She’d have thought Eva and Petra would. She didn’t like being wrong. “You should have come to me.”
“To your forge, out in the middle of Siberia? Who would I feed from? Would you make me your whore and pay me in blood?”
Irena sucked in a breath, clenched her hands. Violence came easily to her; it always had. But although she might hit her friends out of fear or worry, never would she do so in anger. She backed away.
Alejandro stepped in, patrician disdain stiffening his tone and posture. “I presume you did not contact Irena over a community squabble.”
Deacon looked past him to Irena, but the flicker of regret in his psychic scent didn’t soothe her temper. “No. I called her because there’s a nosferatu setting up house beneath a church.” He smiled with brittle humor. “And if I can’t take down one of the nosferatu-born, I’m sure as hell not going to try slaying one of their daddies.”
Irena set a rapid pace through Rome’s streets, leaving Alejandro and Deacon to walk in silence behind her. It was not just fury that quickened her stride, Alejandro knew—she was anticipating the hunt. Alejandro looked forward to it, as well; slaying a nosferatu would repair her mood . . . and by doing so, repair his.
Irena’s temper always ignited his own. And even if he hadn’t been the one to infuriate her, inevitably they turned on each other.
Alejandro was not proud of the man he became in response to her anger.
Yet they were friends—or so they told anyone who asked. Alejandro didn’t think anyone who spent more than a few minutes with them believed it.
Deacon hadn’t yet caught on. If he had, Alejandro doubted the vampire would look to him as an ally.
Beside him, Deacon asked, “You’ve been friends with Irena awhile, then?”
For an eternity, it seemed. “I have.”
“You know her well?”
Alejandro’s gaze caressed the bare skin from her shoulders to the wide leather belt circling her hips. Her figure was sturdy, but she wasn’t tall—her head didn’t reach his shoulder. Her imposing personality took up more space than she did, giving the impression of a much larger woman.
Yes, Alejandro knew her. Long enough to memorize every inch he would never touch.
“I do,” he
“He claimed he didn’t want to kill me. Only to take over—and he didn’t need to finish me off to do that.” Deacon looked to Irena, bitterness in his psychic scent. “Let’s just say that yours wasn’t the first hit I’ve taken in the last month. And that this healing was nothing in comparison.”
Irena met Alejandro’s gaze and saw the same question that she knew was in hers. In the past two years, since the Gates to Hell had been closed, several demons had tried to pass as vampires. If a demon insinuated himself into a community and assumed leadership, he could force the vampires to kill humans or deny their free will. As long as the vampires carried out his orders, the demon didn’t break the Rules.
“He hit you?” Irena asked Deacon. “With his hands?”
“You know any other ways to hit?”
“Yes. Were his fists cold?” A demon’s skin was hot.
A demon’s skin—and, at times, Alejandro’s.
“As cold as mine.” Deacon flexed his jaw and released his tooth. “So, I came to Rome because there aren’t any of us here. If I’d gone to another community, the heads there would be looking to kill me, sure I’d be gunning for their spot.”
That was probably true, but Irena suspected that he avoided other vampires chiefly out of pride. Vampires throughout Europe respected Deacon; those who didn’t feared him enough that he’d rarely been challenged. His defeat would have destroyed the reputation he’d spent decades building.
“Why aren’t Eva and Petra with you?”
Another snarl twisted his mouth. “I was beaten in front of them, Irena. Beaten to a fucking pulp. Would you have come with me?”
She’d have thought Eva and Petra would. She didn’t like being wrong. “You should have come to me.”
“To your forge, out in the middle of Siberia? Who would I feed from? Would you make me your whore and pay me in blood?”
Irena sucked in a breath, clenched her hands. Violence came easily to her; it always had. But although she might hit her friends out of fear or worry, never would she do so in anger. She backed away.
Alejandro stepped in, patrician disdain stiffening his tone and posture. “I presume you did not contact Irena over a community squabble.”
Deacon looked past him to Irena, but the flicker of regret in his psychic scent didn’t soothe her temper. “No. I called her because there’s a nosferatu setting up house beneath a church.” He smiled with brittle humor. “And if I can’t take down one of the nosferatu-born, I’m sure as hell not going to try slaying one of their daddies.”
Irena set a rapid pace through Rome’s streets, leaving Alejandro and Deacon to walk in silence behind her. It was not just fury that quickened her stride, Alejandro knew—she was anticipating the hunt. Alejandro looked forward to it, as well; slaying a nosferatu would repair her mood . . . and by doing so, repair his.
Irena’s temper always ignited his own. And even if he hadn’t been the one to infuriate her, inevitably they turned on each other.
Alejandro was not proud of the man he became in response to her anger.
Yet they were friends—or so they told anyone who asked. Alejandro didn’t think anyone who spent more than a few minutes with them believed it.
Deacon hadn’t yet caught on. If he had, Alejandro doubted the vampire would look to him as an ally.
Beside him, Deacon asked, “You’ve been friends with Irena awhile, then?”
For an eternity, it seemed. “I have.”
“You know her well?”
Alejandro’s gaze caressed the bare skin from her shoulders to the wide leather belt circling her hips. Her figure was sturdy, but she wasn’t tall—her head didn’t reach his shoulder. Her imposing personality took up more space than she did, giving the impression of a much larger woman.
Yes, Alejandro knew her. Long enough to memorize every inch he would never touch.
“I do,” he
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