Forged in Fire (23 page)

She had no idea how right she was. I sighed with a sense of odd relief at her cryptic words.

“Right,” I agreed.

She nodded with satisfaction. Her duty done, she moved on to Mary.

My question, of course came from the ghastly thought that Danté could’ve damaged me permanently last night, opening old wounds I’d all but forgotten. Wounds that stirred fear and anger in my heart. The body and soul are separate entities, one reflecting the other. I thought of Jude. His body was beautiful to the extreme. Did it reflect his inner self? Or keep his true self hidden?

I packed up and found Kat right outside the building on a bench where I’d left her, engrossed in her romance. Her expression of deep concentration made me laugh.

“Is it a good story?”

She popped up as we headed back across campus. “It’s so thrilling,” she squeaked. She pointed to the title on the cover. “
Captain Sparr’s Captive
. I mean, there’s this pirate, Captain Sparr, you see. And Violet, that’s the girl, she’s on a voyage with the British troops to the new colonies in America when the pirates attack. And when she’s captured, oh my gosh, the captain keeps her captive and—”

“Kat! You’re blushing
so
bad.” I laughed. I’d never seen her stumble over her words.

“I can’t believe people write stuff like this!”

“Okay, Kat. You actually witnessed the sexual revolution firsthand, right?”

“Yes, but, I don’t know. There’s something about reading the words combined with your own imagination that’s so intense! Oops,” she said, pulling out her iPhone vibrating in her coat pocket. “Every hour on the hour, that man.”

“What’s our orders? Back to his house pronto?” I asked as lightly as I could.

“No. He wants us to meet him at Drago’s for dinner after your karate class,” she said with a question in her voice.

“Drago’s?”

I was taken aback, wondering why he’d want to meet there. Drago’s was a four-star restaurant in the Riverfront Hilton over on Canal Street. While Kat texted him back, I glanced down at my frumpy attire. I was definitely not dressed for the occasion. Kat snorted when her phone vibrated a response.

“Smart-ass,” she mumbled.

“What?”

“I asked him why we’re meeting there. His reply was ‘to eat’. Dinner reservations for six o’clock, and don’t be late are his orders.”

I smiled. Playful Jude was back.

“Well, I’ll have to go shower and change from the dojo. I can’t go there like this.”

“Neither can I,” she agreed, waving to her faded jeans with a trendy rip at the knee. “What time does your last karate class end?”

“Five o’clock, but I can get Erik to cover for me so we can jet a little early. He practically runs the dojo with my dad.”

“Cool. Well, let’s go kick some karate butt. Well, you can, anyway. I’ve got a date with Violet and Captain Sparr.” She winked and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

As it turned out, Erik called in sick, but thankfully, Dad took the class for me. He fell in love with my “new friend” Kat. But who wouldn’t? She put on a particular smile, the one I’d dubbed her Victorian-coquette smile, and he melted like butter. My dad was a sucker for a pretty face. With a hug and a kiss and assurances that I would be careful going out (with my demon-hunter friend), we were off.

At my apartment, I dressed in black slacks, a green silk top that billowed away from my torso, and modest heels, a weak attempt to be more invisible. Kat angled her head to the side and put me in my place.

“Gen,” she said with a sad sigh, “dressing like a secretary won’t hide who you are. You’re a Vessel. You’re stronger than you think. You’ll be stronger yet.” She put her hands on my shoulders. “Trust me. One of these days, you’ll be able to turn assholes like Danté into ash with a glance.”

I straightened. “I wish that day were now.”

“Soon.” She pushed me back toward my closet. “Now go put something on that says, ‘I’m Genevieve Drake, bitches. Deal with it.’”

I stopped in front of the mirror next to my closet, seeing self-doubt weigh me down like a heavy cloak.

There are pivotal moments in every person’s life. Take this path, and you will become this. Take that path, and you will become that. Like the day I returned to school after my mother killed herself. The mean girls of fifth grade whispered in a corner about how I’d end up crazy and suicidal just like my mother. I had two paths—retreat or stand tall. I chose the latter, thrusting my tiny fist in their faces and threatening to punch their pretty little noses crooked if they ever talked about me or my mother again. It was a pivotal moment. After that, I became less afraid because I
chose
to become less afraid. I realized that we are the choices we make, not just what the world chooses to make us. Even though I still had to face the Brenda Blakelys of the world, I always rallied myself and remembered who I was.

This was one of those pivotal moments, and I knew it. Does Danté win and rule me with fear and hatred? Or do I keep myself whole? I stared in the mirror at the timid blue-eyed girl, not recognizing her. I inhaled sharply and lifted my chin a tad higher.

“Right.”

I pulled out the black dress I’d bought on a sale at Saks, but had never worn. It fit elegantly against my body to the knee, but not tight. Classy. The ruching at the waist and scooping perfectly across the breasts revealed my womanly shape. With semi-high heels, I felt…pretty. Confident. I left my hair down with a quick, natural application of makeup and stepped back into the living room where Kat waited.

“Much better,” she said with a wink.

We then ran by Kat’s hotel in the Quarter. Three outfits later, she wore a tight red dress revealing a hell of a lot more than mine.

At five fifty-six, Kat careened up to the valet of the twenty-nine-story Hilton overlooking the Mississippi River.

“I would’ve sifted us here, Gen, but it’s best not to do so in public places. Freaks people out when they see someone appear out of thin air.”

“I’m sure it does,” I agreed with a smile, getting out of the car. “We made it. Don’t worry. Why are you worrying? You’re so fidgety,” I said as we were swallowed by the giant, glass rotating doors.

“No reason,” she replied, swinging her sleek ponytail behind her.

We walked past the front desk in the lobby toward the restaurant entrance.

“We have a table under Jude Delacroix,” I told the smiling hostess in a pencil skirt with a mousy face.

“Oh yes. They are waiting for you.”

Her nose scrunched up as she scanned us, then she swished toward the quiet din of clinking glass and murmuring voices. I shot Kat a look as we followed.

“They? Who else would be with him?”

Kat’s shoulders straightened and stiffened. Her green-black eyes narrowed into slits.

“I’m going to kill Jude,” she muttered.

“What? Why?”

The hostess led us past the open-air kitchen, where fire licked through grill grates around thick steaks and oysters on the half shell. I could feel the heat radiating more from Kat than the kitchen as we zigzagged to the far back corner.

“I
knew
it. Damn it,” she grumbled.

Jude sat facing out with his back to the corner, definitely a defensive move. Next to him sat a breathtakingly handsome man he engaged in conversation. Chestnut hair glinted reddish-gold in the candlelight. He had a fine physique nearly matching the height and breadth of Jude’s, and a beguiling, dimpled smile. Both men stood as we approached. The stranger gazed at us from striking, aquamarine eyes, hinting at secrets untold. He wore a crisply starched shirt the same shade as his eyes, creating a dazzling effect. He seemed to know how to dress and hold himself to the best advantage. He appeared to be in his late thirties, but I knew better. My VS had amplified, pulsing brightly the moment we stepped into the restaurant. Appearances were often deceiving as of late. I forced through the Flamma barrier of protection, seeing the distinct hilt of a sword strapped to Jude’s back. Always prepared.

The hostess nearly wilted as we drew nearer the two men. Jude, dressed all in black from head to toe, the top of his Celtic tattoo revealed in the open triangle of his shirt, didn’t seem to notice. His smoldering gaze passed above her head and straight to me. I felt my knees wobble as we finally made it to the table.

“Good evening, ladies.” The stranger greeted us with the most charming British accent, very 007-ish with a mischievous grin.

“What are you doing here?” Kat asked nastily.

“My dear Katherine. So delightful to see you. And aren’t you absolutely stunning,” he crooned, pulling out a chair for her.

She glared at him, getting ready to spit fire or something. A rather attractive shade of pink began crawling up her neck to her cheeks. Jude came around to pull my chair out, rested his hand under my elbow and leaned down to my ear.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I replied quietly.

He leaned even closer, his fingers sliding up my arm to rest on my shoulder, his voice husky with emotion. “Genevieve Drake, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.”

His lips brushed the shell of my ear. Intentionally or accidentally, it didn’t matter. The effect was the same. Coupled with the sensation of his hands and lips brushing my bare skin, his words made my knees buckle. I was more than thankful to have the seat beneath me. I tried my best to smile demurely as if he didn’t affect me the way he did, but the smug sparkle in his eyes told the truth. He knew exactly what he did to me. Dangerous man.

“Genevieve,” he addressed me louder, “may I introduce George Draconis.”

I nodded.

“You are Flamma,” I stated matter-of-factly. “A Dominus Daemonum.”

“Yes and no, my dear lady,” he said with a wink.

“George is our commander,” clarified Jude. “Our leader.”

“Oh!” I was a suddenly surprised that Kat had been so rude to her own boss. Surely there was something I didn’t know. “So you’re the master of the Master of Demons.”

“At your service.” He bowed as regally as possible over the dining table. “Clever girl, Jude.”

“More than you know,” he added as the waiter arrived.

Our waiter opened a bottle of pinot noir and poured us each a glass. Definitely not the wine connoisseur, I could still recognize this wasn’t the cheap stuff.

“We took the liberty of ordering for you ladies,” offered George.

“Of course you did,” Kat snapped.

“I hope you don’t mind, dear Katherine.”

She took a very unladylike gulp of wine. I quirked my eyebrows at Jude, wondering what I was missing, but he simply smiled boyishly over the rim of his wineglass.

“So, is Draconis a Greek name? Is that where you’re from?” I asked.

“Ah, well, not quite, Genevieve. I chose the name myself, as I was born without a surname.”

Old like Jude, this one.

“And when might that have been?”

“Two hundred seventy anno domini.”

I almost choked. Yes, Jude was born not that much longer after him, but the truth struck me like a slap in the face every time. These two men were both centuries older than me, making Kat a blooming daisy in spring with her two hundred years of time on earth. Hell, with that metaphor, I’d be a seed on the wind or pollen in the air, not even in soil yet.

Our waiter served our salads, so I sipped my water, recovering while the young server offered fresh cracked pepper. We waited in silence till he was gone.

“So, why Draconis?” I asked. “Do you have a thing for dragons?”

George chuckled in a most charming way. Kat squirmed next to me, and Jude watched from the sidelines as if this were an entertaining tennis match.

“Well, I don’t have a thing for them, so to speak, but I do want to bury each one of them in the darkest abyss imaginable.”

“Oh. Of course,” I said, sipping my wine as I realized dragon was meant simply as a symbol for demons.

“You’re actually already quite acquainted with George,” said Jude with one of his enigmatic smiles that made my insides puddle into goo.

“Uh, no, I don’t think I am.”

Jude’s eyes dropped to my neckline, where the medal my mother had given me normally hung around my neck. Instinctively, my fingers went there, but I hadn’t worn it tonight as it didn’t go with the dress. When my brain processed what he was implying, my jaw dropped open. Jude smiled wider.

“Wait a minute. George Draconis, George the Dragon. You’re…don’t tell me you’re…you’re
the
George, as in—” My voice squeaked as I stammered like an idiot.

“Well, George the Dragon Slayer was a bit of a mouthful, so I shortened it for convenience.”

“You’re Saint George? You’re freaking Saint George!”

I’m sure my eyes were as wide as saucers as I tried to internalize this rather startling news. Kat nonchalantly poured herself another glass of wine and started chugging. George laughed heartily at my fumbling realization.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call myself a saint. Not in the strictest definition, that is.”

“You can say that again,” mumbled Kat next to me, tearing into a piece of bread. He ignored her little quips. Actually, he smiled broader each time Kat made a comment.

“But, you are a saint. I’ve been praying for your intercession and protection for years.”

“And you were heard,” he said, tipping his glass up to me in salute, his eyes sliding sideways to Jude so fast he probably thought I didn’t catch it. But I did.

“Wow,” I said, falling against the back of my chair. I could hardly believe I was sitting in a Riverfront restaurant, drinking wine with a bona fide saint—the very saint my mother had sworn would protect me. I don’t know why I was so surprised after all I’d seen lately. He certainly didn’t appear like I imagined a saint would. More like a dashing movie star out on the prowl. My curiosity compelled me out of a starstruck stupor. “So, how did you become the leader of the demon hunters? And did you really kill a dragon then?”

Jude chuckled. He seemed to be enjoying my childlike candor, smirking behind his glass of wine. I turned my attention back to George.

“Oh, my dear, dragons don’t actually exist.”