Forged in Fire (4 page)

Chapter Four

My reservations about this guy suddenly escalated from wary to holy-hell-I’m-being-kidnapped.

“Jude—” I focused on breathing in slow, steady breaths. “I’m hurt pretty bad. You need to take me to the hospital.”

His eyes never left the road as he hung a hard right onto Canal Street.

“I know how badly you’re injured.” His voice was eerily calm. “I’m going to take care of it myself.”

“Listen, Dr. Demon-hunter. Your philosophy degree doesn’t qualify you with the skills to stitch me up.”

“I have many skills, Genevieve.” A searing glance. “Including the ability to tend your wounds.”

Was I suddenly dizzy from blood loss or his enigmatic statement? Not sure. “Why won’t you just take me to a hospital?”

“Because the two demons who got away know you’re injured. They’ll be searching for you.”

“How would they know which hospital I went to? Let’s head to one farther out.”

“It wouldn’t matter. They’d find you.”

“How?”

His eyes slid to mine, scanning my body in a millisecond. “You’re like a beacon now, shining in the dark. They can sense you.”

Feeling faint, I let my head fall against the headrest, trying desperately to understand all this. Did this mean I would always be looking over my shoulder? That I would live in a constant state of fear?

Careening down Decatur, he barely missed a group of tourists in front of Jackson Square. I winced at the growing pain in my stomach. My vision blurred. We passed under a street sign, Ursulines, taking a sharp left onto Dauphine. He squeezed into a spot on the first block. I barely realized that we’d stopped before the passenger door opened, and I was in his arms again. Not that being in such a position hadn’t crossed my mind once or twice, but somehow I had envisioned something more romantic and less, well, bloody.

He carried me through an open brick archway into a dark alcove, stopping at a tall, wrought-iron gate. Leaning against the wall for about two seconds, he fit his key into the lock. The gate swung open and clanged shut behind us. We passed through a smallish courtyard, water gurgling somewhere. My head felt heavy, falling onto his shoulder as he opened the door to the house. The small foyer led straight up a flight of stairs into a spacious living room.

He set me down on a plush, tan sofa. A shiver ran through me as he walked with long strides down a hallway. The décor was stark but beautiful in warm colors of brown, red and gold. An old fireplace was set in the far wall, the cherry mantel in Baroque style with an elaborate roaring dragon curling along the top of the fireplace. French doors stood behind me, most certainly leading to a balcony overlooking the courtyard. I pivoted onto my side to get a better view, wincing with pain.

“Damn.” I hissed in a breath, lifting my red-soaked tank.

A six-inch slash cut through the skin and muscle from my belly button down to the top of my jeans. Jude settled beside me, placing some kind of kit on the mahogany coffee table. Adrenaline shot through me anew. Perhaps from seeing the injury or Jude’s sudden closeness, I wasn’t sure.

“Lay back. Relax.”

“Do you really know what you’re doing? I don’t want to get butchered.” My voice quavered, not as confident as my words.

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t even know you,” I protested. My stranger-danger antenna kept popping up, then lowering at random. This guy could be a killer. Hell, I knew he was. I just watched him stab Pit-bull boy to death on the street. Of course, he was apparently possessed by a demon and was trying to kill me at the time, but that didn’t mean R-and-B was truly on my side. Then again, there was that strange aura of fire. What was that all about?

“How did you know I was in danger with the demon guys?”

“It’s my job to know.”

“It’s your job to know when I’m being attacked by demons?”

“It’s my job to know when someone is in danger from demons. It’s my job to expel them.”

“So, am I the only one in this city in danger, or are you following me?”

“Genevieve, you’re currently a magnet for every kind of spawn of hell. I knew it wouldn’t take long for them to find you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He dabbed my wound clean, not meeting my eyes.

“Try to stitch it closely. I don’t want an ugly scar across my stomach.”

“Would you rather continue arguing while you bleed to death, or would you like me to close the gaping wound in your abdomen?”

I scowled, reclining back at the same time. My pride clamped my stupid mouth shut.

He pushed my tank up a little higher. I shivered, wondering if it was the injury or something else. He spread his left hand along my ribs and stomach, flattening the wound evenly. I found myself holding my breath, trying to ignore the effect of his hands on my bare skin.

“Relax.”

His deep, soft voice eased the tension from my rigid body. Ironically, a good bit of that tension came directly from his touch. After wiping the blood clean around the wound and dabbing antiseptic with a gentle hand, he took out a needle and vial, then leaned close to the cut.

“Good thing this was done with a knife.”

“As opposed to?”

“Claws. Teeth.”

“Yeah, good thing.”

What planet was I living on? Geez. He gave me one of those looks saying I had no idea what I was in for. He was right. I was in way over my head, and I wasn’t afraid to admit it at this point.

“This will sting, but I need to give you a local anesthetic to dull the pain of the stitching.”

I nodded, biting my lip and closing my eyes. I tried not to think about his hand splayed across my rib cage. The sting of the needle jarred my wayward thoughts. I didn’t cry out, squeezing my eyes shut tighter.

After a minute, the pain subsided. A numbing sensation traveled over my body from the wound. When I opened my eyes, Jude was gazing at me. My pulse launched into racing speed. Damn my crazy heart.

“What?”

The intensity of his gaze scattered every sarcastic remark from my brain. I could hardly function when he looked at me that way.

“I’m waiting for the anesthetic to take effect,” he said, still and observant.

“It’s working. You can start.” I tried to keep my words even.

The tension between us felt thick, tangible. His next move made it even worse. He unbuttoned my jeans and folded the flaps under to reveal the end of the cut more clearly. My heart decided she was done with this and just about stopped altogether. But then he leaned over and set to work like a surgeon—all focus and precision. I didn’t feel an ounce of pain. Now whether that was from the anesthetic or from the gallons of adrenaline flooding through my body, I’m not sure.

“These are dissolvable stitches. Keep the area clean, and it will heal well.”

I felt the slight tug as he tied off and snipped the ends. I wasn’t interested in stitches right now. I wanted answers.

“You murdered that guy, Pit-bull boy.”

Yeah, the guy was trying to kidnap me, but murder seemed an extreme punishment. Jude’s brow creased together as he snipped the other side close to the skin. He continued pressing and taping a thin bandage along the cut in silence for a moment.

“That is one way to see it.”

“There’s another way?”

“Of course. I expelled a demon from this world, keeping the monster from doing further harm to the human populace.”

“Human populace? Who says that?”

He glanced at me as if he didn’t understand the question.

“Okay, whatever. But you didn’t expel him like you did with that little demon at the club.”

“Lower demon, not little. There’s a difference.”

“You
killed
Pit-bull boy.”

His mouth quirked on one side as he put his surgical things back into the kit, seemingly unperturbed by the accusation.

“You have interesting nicknames for people, Genevieve Drake. I’m intrigued to know what name you might have for me.” Dark, exotic eyes focused their full attention on my face, cheeks, lips, then finally on my eyes.

Breathe in, breathe out.

“Stop changing the subject,” I snapped.

“You don’t understand.” He draped one finely muscled arm along the back of the sofa. I wasn’t cold anymore. The shivering was long gone. “Pit-bull boy, as you like to call him, was fused with the human. There was no other way to expel the demon.”

“Fused? Like permanently?”

“I have never seen a fused demon separate from its human host. The only way is to expel them both.”

“By death.”

A slow nod.

“So you mean, Fabio was just a helpless dude flipping his pretty hair, working his model day job when along came a demon, jumped in and fused to him?”

His mouth quirked up on one side. “The host must accept the demon’s presence, which requires more time than the average possession by a lower demon, but yes, that is correct.”

“So Sandy-hair, I mean that guy at the club on my birthday, he wasn’t fused.”

A shake of his head.

I chewed my lower lip. “So now Fabio is basically condemned to death. Once you get a hold of him, that is.”

“And I will,” he countered quickly.

“But that’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, Genevieve. Surely you know this by now.”

My mother. I sighed. He shifted on the sofa, breaking the silence.

“No one is purely innocent who is fused to a demon. A demon, lower or high, cannot enter any being that is not, shall we say, receptive to the dark lure. That includes a Vessel.”

He said the last with such emphasis I felt the weight of his words heavy in the air. Almost like his very breath held power, forcing me to comprehend something still out of my reach. A strange energy passed between us. Obsidian pools swirled with shards of amber, glinting impossibly with sparks of light. I couldn’t have seen that.

I was suddenly struck by the profound notion that this man was unlike any I had ever met—not because he was pinch-me gorgeous, not because he was a demon hunter or slayer or whatever, and not even because he was the product of some sexy European cross-breeding. My eyes traveled to the slope of his shoulders, remembering the aura of light stretching wide as he chanted the demon back to the netherworld. He watched me, waiting. Infinite patience, this one. Those blind birds were fluttering around in my stomach again, bouncing off every wall, making themselves stupid-dizzy.

“So, tell me,” I found myself nearly whispering. “How did you become a Dominus Daemonum? Where does one fill out this kind of job application?”

“One doesn’t.”

“So, how did you—”

He abruptly stood up and disappeared down the hall. Okay. Note to self—Jude is touchy on his demon hunter origins. I heard a cabinet open and close. A medicine bottle popped open, pills rattled, and a faucet turned on for a few seconds, then off. He returned with a glass of water, passing it to me with a small blue pill I’d never seen before.

“What’s this, Morpheus? Will this take me down the rabbit hole into reality? Because I’d totally like to wake up from this nightmare.”

He made no inclination that he got my
Matrix
reference, but pushed his pill on me again.

“Never watch sci-fi?” I asked.

“Yes, Genevieve. I’ve seen
The Matrix
. Unfortunately, this isn’t Hollywood. And reality is quite a bit less glamorous and more dangerous. Now, take this. It will stem the pain.”

“I need to get home. My roommate, Mindy, will be worried. She might call the police or something.”

He motioned for me to take the medicine again.

“Are you trying to drug me?”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes. I saved your life from demons. Twice. I drove you away from danger and took you into my home, then stitched up your bleeding wound so that I could poison you with a tiny pill.”

I giggled. “You’re kind of funny.”

“Take the pill, Genevieve,” he grumbled, though his tone had softened.

I did as I was told without further argument. For once.

Seemingly satisfied, he glanced down at his T-shirt, stained from my blood, and walked into what must be his bedroom. I could see the foot of a bed and a black dresser with nickel hardware. I sat up as he disappeared near the dresser, feeling the skin stretch tight over my stomach.

Facing away from me, he stripped off his soiled shirt. I tried not to gasp, failing miserably. Covering the entire expanse of his broad back was the scene of St. Michael the Archangel defeating the devil. Great wings aloft, spear held high, an expression of deepest calm and utter concentration fixed on the archangel’s face as he speared the serpent. Strangely, I’d seen that expression before. On him. The beauty of the artwork sucked the breath right out of me. I cannot imagine how many hours he lay under a needle, bleeding for this wondrously detailed image.

As he turned and pulled on a white T-shirt, I saw another massive tattoo of a magnificent Celtic cross encased in a vine of thorns spanning his chest and abdomen. Chiseled abdomen.
Oh my.
The horizontal design fell right below his pectorals; the vertical part of the cross divided his chest in half up to his collarbone and disappeared down into his jeans. I saw it for only a second. Long enough. I quickly lay back down, throwing an arm over my eyes to cover my reddened face. I didn’t need a mirror to know I was blushing.

I knew lots of people with random tattoos—butterflies, hearts, tigers and dragons. I knew others with carefully chosen ones—poetic verses, philosophical quotes, religious symbols. Personally, I was a blank canvas, never finding something I wanted branded on my skin for life. If I did, it would be small and inconspicuous. Jude’s ink screamed to the world—justice with a sword, the smiting of evil and faith encased in pain. Who was this guy?

I envisioned him as he was that night in Tartarus—the stunning, sexy guy across the smoky club, shrouded in mystery. The vision changed. In reality, he was far more mysterious and bewitching. No less sexy or stunning, mind you, but each discovery added another question mark to who or
what
he actually was.

My mind drifted farther. I yawned. That blue pill lulled me to a dreamy place where a black-eyed man with an aura of fire whisked me away into the night.