Demon Forged Read Free

see the metal. So much metal.
    Yes, she liked what had risen—and who had risen. Whether they lived here or were tourists fascinated by the past, humans experienced the same emotions they always had, but they governed those emotions differently. There were still too few with too much power, but despite the corruption at its foundation, the civilization that humanity had built was impressive.
    Impressive, but not perfect. There were always exceptions, large and small.
    On the sidewalk ahead of her, beside the entrance to a wine bar, a small exception slouched at a wrought iron table. His jacket and shirt were unbuttoned despite the crisp autumn evening, and a medallion winked from a bed of dark hair. Empty wine bottles stood next to an overflowing ashtray.
    His bleary eyes sharpened as they fixed on Irena. “Mi sento come un buon pompino. Quanto, puttana?”
    How much? She studied his face as she drew nearer, and dug into his emotions—arrogance, overblown machismo, a need to humiliate, a sharp loneliness—but she was unable to summon either pity or disgust.
    And she felt no surprise at his suggestion. No matter the century, there were always men like this. Men who would see the brief top she wore, the cling of the soft suede from her hips to her upper thighs beneath the belt and straps of her leather stockings, the face that had aroused a Roman senator before she’d reached her ninth summer and assume rights they didn’t have.
    At least this one offered to pay—and she’d known too many whores to be insulted when mistaken for one. She dismissed him, and her gaze moved on. Ahead, a fenced monument marked the Piazza Fiume.
    The human’s derisive command returned her attention to him.
    “Venite a succhiare il mio cazzo.” He cupped his crotch, jiggling his hand as if Irena were a horse and his balls a bag of oats. His mouth slid into a leer. “E si inghiottire troppo.”
    At that, Irena smiled. She would swallow—but only if she bit off a chunk first.
    She didn’t need to tell him so; her expression served as a reply. He dropped his gaze to his table.
    Cowed, but not quieted. Even if she hadn’t heard the word he muttered as she reached him, its shape was unmistakable on his lips. “Stronza.”
    Bitch.
    Irena’s breath hissed from between her teeth in a thin stream. This one, he did not know when to quit. She halted in front of him and bent over to grip the arms of his chair. Her smile was still vicious, but he didn’t glance at her face. Unease slithered through his psychic scent as he took in the winding blue serpents tattooed from her wrists to her shoulders.
    “You are a handsome man,” she told him, and didn’t attempt to suppress the accent that chopped at her Italian, “but you use your tongue in the wrong way.” Irena crooked her index finger beneath his necklace. Gold. Such a worthless metal. Far too soft, even when blended with stronger materials. Irena favored steel, iron, or platinum. She tugged lightly on the chain. “Stand, and I will show you what your mouth is good for.”
    Like a dog, he obeyed. Her fingers drifted down over his chest as he rose from his seat, and she shape-shifted subtly, increasing her height so that his tobacco-scented breath gusted heavily over her lips. His breathing stopped when she reached the waistband of his tight jeans, and she paused to test his emotions. Fear trembled in him, but also lust.
    And this one had no resistance to lust. Even as his flesh hardened beneath her hand, his arousal left him as malleable as gold. Left him easily manipulated. Demons loved humans such as these.
    Irena did not. She dragged her fingertip up his brass zipper, and her Gift melded the teeth together.
    The human wouldn’t sense the psychic touch. If Deacon had already reached their meeting spot, however, he would know she was near.
    And if she’d revealed herself to any other creatures who might be in Rome, she looked forward to meeting them. Killing them.
    Excitement fermented