By Meljean Brook
4 centuries in the past, younger guardians may have surrendered to t he hope burning among them-if a demon hadn't shattered any hazard in their love. Now, a determined plea for aid thrusts them jointly, at the same time surprising betrayals threaten their reunion.
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He examined the intricate hand guards, hefted the deceptive delicacy of the blades, and fought the ache building in his chest. They had perfect length and balance—had been created specifically for him. Had she made them recently, or carried them in her cache for the past four hundred years? He didn’t know which he hoped it was. “These are satisfactory,” he finally said. Deacon cleared his throat, and reached back for his short swords. ” Irena tossed him a semiautomatic pistol before swinging the door open.
She looked away, scanning the square. Their reflection in a passing vehicle window revealed that Alejandro still watched her. Always, he watched her. She didn’t know what he searched for. Even pinched by the French, Alejandro’s voice tugged over her nerves like fine kid gloves, tight and supple. ” “Well enough,” she answered simply, though Alejandro would want more than that. After a moment of silence, she gave it to him. “Forty years ago, I tracked a rogue vampire near Prague. He’d already murdered several humans.
He’d mended the break with his Gift by heating the steel and hammering it back into shape—and no one but Irena would have noticed the faint discoloration of the blade, the slightly uneven balance. Oh, he was a fool. He wished he’d brought out any blades but these—the last of the weapons they’d made together in her forge. But he hadn’t considered it; he used no other swords. “Why did you not come to me? We could have—” She caught herself with an indrawn breath. Her gaze hardened and snapped up to his.