formed a long coat and turned up his collar as he stepped out onto the street. The cold didn’t affect him, but he didn’t like the rain on the back of his neck any more than when he’d been human.
At this hour, the streets were mostly empty, and the night quiet. Alejandro walked, and tried to occupy his mind with anything but Irena, and the way he’d left her earlier. He’d even have welcomed Jake’s endless—and entertaining—chatter, but the young Guardian no longer trained with him daily. Alejandro hadn’t yet taken on another student.
The urge for sex drove hard through him, as it always did after a fight with Irena. He had no one to go to, however. And even if Emilia had still lived in his house, he wouldn’t use her as a substitute.
God, what a laughable idea.
There wasn’t a substitute for Irena. No woman could be. Every one of his companions had been friends with him first. He hadn’t often fought with them, and he didn’t provoke them. Until the inevitable end, his relationships were comfortable.
Even when he and Irena hadn’t fought, life with her hadn’t been comfortable.
The street opened into a square. From a pedestal, a bronze statue overlooked a fenced garden. The male figure strode purposefully to nowhere, a sober expression fixed to his dark face. Alejandro drew closer, but he no longer saw this statue.
And, yes—life with Irena had been torture, sometimes.
He’d stood for nearly an hour in the forge, his clothes vanished. Irena could have recreated his form within seconds, but she took her time with the statue. Long enough that Alejandro’s initial arousal, the half-hardness of knowing that she looked at him so intimately, had faded. Long enough that his focus had expanded from her and he’d begun to enjoy the quiet, the soft heat trapped by the thick wooden walls of the lodge, the pattering of rain on the metal roof. And so at ease that an ember popping in the hearth startled him; he cocked his head, to hear better.
Irena’s soft growl came from in front of the statue. “Do not move your head if you wish to keep it.”
“Perdóneme, maestra.” He gave a mock bow and regained the pose she’d instructed him to take: standing, his weight on his left foot, his arms hanging at his sides. They felt useless there; his hands were meant to hold a sword. But she’d wanted to sculpt a man at rest.
It seemed a lie. He was at rest, but no semblance of life existed in this pose, or in the statue she created.
She looked around the statue’s shoulder, the firelight glinting off her braids. The color of the flames was not half as deep or as varied as the oranges and reds of her hair. “Do you tire of waiting?”
Was that what this exercise was about—his patience? “Sí.”
He tired of waiting, but only for her to be satisfied with his training. He didn’t tire of standing here, with Irena’s gaze running over him, her Gift pouring from her hands.
Laughter rippled through her psychic scent, like a smooth pebble tumbling down a mountain stream. But her voice was even as she replied,
“But that is what a Guardian does: wait. Endless hours, until you finally detect a demon, finally track down a nosferatu. And a few brutal moments later, you will either be victorious or you will be dead.”
He watched her fingers sweep down the arm of the bronze figure. “I will be victorious.”
“You cannot even defeat me yet.”
A flush started up his neck. It was true. In the two weeks since their meeting in Caelum, he had disarmed her, had bloodied her, had ambushed her—but she’d always recovered and prevailed.
Her brows crashed together, and her fury surprised him out of his embarrassment. Despite her anger, her words were as flat and barren as the tundra outside the forge.
“There is no shame in being overpowered by one who is stronger or more skilled. No shame in a battle well fought, even if it ends in defeat.”
Her lips compressed, and she moved back in front of the
At this hour, the streets were mostly empty, and the night quiet. Alejandro walked, and tried to occupy his mind with anything but Irena, and the way he’d left her earlier. He’d even have welcomed Jake’s endless—and entertaining—chatter, but the young Guardian no longer trained with him daily. Alejandro hadn’t yet taken on another student.
The urge for sex drove hard through him, as it always did after a fight with Irena. He had no one to go to, however. And even if Emilia had still lived in his house, he wouldn’t use her as a substitute.
God, what a laughable idea.
There wasn’t a substitute for Irena. No woman could be. Every one of his companions had been friends with him first. He hadn’t often fought with them, and he didn’t provoke them. Until the inevitable end, his relationships were comfortable.
Even when he and Irena hadn’t fought, life with her hadn’t been comfortable.
The street opened into a square. From a pedestal, a bronze statue overlooked a fenced garden. The male figure strode purposefully to nowhere, a sober expression fixed to his dark face. Alejandro drew closer, but he no longer saw this statue.
And, yes—life with Irena had been torture, sometimes.
He’d stood for nearly an hour in the forge, his clothes vanished. Irena could have recreated his form within seconds, but she took her time with the statue. Long enough that Alejandro’s initial arousal, the half-hardness of knowing that she looked at him so intimately, had faded. Long enough that his focus had expanded from her and he’d begun to enjoy the quiet, the soft heat trapped by the thick wooden walls of the lodge, the pattering of rain on the metal roof. And so at ease that an ember popping in the hearth startled him; he cocked his head, to hear better.
Irena’s soft growl came from in front of the statue. “Do not move your head if you wish to keep it.”
“Perdóneme, maestra.” He gave a mock bow and regained the pose she’d instructed him to take: standing, his weight on his left foot, his arms hanging at his sides. They felt useless there; his hands were meant to hold a sword. But she’d wanted to sculpt a man at rest.
It seemed a lie. He was at rest, but no semblance of life existed in this pose, or in the statue she created.
She looked around the statue’s shoulder, the firelight glinting off her braids. The color of the flames was not half as deep or as varied as the oranges and reds of her hair. “Do you tire of waiting?”
Was that what this exercise was about—his patience? “Sí.”
He tired of waiting, but only for her to be satisfied with his training. He didn’t tire of standing here, with Irena’s gaze running over him, her Gift pouring from her hands.
Laughter rippled through her psychic scent, like a smooth pebble tumbling down a mountain stream. But her voice was even as she replied,
“But that is what a Guardian does: wait. Endless hours, until you finally detect a demon, finally track down a nosferatu. And a few brutal moments later, you will either be victorious or you will be dead.”
He watched her fingers sweep down the arm of the bronze figure. “I will be victorious.”
“You cannot even defeat me yet.”
A flush started up his neck. It was true. In the two weeks since their meeting in Caelum, he had disarmed her, had bloodied her, had ambushed her—but she’d always recovered and prevailed.
Her brows crashed together, and her fury surprised him out of his embarrassment. Despite her anger, her words were as flat and barren as the tundra outside the forge.
“There is no shame in being overpowered by one who is stronger or more skilled. No shame in a battle well fought, even if it ends in defeat.”
Her lips compressed, and she moved back in front of the