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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’retheGeorge, 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!”
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. “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?”
Jude chuckled. He seemed to be enjoying my childlike candor, smirking behind his glass of wine. I turned my attention back to George.
“Oh, darling, dragons don’t actually exist.”
I rolled my eyes. “Geez, you sound like someone else I know.”
Jude’s leg found mine under the table, sliding against my bare calf. I ignored him, shooing his leg away. Persistent though he was, George had my unwavering attention. He swirled his wineglass, watching the burgundy liquid as he prepared to tell his story.
“After I died in 303 AD, I—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I stopped him, leaning forward. “After you died?”
His sparkling sea-blue eyes reminded me that he was different from Jude and Kat, lacking the telltale swirling of black in the irises. He might be their commander, but he wasn’t exactly one of them.
“Yes, well, when I was martyred by order of Emperor Diocletian, I was given the opportunity by a higher power,” he said, glancing upward, “to serve here on earth. Like you, Genevieve, the whole thing came as quite a shock to me that demons and angels were, in fact, fighting battles right here among mankind. So I thought, why the bloody hell not? Given back my body, ageless now as my dear friends here”—he gestured, sweeping the table with a large hand bearing a silver signet ring on his index finger—“I became the ‘master of the Master of Demons’ as you so eloquently stated.”
“I see,” I said, taking a sip and relishing the warm burn of potent pinot noir down my throat. “That legend of you slaying the dragon takes place in the medieval period. Was any of that accurate?”
“There is always truth in legend.” He smiled. “That was quite a beast, and he did favor the appearance of a dragon, I must say.”
“A demon then?” I asked, completely riveted.
“Demon spawn of Damas, actually. That bastard sets all kinds of abominations on humanity. Pardon my profanity.”
My eyes flickered to Kat, but she appeared completely engrossed in her salad, as if she hadn’t heard a word. I knew that she had.
“Demon spawn? Yes, Jude mentioned something about that once.”
Jude merely nodded, his expression grim. At that moment, platters of char-grilled oysters and plates of filet mignon with sides of marinated portabella mushrooms and baked potatoes were set neatly before us.
George leaned to Kat’s side of the table. “You do still prefer your steak medium rare, do you not, Katherine?”
She glared at him and commenced to eating the mushrooms. I’d never seen her so aggravated. Once the waiter disappeared again, I continued the conversation.
“There are many kinds of Flamma, then,” I added. “More than demon hunters and Vessels.”
