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He said the last with such emphasis that 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 while he continued to lean over me, observing me closely. 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 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—the spell broken—and then 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 didn’t seem to get myMatrixreference and pushed his pill on me again.
“Never watch sci-fi?” I asked.
“Yes, Genevieve. I’ve seenThe Matrix. Unfortunately, this isn’t Hollywood. And the 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.”
Smiling, I noted more to myself, “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 off the living area. 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 the dresser, he stripped off his soiled shirt. I tried not to gasp and failed miserably.
Covering the entire expanse of his broad back was the scene of St. Michael the Archangel defeating the devil. Great feathery wings spread wide, a spear held high, an expression of a most profound 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 amazing ink.
As he turned and pulled on a white T-shirt, I saw another massive tattoo of an ornate 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 many 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 to be 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 he?
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 orwhathe 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.
5
