Chapter 5

"Mother?"

I was having a dream—a nightmare. Warning bells rang loud and clear even in my unconscious, sleep-induced state.

I stood in her studio, watching her paint white walls in hues of red. I called out. She wouldn't answer, wouldn't even acknowledge my presence. Her blonde hair fell long around slim shoulders, shrouding her face, as she streaked the room in scarlet shapes—winged angels falling from the sky, mouths gaping and twisted in horror as they fell into a blood-red abyss. Somewhere, staccato, operatic voices chanted in Latin, urging her onward. I called her name again. She swiveled. Soulless eyes widened, the color of her dripping brush, staring from a ghostly pale face. Her mouth opened to speak or scream; I wasn't sure.

I awoke in the dark, bolting upright. A cold sweat dampened my scalp and neck. I nearly choked on my own fear. Pain rippled across my stomach, where my stitched wound throbbed.

"Ow!"

I sucked in a breath and pushed a fleece blanket off me, vaguely wondering when Jude had put it there. What time was it? Glancing down, I realized I was barefoot and wearing an oversized gray T-shirt that was definitely not mine. I panicked for a moment, wondering how the hell I'd slept through that. Some blue pill. I calmed when I realized I was still in my bra and jeans. Okay. Not too mortifying, I suppose.

The vision of my mother had faded, yet the music still played in my head. No. It was coming from down the hall.

Jude's bedroom door stood open. A desk lamp revealed an empty room, a made bed. I followed the operatic music, quickly recognizing Carmina Burana. I didn't know the music from my mother, however. Professor Minga had made us translate the Latin lyrics as a class project last quarter. Songs about wine, women, and lascivious behavior, ironically composed by a randy gang of defrocked monks in the 12th century. My classmate Mary and I had laughed, imagining "monks gone wild" with their brown robes and tonsured heads.

I padded farther down the hall, edging closer to the source, realizing his home was much bigger than it appeared from the outside. I passed several closed doors. A sliver of light peeked from a crack in the last one on the left. I tiptoed closer, pushing the door open as the final and most famous song of the piece blared from within. I translated as the words streamed in dramatic Latin verse.

O Fortune, like the moon, you are changeable.

The door creaked ajar, revealing Jude wearing nothing but a pair of loose-fitting, black workout pants. He swiveled and spun across the wood floor, swinging two great broadswords in fluid movements. It was a long empty room with no furniture but an iPhone docking station and tiny, powerful Bose speakers in each corner. The back wall was windowless with brick facing, typical of older homes in the Quarter, but I barely registered any of this since my eyes were glued to the dark god moving across the floor with his eyes closed.

He seemed to be working through a memorized routine, almost dancing, with sharpened steel in each hand. As he moved, sinewy muscles rippled, accentuating the contoured lines of his body and dynamic works of art covering his skin. A faint golden glow shimmered along his limbs, shoulders, and back. Raw energy pulsed in the room. All the while, a choir chanted the Latin song about fate.

Fate, monstrous and empty…

He swung his left arm low, slicing through an invisible enemy, shifting right to swing at another. The heavy weapons appeared like something out of Gladiator. I'd watched that movie a thousand times with my dad, mesmerized by Russell Crowe's epic sword-fighting skills. No offense, but Crowe had nothing on this man.

The size and bulk of the weapons should weigh a man down with dull, heavy strokes. Not Jude. The Latin chorus steadily grew louder, leading him into a rhythmic dance of sweat and steel. Always in control, he'd never shown an ounce of emotion on his face until this moment. The pain etched into his brow as he fought an unseen rival broke my heart and fascinated me at the same time.

You are malevolent, well-being is vain and always fades to nothing.

As the music built to a climactic frenzy, words of despair screamed in perfect harmony. I trembled at the sight of him, as if he was in the midst of a great battle, doomed to fail.

Since Fate strikes down the strong man…

Then it happened. My senses sharpened on every level—sound shattered my eardrums, heat burned my skin, sweat and fear coated my tongue, and the sight of him whirling like a warrior in agony slapped me into another time and place altogether.

The room shimmered. For a split second, I saw Jude, thinner, perhaps younger, bare-chested with no tattoos and much longer hair, braids at the temples. Clad in some kind of natural-leather pants and covered in blue war paint, he wielded a single sword, surrounded by thatched-roof houses engulfed in flame.

The fire roared into the night, mingled with the screams of women and children. Grim-faced, Jude clanged metal against metal. His weapon bore down upon the head of a beautiful, fair-haired man dressed in a Roman tunic. His enemy grinned back at him with malice. The overpowering feeling of hatred mingled with fury stemming from Jude filled my veins as if I were there battling the sneering foe, not him.

I sucked in a loud, gasping breath, like coming up for air after being submerged too long underwater. The vision came and went in a blink, tearing through me like opening a wound. I trembled from the strange, almost painful sensation of being thrust into the horrific memory of the man standing before me.

I knew without a fraction of a doubt that this was part of being a Vessel. Whatever vision I'd conjured, the power came from within me. I quivered in my bare feet from the aftershock, rage—not mine—still coursing through my frame as I stood in the doorway.

Jude faced me, frozen, eyes wide open, betrayal flitting across his face. He held the swords low in each white-knuckled fist. The music crashed to a halt at the end of the song.

Silence.

His chest rose and fell rapidly. He glared at me with that obsidian gaze before finally snapping out of his trance.

Walking to the wall at my right, he popped open a cabinet. Inside, a case for swords in various lengths, widths, and designs was stacked in sheaths from top to bottom. Breathing heavily, he used a towel to wipe the first blade before placing it home.

I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the vision and by Jude's current state, glistening skin and all. I struggled to regain composure, still shaking with the lingering taste of rage, his rage, sharpening my senses. Still, I couldn't help but notice his ink—harsh and beautiful, delicate and jagged, soft curves with razor tips. Just like him, a paradox of beauty and predator. Alluring and lethal at the same time.

"What did you see?"

I flinched. How did he know? "What do you mean?"

"Don't be coy, Genevieve," he grounded out low and deep, his back to me as he wiped down the second sword and put it away. "It's written all over your face."

Swallowing hard, I couldn't tear my eyes away from his back and the perfect way his shoulder blades gave way to strong lines rippling with each movement, sinewy muscle disappearing into the waistband of his pants.

He toweled off then slipped a black T-shirt on. "I can sense the change. You're becoming aware."

"What do you mean by ‘becoming aware'?"

"You're beginning to see past the alucinatio."

I frowned. "Past the ‘illusion'?"

He nodded.

"Do you mean like glamour? Like vampires?"

"There's no such thing as vampires."

"Oh, sorry, I forgot. Those monsters are mythical. Right."

He walked over to his iPod station, ignoring my sarcasm.

"So who exactly can use alucinatio to hide their true selves?"

"Not hide, but mask. Any of the Flamma."

"Wait. That means fire or flame."

"Yes, this is the name given to those who are, shall we say, touched by fire."

"Now I'm even more confused. Who are these Flamma exactly?"

"Any intelligent, sentient being other than human."

"That doesn't really answer my question. I'm even more confused."

"I'll answer almost any question you have, Genevieve. Be specific."

I didn't miss the slip of the word almost in there, but I was on a mission. "Define Flamma. Touched with fire by whom? God, the devil, angels, demons?"

Black eyes measured me carefully. "All of the above."

Again, I found myself wavering between fantasy and reality, wondering how the hell all this was happening to me.

Jude had unplugged his iPhone, turned off the machine, and walked closer.

"So tell me, what did you see?"

I closed my eyes, struggling with the truth. "I saw you."

"And what was I doing?"

"You were fighting someone, but you were younger than you are now."

I kept my expression as blank as I could, not wanting him to know what I really saw, what I felt coursing through me. Bitterness, rage, and utter despair. Was that who he truly was?

He stepped even closer. I hated when he did this, inching inside my comfort zone, scattering my brain cells to never-never land. To make matters worse, a sweaty Jude was a hotter Jude—literally and in every other way. His molten gaze flickered over my face, down my body then back up.

His voice was soft and deep when he asked, "And what did you feel in that moment of Sight?"

"Everything."

My heart pounded harder. Poor little thing never could keep up with my erratic emotions.

"Define everything."

He held my gaze, throwing my own sassy remarks back at me. I stared back, trying to appear like an open book, while turmoil swirled inside.

"I felt heat. I felt as if the music were beating inside my chest, almost to bursting. I saw you. I heard metal on metal. I felt…everything. But it's gone now."

He stared a moment longer. Finally, his rigid shoulders slackened ever so slightly.

"Yes. You're becoming aware. It may happen more often than you like from here on out. When you're fully awakened, you will be able to see the Flamma no matter if they try to hide behind illusion or not. You'll even be able to foresee them, perhaps, depending on your gift with the Sight."

Foresee them. Like psychic?

"I don't mean to sound dense, but what does heightened sense have to do with being a Vessel? What good does that do?"

"A Vessel needs her own weapons against the enemy. And she has many. Your heightened senses are a warning that you are near one or more of the Flamma. Ninety percent of the time, that will be a demon."

"But you're not a demon."

His eyes sharpened, sending a cold shiver up my spine.

"When you feel your senses heightening," he continued, ignoring my comment, "observe who is around you and what they are doing. You'll feel all your senses, all six."

"Six?" Was he kidding me? "Um, I know I didn't do very well in biology, but as far as I know, there are five senses."

"There are six."

"Of course there are."

In true Jude fashion, he ignored my attitude and barreled ahead. All business.

"The sixth encompasses intuition, which comes in many forms—sensing their signature, or you may have a vision, what we call the Sight."

"What's a signature?"

"All Flamma have a distinct signature that you can either feel, see, sometimes even taste or smell."

"What's your signature?"

His granite features didn't crack. "If you don't know yet, you will." Electricity prickled in the air. I remembered the aura of flame, the constant heat rippling off him, wondering if I'd already felt his signature but hadn't recognized it.

I was completely overwhelmed—visions, becoming aware, signatures, Sight, Flamma, more crazy Latin terms. He was withholding all kinds of information I needed.

"So why didn't you tell me any of this about being a Vessel before?"

"And when would that have been? In the dark alley where I first met you? On campus, in front of a dozen coeds, after you refused to go somewhere private to discuss these events?" His voice remained eerily steady, so calm, yet the flash in his dark eyes made me want to retreat. Fast. He stepped even closer. Of course. "Or when the last three demons were trying to assault you? Or perhaps when I was stitching up your injury? How is it, by the way?"

I scowled back at him. "Fine," I snapped, realizing I sounded like a petulant child.

Silence again. There seemed to be many of these moments between Jude and me, where we said nothing but the quiet was heavy, weighted.

I had an English teacher once who called this a pregnant pause, a stillness filled with thoughts growing rapidly that would at some point give birth. I wondered when that time would come between Jude and me, when we'd stop withholding information and spill it all.

His phone buzzed with an incoming call. He answered it, eyes lingering on me.

"Yes."

Pause.

"Good."

Longer pause.

"This evening. I'll meet you there."

He slipped his phone back into his pocket without any sort of explanation. Not that he was obliged to tell me anything anyway, but I really wanted to know who would be calling him at whatever ungodly hour this was. What kind of friends did a demon hunter have?

"It's time to get you home. I'll escort you to ensure you arrive safely."

"How will you get home if you drive me home?"

"There are other modes of transportation."

"Modes of transportation? Who talks like that?"

He made no reply, walking toward me. Knowing he was about to squeeze into my personal space as he liked to do, I ambled back down the hall to get my things.

"Your phone is still on the coffee table. I sent your roommate a message. She texted you thirty-eight times to find out where you were, threatening to call your father."

"Oh no! Mindy!"

He was right. She had texted me exactly thirty-eight times. Her messages were repetitious: Where R U? Who R U with? Why aren't U texting me back? I need more Easy Mac. David isn't coming over till later. Why won't U answer me? Is your phone dead? If your phone's dead then U can't get this message. OK, you've never not answered me. WHERE R U? OK, if U don't answer me, I'm calling the police. No, I'm calling your dad, which is worse and U know it!

Her string of messages finally ended. Then a brief reply from my phone: I am okay. Do not call my dad. I am in good hands and will explain to you when I arrive home in the morning.

This was a bit stiff coming from me, but she must've bought it. The message after read: In the morning? Are U sleeping at a guy's house? OMG! Are U at Malcolm's? No, U wouldn't be with Malcolm, not like that. Did U run into that hot guy from Tartarus? The one U told me about? Details! I want DETAILS! David's here now. See U in the a.m.

I literally felt the blood drain away from my face as I read this last text. Please tell me Jude did not read her response. I wanted to crawl under a very large rock in a very deep hole in a very dark cave and never come out.

I wish I'd never told Mindy about meeting Jude that night. Of course, I withheld nearly our entire encounter, but I had to tell her about the dance floor incident since Steven wouldn't shut up about it on the way home.

The sad thing was, my thoughts of the "hot guy from the club" had morphed into something entirely different. Yes, he was still hot—hotter, actually—but the attraction was tempered now with a sense of dread. Or maybe cautious respect. You know, the way you respect a rattlesnake or a grizzly bear.

"Are you ready?"

I yipped.

"Jumpy?"

He eyed my phone in my hands. I quickly tucked it into my back pocket. I swear he smiled, just barely, but I saw it. Heat flushed into my cheeks.

There was a sheathed sword strapped to his back.

"Are you going to walk around like that?"

"Of course. I never go anywhere without a weapon. Demons don't sleep, Genevieve."

"Don't you think people will find it a little odd? Halloween isn't for another two weeks."

"No one will see it."

"What do you mean?" Hooking my thumbs in my front pockets, I considered. "Can you make it invisible or something?"

"Yes. All Flamma can cast illusion." By all, he included demon hunters.

"Were you wearing a sword the night I met you?"

"As I said, I never go anywhere without a weapon."

"I suppose I couldn't see it then because I hadn't ‘become aware' or whatever."

Somehow, this made me feel safer, knowing I could now see what might be coming for me around any corner.

It was nearly six a.m. as I followed Jude down the stairs and through the courtyard. Misty morning light barely lit the path to the wrought-iron gate. When I tripped over an uneven brick, Jude caught me around my upper arm, steadied me, and kept me close the rest of the way to the car.

His touch was firm but gentle. The heat radiating through his fingers banded around my arm, making me feel safe, protected, and something else. I slid into the passenger side, once again letting him take the driver's seat. I wondered how often this would happen in our bizarre, demon-hunter-helps-demon-hunted relationship.