At Blade's Edge Read online

  At Blade’s Edge is the first of the Demon Steel series, a story introduction to the world of heroes and living steel.

  Ever since the night Alex Donally found the demon blade in his hand—and in his thoughts—he has been driven to fight evil. When he meets Deb Marchand, he feels compelled to protect her from her violent ex—and is drawn by the visions they share when they touch. The blade is showing them what they can have—

  But only if Deb can risk her trust and heart to a vigilante...

  AT BLADE’S EDGE

  Doranna Durgin

  Blue Hound Visions

  Tijeras, NM

  Book I of Demon Steel

  about the Demon Steel series:

  “... Starts out with a bang and just keeps going until the final page... Author Doranna Durgin writes what we want to read.” – Fresh Fiction

  “Innovative premise... notably creative... filled with wonder.” – Cataromance.com

  Copyright & Dedication

  AT BLADE’S EDGE

  (Formerly Demon Touch)

  Copyright © 2022 by Doranna Durgin

  ISBN: 978-1-952810-04-6

  Published by Blue Hound Visions, Tijeras NM

  January 2022

  Cover: Doranna Durgin

  Text: Covers by Christian

  Original Copyright ©2011; first published by Harlequin Nocturne Bites

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously — and any resemblance to actual persons, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  License Notes:

  Even with a professionally edited book such as this one, typos and other errors can make it through to the finished manuscript. If you notice such an error, it would be a kindness to email [email protected] so that it can be corrected.

  The author has provided this digital edition without Digital Rights Management (DRM) for readers to enjoy across their personal devices. You may not print or post this digital edition, or make it publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this digital edition other than to read it on one of your personal devices. If you would like to share, please purchase those gifts. If you’re reading this book and it wasn’t purchased for your use, then you should do so for yourself. Thank you for helping the reading community to grow!

  Author Note:

  This story is an introduction to the world of living steel, where blades have immortal souls... but not necessarily good ones. Originally published in the Nocturne Bites online, it ended up with a title that wasn’t marketed toward what the series actually was. So here it is on its own, a steamy look at the world of heroes, Demon Steel, redemption, and love.

  Without readers like you, I wouldn’t be able to write these books. I appreciate your letters, emails, blog comments, and Facebook posts more than I can ever express, and I love your reviews. It’s amazing to be a part of such a large circle of friends through a mutual love of books!

  Special thanks go to eagle-eyed readers Rebecca Andrews, Monica Stoner, Jinkle Seagrave, Sue Cleereman, Lenita Vaughan, Lara Herrera, & Conni St. Pierre!

  Chapter 1

  Sharp dark eyes, sharp jaw, black leather and habitual stubble, definite bad-boy attitude.

  Deb had seen him in AutoStock before. She knew that face; she knew that confident walk. She knew how hard she had to pretend she hadn’t noticed him at all.

  Even though his visits to the modest little business had grown more frequent as Ohio bike-riding weather waxed along with spring, it was still difficult to keep her gaze from following him around the store. It didn’t help that he sometimes hesitated and seemed as though he might make conversation—although in the end he always moved on. With confidence. With that free-striding walk.

  Except today. Today he pushed through the door like anyone else: with a hesitation at the stiff resistance of it, moving without the pent-up energy that so often characterized his walk. He must have seen the momentary drop of her jaw; he gave her a rueful grin from behind the black eye, the split brow, and the artfully bruised face, even less shaved than usual. “That bad, huh?”

  Surprise, and surprise again. That he’d responded with humor. That he’d noticed her at all, after so many absent nods. Maybe that’s why she warmed to him in spite of herself—in spite of the bruises, the sharp jaw, and the sharp look in his eye.

  “You should see the other guy?” she suggested, and then immediately regretted.

  But he only gave a short laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “You should see the other guys.”

  Guys. Plural.

  Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do?

  Run away, that’s what.

  But he’d already disappeared into the back of the store, returning shortly with a trickle battery charger tucked under his arm. Judging by the awkward way he handled it, she knew his torso—lean and fit beneath that black leather jacket—had fared no better than his face. He blew out a breath, every bit as rueful as the earlier smile, and swiped the heel of his hand across his brow in a gesture weary and resigned.

  “I’m sorry,” she said without thinking, flushing as he dug for his wallet. Just take his money, foolish woman. “I just meant... it looks like a tough day.”

  He made a noise she couldn’t quite interpret—but his words were perfectly clear, and his tone flat—not the engaging response from a few moments earlier. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”

  She couldn’t help it. She straightened, throwing her shoulders back. “No one deserves to get beat up.”

  He hesitated as he gave her a second look. Deb’s face also bore a scar near her eyebrow and her once-straight nose was now just so slightly offset. Even though her jaw had clearly healed, it still didn’t sit quite straight.

  Mementos from another life.

  He said simply, “I started it.”

  Of course you did.

  She made herself take his credit card, casually run the charge through, check the signature as she was supposed to, and return it. Alex Donnally.

  She hadn’t meant to pay attention.

  But his fingers fumbled the card on return, folding over hers—not quite letting go. She looked away from the register and saw by his stiff posture and his slightly narrowed eyes that he was distracted. She followed his gaze to the small parking lot where a cop car sat.

  She knew the cop—an experienced man who often used their lot as a turnaround in this small, off-the-interstate town, a place close enough to Columbus to offer city advantages and far enough to give a cow-and-corn feel to it.

  She made her voice matter-of-fact as she handed him the receipt to sign. “He doesn’t come inside very often.” And then, as he dashed off a hard-penned scrawl, “What did you do?”

  She’d surprised him again, it seemed. “Nothing,” he told her, but the smolder in his expression belied every word he said. “Do you think he’ll believe that?”

  “I doubt it,” she heard herself saying. “I don’t believe it.”

  Possibly the bravest words she’d ever said. Aside from three others she had once also said: I’m leaving you.

  Although those words had just turned out to be stupid. She should have crept out in silence and saved her bones.

  The second time, she’d been smarter. And he hadn’t found her yet.

  Yet.

  But here and now, this man only looked at her as if he
could see right through her unspoken turmoil and truly appreciate her honesty. As though in some strange way, it had touched him.

  And then he winced and hitched over his side, one hand reaching inside his jacket... coming out with bloody fingers. He glanced out the storefront window, his gaze grim. The cop had opened the door of the patrol car to rest a foot on the pavement.

  Deb discovered her copy of his receipt crumpled in her hand, her eyes riveted to the blood on his hand. She made a noise—even she wasn’t sure if it came of fear or dismay.

  He spared her a glance as he gathered up the trickle charger. “Will he walk around the store?”

  She couldn’t quite grasp the question.

  “The cop,” he repeated, his voice calm but insistent. “If he comes in, will he walk around the store?”

  Her expression must have been enough of an answer; he cursed, low and short.

  “You don’t look very good,” she told him, her voice distant to her own ears. He didn’t, either—pale beneath his bruises, twitching visibly in reaction to some jerk of pain.

  “I shouldn’t have come out,” he said, as honest as she’d been moments earlier. “Damned battery’s going, and I’ll melt the Magna’s entire electrical system if I try to jump her. And I thought the worst—” He stopped, closed his eyes... forced a deep breath, pulling his shoulders back. “Was over.” He caught her gaze and shrugged, quite matter-of-factly. “Wrong again.”

  “What will you—” she started, and looked out at the cop, who was pushing the patrol car door closed.

  He didn’t let her finish. “I’ll be inconspicuous.”

  She couldn’t help it. She snorted.

  He grinned back. “Yeah. I know.”

  She handed him the receipt. Skin brushed skin—too hot, as though he burned with fever right through to his very fingers—and her gaze jerked up to his. She would have asked are you all right but her body exploded into sensation and the words never made it out. His eyes, up far too close and personal; his breath on her skin. His groan in her ear, a possessively sensual sound that played out along every nerve ending she owned. His hand skimming along her body, her hands slipping under his shirt, finding a trail of crisp hair and tight, responsive skin.

  She gasped and jerked away from the counter, stumbling back. If there was any consolation at all, it came in the utter astonishment on his face, the way his hand had clenched convulsively around the receipt—the way he seemed, for that moment, to have stopped breathing altogether.

  But that sharp, dark gaze had her pinned, and it looked just as it had looked in her mind an instant earlier.

  If the cop hadn’t been on his way—

  Of all the unexpected things she’d said to him, the next came the least expected of all. “There’s a break room,” she said, pushing the words past a tight throat; they came out with a husky edge. “It’s got a door out to the tires. And from there—”

  He flashed a look at the cop, then back to her, understanding. From there, an exit out back. He stood, caught by the promise of her next words—caught, too, by whatever impossibility had just flashed between them.

  And then he left her there, slipping out the escape she’d provided while she stood, caught and frozen, in the memory of something that had never even happened.

  Chapter 2

  Deb.

  That’s what her shirt had said, clear and plain.

  Her eyes had been a different story—shouting out mixed and shifting messages. Light brown eyes in a collection of interesting features—a nose with a bit of a bump, chin just a little bit square, and a sweet and cautious smile. But those light brown eyes had done their best to hide from him, as they always did—looking away when he came in, looking down, looking busy.

  And then, finally, yesterday she’d been caught in conversation—and to judge by her expression, caught was the word for it.

  Never mind what had happened next—the invading connection of the demon blade. What the hell? he thought, and not for the first time. What the everlasting bloody hell?

  It had surprised him as much as her; it had snatched him up and very nearly carried him away. The feel of her, so very real; the sound of her, right there in his ear; the very scent of her–

  Yeah, the ride home hadn’t been a comfortable one.

  Not that Alex could blame her for her reaction—not for her previous reticence or her response to that startling moment. Any wise woman would run from what that cursed blade had made of him.

  The blade sat in its favorite spot, its favorite form—the Sgian Dubh. Hidden not in his stocking like a proper Scottish knife, but tucked at the small of his back where it somehow never lost purchase. And while it could take any form it pleased, when it pleased, it usually stuck to the basics—the Sgian Dubh, a basket hilt-sword, a dirk... sometimes even a claymore, but only when it was showing off.

  All Scottish. Alex had no idea why, not during the years since it had bonded to him, not through the times it had pushed him, prodded him, shoved him into danger... saved him from it. Just as he had no idea what had made the blade, or what had made it choose him.

  He only knew for certain what it had done to him.

  So did Deb at AutoStock, to judge by the look of her. And she had helped him in spite of it.

  Yesterday morning, he’d pulled into this parking lot sicker than expected, full of the blade’s healing burn and too broken to fake it as he’d planned. Today he parked with only a fading tingle along his bones, a lingering stiffness in his muscles. He dismounted from his bike and stretched, glancing into the store to find her watching him through that big plate glass window.

  She instantly looked away.

  “Not this time,” he murmured, holding his gaze on her until she looked up and found him again, and her eyes widened—understanding the message. Yes, I’m here for you.

  He flipped open the Magna’s saddlebag and removed the flowers he’d brought—spring snapdragons and daisies, with the tough winged stems and delicate flowers of sweet pea interspersed. Courtesy of his duplex neighbor, a young single mother who’d come to appreciate that his nighttime prowling, once frightening to her, did in fact help keep her safe.

  Deb looked at the flowers... looked back to his face... looked at the flowers... and yes, looked away again.

  He opened the door with a much closer approximation of his usual manner than the day before—but didn’t get any further.

  The formerly neat store was a shambles, wiper fluid jugs scattered and broken across the floor, the rotating air freshener display tipped over and tiny lightbulbs scattered across the counter. The blade warmed at his back, pulling darkness into the edges of his thoughts.

  And Deb’s reaction to his arrival—that was more than just dismay. Her clear olive complexion was pale, and her hair—normally pulled back in a tumble of a ponytail, the offside part dictated by a cowlick in that espresso-dark hair—disheveled.

  Quietly, he set the flowers on the counter. “You okay?”

  She said, “You need to leave now.”

  “Oh, no,” he said, gently implacable. “I think here is exactly where I need to be.”

  Her words came of desperation—and he saw it then, that she feared what he would only escalate whatever had happened. “You don’t understand—”

  “More than you know.” Even if the blade hadn’t warned him—and whatever was happening, he suspected that was because she was here—safe—with him. And that the blade seemed, in fact, to have some sort of crush on her.

  He had no doubt it was responsible for what had passed between them. No matter that it had never done anything of the sort before—although since the night Alex had found the blade in his hand and in his mind, it had driven him. From place to place, from deep night action to roadside rescues—looking for harm and hate and sorrow, hunting bullies and bad guys and evil. A vigilante, that blade—and glorying in the blood it drank along the way.

  Not a thing of goodness. Just a thing that had found a way to get what i
t wanted.

  He pushed the flowers in her direction. “These are for you, by the way. Thank you.”

  Judging by the blush now on her high cheeks, her thoughts had matched his, going to that moment when the blade had connected them. Then her eyes widened and she spoke without thinking. “You don’t mean—that is, you mean... the cop... ”

  He offered her the faintest of grins. “I mean the cop.”

  But she winced, then, as the sounds of a break room vending machine under attack reached the front of the store.

  Ah.

  He reached for the hilt of the Sgian Dubh, unsheathing. It warmed further in his grip, reshaping—flashing a glimmer of blue lightning even in daylight. Deb frowned slightly, clearly not sure if she’d seen what she thought she’d seen—and by the time Alex brought the thing down against his thigh, the blade had rearranged itself into a stout collapsible baton.

  The blade’s way of showing off. Not quite Scottish at that.

  “Stay here,” he told her, not heeding the harsh edge to his voice, or the note of command he had no right to give. He didn’t care.

  “You don’t understand,” she said, more fervently than before. She did an end-run around the stubby L-shape of the counter and put herself in his way. “You need to go. He’s here because of—” And then she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it.

  He got it anyway. “Because of me.” He shouldn’t have been surprised—he was. He shouldn’t have felt the fury of it, after the number of times he’d dealt with just this—he did. He shouldn’t have felt the weight of it, adding to what already lived on his shoulders.

  He did.

  “You need to go.” She lowered her voice—wincing as the vending machine crashed to the floor in the break room. “Someone’s looking for you—saw you here the other day. This guy wants the receipt from your purchase—the address.”