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  Centuries passed, and although the numbers of Guardians increased, many also died. Their lives were fraught with danger, and they often had to defend themselves in combat against demons and nosferatu. They avoided bargains and wagers with demons; if left unfulfilled, a demon’s bargain would trap their eternal soul in Hell’s frozen field. And they fought to save as many humans as possible, all the while concealing their existence from them.

  In time, the Guardians discovered that humans who had been attacked by nosferatu might be saved by drinking the creature’s blood. Though much stronger than humans—and a vampire created from nosferatu blood was stronger than one transformed by another vampire’s blood—the vampires were weaker than Guardians and could not alter their shapes. Like the nosferatu, these transformed humans were vulnerable to daylight and suffered from a deep and powerful hunger—the bloodlust. Fearing discovery and persecution by humans, vampires formed secret communities, living among humans in their cities, but feeding only from one another.

  The vampires’ souls were not transformed; their characters were the same in undeath as they had been in life. The vampires were not bound by the Rules, just as nosferatu were not, and so the Guardians took upon themselves another task—to guard humans against vampires should the need arise. For the most part, Guardians allowed the vampires to live as they willed, but there were those vampires who had to be watched more closely than others, and who would be destroyed if they broke the Rules.

  So the Guardians fought to keep the influence of those Above and Below from touching humanity. There is no end to this story; the Guardians are still fighting. They will keep fighting for as long as they exist.

  When the girl heard this she was overjoyed, for it meant that although her brother had become a vampire, he could still be saved. His transformation had not corrupted his soul; the demon had. She persuaded Michael not to slay her brother and allow her the chance to undo what the demon had done.

  She could not immediately begin, however—first, she had to complete one hundred years of training in Caelum. Those years were filled with hope. Even the discovery of her Gift to manipulate darkness and shadows, so painful to use beneath Caelum’s sun-filled sky, did not diminish her happiness. After a century, she returned to Earth, her hope still bright within her chest.

  It took almost two more centuries for her brother to kill that hope. Then he was killed, too.

  And so the tale closes with the girl left alone and her hopes shattered, with no one to save—and the demon, though defeated, ultimately the victor. Unlike other stories, this does not have a happy ending.

  Not yet.

  CHAPTER 1

  The string quartet in the corner of the ballroom slipped from a sleepy minuet into a sleepy waltz. Rosalia lifted her champagne flute to her lips to cover her sigh. Thank God for the demons. If not for their conspiring, boredom would have killed her by now.

  The small circle of humans she’d joined burst into laughter. Rosalia smiled vacuously in response. She hadn’t heard the joke, but no one at the gala would expect a reply, anyway. She’d changed her dark hair to a wispy, baby blond, donned a vapid expression over soft features, and paired them with an insubstantial pink dress for that very reason: She wouldn’t be expected to talk. She only needed to stand and look pretty. So she stood with humans she didn’t know in the center of a chateau ballroom, watching three of Belial’s demons solidify an alliance.

  Others watched them, too. Some humans glanced in their direction; some stared. Rosalia could not blame them. Like every demon she’d known, they’d disguised themselves in sinfully handsome human forms—sensual lips and blade-straight noses, black hair glinting under the crystal chandeliers, as if they’d each used an advertisement in a men’s fashion magazine as a template. With a backdrop of priceless paintings mounted on gold-painted walls, they formed a would-be triumvirate with Bernard and Gavel as the base and Pierre Theriault at the top.

  Of the three, Theriault ranked the highest in both Belial’s army and Legion Laboratories, the corporation that both concealed and supported their activities on Earth. Two years ago, when the Gates to Hell had closed, preventing Belial from overseeing the demons that remained on Earth, Legion began to serve as a communication network. Through it, one of Belial’s lieutenants issued orders and received reports—until he’d been slain by the Guardians. Now, with no clear successor to the lieutenant and no contact from Hell, Belial’s demons were maneuvering for his position, and all of them were arrogant enough to imagine themselves in the spot. But if Bernard and Gavel thought they’d ride the wake of Theriault’s ascent, they were as foolish as he was. Theriault’s particular brand of arrogance bordered on stupidity.

  No, Rosalia amended. Not bordering stupidity. He’d flung himself over that line the second he’d begun discussing the alliance in a public room, and using English instead of the demonic language. Good Lord, the idiocy. Though the chateau was just north of Paris, perhaps fifteen people out of the hundreds in the ballroom didn’t understand at least rudimentary English.

  Even if Theriault imagined that the string music floating over the room and the crowd’s chatter would conceal their voices from humans, he hadn’t made sure there weren’t any Guardians or other demons in the vicinity. Though strong enough for Rosalia to feel, Theriault’s psychic sweep hadn’t penetrated her mental shields. At that shallow depth, her mind would seem no different from a human’s.

  Careless. Stupid. Rosalia had many reasons to slay the demons, but at this moment, making the consequences of that carelessness the last thing they ever saw was the most tempting reason to shove her swords through their eyes.

  But she wouldn’t slay them. Not tonight. She’d come to the gala to observe Theriault, and to judge how much of a threat he’d be if he led Belial’s demons. Not much. But it hadn’t been a wasted trip. She’d overheard repeated mention of one demon standing in Theriault’s way, one he’d considered too powerful to take on alone: Malkvial.

  She hadn’t yet learned who Malkvial was. Rosalia didn’t know many demons by their true name, only by the human identities they used. She needed to find this one out, soon, either by listening in on Theriault or by other means.

  A soft crackle sounded in her ear, and her attention shifted. The noise indicated that Gemma had opened the microphone connecting the tiny receiver bud in Rosalia’s ear to the surveillance van outside the chateau. Rosalia couldn’t perform a psychic sweep without revealing herself to the demons, but she hadn’t gone in blind.

  Rosalia possessed her share of arrogance. But unlike some demons, she was neither careless nor stupid. At least, not most of the time.

  “Mother, infrared is picking up either Davanzati or Murnau approaching the chateau. He’s moving south across the grounds. On foot.”

  Davanzati or Murnau. Code words for vampires and nosferatu. Though the receiver’s volume was probably too low for a demon to hear unless he was standing next to her, Rosalia wouldn’t risk drawing the demons’ attention. Both demons and Guardians could hear everything said in the ballroom, but they couldn’t listen to everything. Even if whispered, however, certain words and names pierced background noise like a candle lit at midnight.

  To cover her reply, Rosalia turned as if searching the crowd. “You don’t know which it is?” she murmured.

  Both vampires and nosferatu would register a lower temperature on infrared than a human or Guardian, but nosferatu were huge. Most towered at six and a half to seven feet in height.

  “He’s tall, but I don’t think he’s tall enough for Murnau. He’s not close enough for me to be sure, though.”

  “When he is, let me know.”

  A nosferatu posed a problem. People would notice it. Enormous, with pale and hairless skin, pointed ears, and fangs twice as long as a vampire’s, nosferatu were bloodthirsty, evil creatures. Even if it dressed to pass as human—difficult beneath the bright lights in the chateau—and even if people refused to believe what they saw, its presence would stir fear and r
evulsion. But Rosalia doubted a nosferatu would try to blend in. If one was coming, then it was coming to kill. To protect the people here, she’d have to slay it, revealing her presence to the demons. Then she’d have to slay the demons so they couldn’t report that a Guardian had been watching them. She didn’t want to give Belial’s demons any reason to unite against the Guardians, and she’d prefer not to kill Theriault yet. No matter how little his chances of leading his brethren were, the infighting over the lieutenant’s position benefited the Guardians. Even an incompetent demon might provide a distraction for Malkvial and prevent him from quickly uniting the others.

  If a vampire was coming, though . . .

  Rosalia glanced back at the demons. Bernard and Gavel were taking their leave of Theriault, agreeing to circle among the guests. Satisfaction emanated from each. Demon business finished, now they were conducting Legion business, building human contacts.

  Perhaps one of them intended to continue demon business, though. Six months ago, Belial’s lieutenant had ordered the slaughter of Prague’s vampire community; since then, fewer vampires willingly aligned themselves with the demons. But there were still some vampires who sought either power or protection from the demons—and the demons had their own uses for vampires who were willing to break the Rules in exchange.

  The Parisian vampire community had resisted Theriault’s attempts to make an alliance, but maybe a dissenter was in their ranks. A foolish dissenter, if he’d come alone. A human crowd provided some protection if the demons turned on him, but not much.

  The soft crackle came again. “Mother, I have visual confirmation. It’s Davanzati.”

  A vampire. “Anyone I know?”

  “Yes.” The hesitation told Rosalia that Gemma was thinking of a way to describe him without saying his name. “Six months ago, he stayed one day in your bedroom and left the same night.”

  Deacon. Rosalia’s champagne flute tilted in nerveless fingers. Her breath corkscrewed painfully through her lungs. Her mind could hardly comprehend it—Deacon, here—but the ache filling her chest said her heart had already taken it in.

  Deacon was here.

  And still alive.

  She hadn’t known if he was. Once the leader of the Prague vampire community, he’d betrayed the Guardians in a desperate gamble to save his people, and lost. Belial’s lieutenant and a second demon, Caym, had done everything to destroy Deacon without actually killing him. Caym had beaten Deacon bloody, crushed his bones and his pride, then held his community and lovers hostage in exchange for information about the Guardians. As a result of that information, a Guardian had been killed—a woman Rosalia hadn’t known well, but had liked very much. After learning of the Guardian’s death, Rosalia had watched Belial’s lieutenant use Deacon to transform a human murderer into a vampire, then finally break him by showing Deacon the ashen remains of his companions. Though Deacon had managed to slay Caym, Belial’s lieutenant had stopped the vampire by stabbing an iron spike through his forehead, and had left Deacon for the Guardians to find and kill. But Irena, a Guardian and the friend Deacon had betrayed, had stayed her hand, and Rosalia had taken him to her home in Rome. She hadn’t known what she was going to do with him. She only knew why she’d taken him.

  Deacon had rescued her. Once, ninety years ago, and again more recently, when she’d had an iron spike through her own head and three nosferatu feeding from her throat. And so she owed him.

  When they’d reached Rome, Deacon had still been unconscious, healing from the damage to his brain. She’d taken him to her room and had left him to his daysleep. When she’d returned, night had fallen and Deacon had already gone. Gemma had reported that he’d walked out the door without saying a word.

  Rosalia had thought he’d left to die. He’d been broken. She’d felt his despair when he’d realized all that he’d lost; he’d welcomed death when the demon had shoved the spike through his forehead. She’d been certain he’d face the sun the next morning.

  But he was here, instead. Why? Never would he ally himself with Belial’s demons. The launch of a new skin-care line and this party couldn’t interest him. She couldn’t picture him mingling comfortably. The people glittered; conversation sparkled. Deacon wouldn’t.

  Had he somehow known she would be here? Rosalia’s heart gave a heavy, slow thump. Hope bubbled within her bloodstream. Ruthlessly, she squashed it. Deacon couldn’t have known she’d intended to observe Theriault tonight.

  Or could he?

  If he had known, he wouldn’t recognize her like this. Not with blond hair and this baby face—

  Rosalia closed her eyes. Stop. She wouldn’t let her thoughts head in this direction. Whatever his reasons, he wasn’t here for her.

  “He’s at the rear of the chateau, Mother. I’ve lost him on infrared.”

  A vampire didn’t need an invitation to enter a building, but he did to gain admittance into this gala. So did a Guardian. She’d come through the back disguised as one of the caterers. Though Deacon couldn’t shape-shift, he could easily climb the exterior wall to the second floor or speed through the doors unseen.

  She opened her eyes. The demon Gavel was approaching her group, his gaze fixed on the CEO of a cosmetics company standing beside her. Rosalia excused herself and threaded through the crowd toward the refreshment table, smiling brightly and nodding at anyone who met her eyes. She joined another group of humans at the side of the ballroom. Now that Theriault, Bernard, and Gavel had split up, she needed a wider angle to keep an eye on them. It also let her see both the enormous staircase that led from the second floor, and the main entrance from the gallery—the route Deacon would take if he approached the ballroom from the back of the chateau.

  Assuming, of course, that the ballroom was his destination. And if he didn’t come, she would not seek him out. She’d spent most of her life trying to save her brother, Lorenzo, from himself. She refused to spend the rest of it on another lost cause, no matter how much she owed him.

  But she could thank God he was alive. She’d allow herself that.

  She waited. Around her, the humans’ laughter and voices seemed too loud. The musicians finally switched to an arrangement with a quick tempo, but every draw of their bows sawed across her senses.

  She glanced at the wide marble staircase. He wasn’t there. Disappointment weighted her chest. Accustomed to the feeling, she ignored it.

  Returning her gaze to the ballroom, she watched the demons and saw their calculated expressions and conversation win over their companions. Would they recognize Deacon? Only Belial’s lieutenant and Caym had used him, but he’d led Prague’s community for more than six decades. Other demons might have seen him before.

  If these demons gave any indication that they knew Deacon, she’d kill them—Theriault’s alliance and Malkvial be damned. A lone vampire was nothing but sport to their kind. She wouldn’t stand by and watch them play.

  She looked toward the gallery. Even in this crush of people, Deacon’s height would make him easy to spot. He wasn’t there.

  Had he been delayed? Was another demon or a vampire at the gala, one that neither she nor Gemma had detected? She should wander through the other rooms and see.

  Rosalia headed for the gallery, her gaze sweeping the stairs. Sweeping over the vampire descending the steps.

  Sweeping past him.

  Her heart galloped. She continued walking. Don’t stop. Don’t react and draw attention to him. Her focus traveled the length of the ballroom, but her mind remained locked on that brief glimpse. She’d been right. Even here, Deacon didn’t glitter. He stood like an unpolished stone pillar amid sparkling diamonds. His dark dinner jacket stretched over shoulders as wide as a blacksmith’s. He’d unbuttoned his shirt at the collar, revealing pale skin that could have belonged to an unfinished marble statue—possessing the strength, but none of the smooth perfection of a completed piece. Before he’d become a vampire, Deacon had earned his money boxing, and his transformation had physically frozen his appearance. H
is body was still heavily muscled. His dark brows and hard mouth formed uncompromising lines on a face roughly sculpted by both nature and occupation. A beard shadowed his jaw; he obviously hadn’t shaved in months. And . . . had he cut his hair? She wanted to look again. She forced herself to continue smoothly across the floor. The click of her heels drummed in her ears.

  Don’t turn around yet. Find one of the servers and—

  There. A waiter in a white jacket paused beside a matron wearing gold silk. Rosalia downed her champagne, circled the waiter, and lifted a new glass from his tray, sliding in next to the matron.

  Deacon had reached the bottom of the stairs, but remained on the last step. His gaze searched the crowd.

  She glanced at the demons. None were looking toward the vampire, and so she did, studying him from beneath her lashes.

  He had cut his hair. Though it was longer than the first time she’d seen him, a member of the American naval service and his brown hair regulation short, six months ago the dark length had touched his shoulders. Now he had just enough to slide his fingers through, but not enough to grab a handful. A vampire’s hair grew slowly; it’d be another ninety years before it reached his shoulders again.

  Though the cut was tidier and less distinctive than his long hair, he still appeared slightly disheveled. With his shadowed jaw and unbuttoned collar, many men would look like they’d just come from bed; Deacon looked like he’d prepared for a fight. One side of his shirt collar had escaped the jacket, as if he’d dragged off his tie just before coming here. Now the points of his shirt collar were uneven. It bothered her. Her gaze kept flicking back to them. She wished he’d fix it, if only because an orderly appearance would make him less remarkable amid all of the glossy perfection. But even if he knew how crooked the collar was, she doubted that it would occur to him to adjust it.