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  Rosalia tried to frame a response that wouldn’t be taken as an insult—then decided Irena probably wouldn’t care. “No. You aren’t.”

  Alejandro signaled for Jake to leave them. The young Guardian vanished again, and dread began to rise through Rosalia’s heart. Despite her response, Alejandro hadn’t asked him to find Michael. Why?

  Irena said, “Michael is dead.”

  Michael was dead? Rosalia shook her head. She couldn’t have heard that right. What could have killed him? “I do not—No. I don’t understand. Where is he?”

  Alejandro stepped forward. Rosalia wondered if he thought he’d have to catch her, but his hands remained at his sides. “We couldn’t find you to tell you.”

  A question lay in that statement—Where have you been?—but Rosalia couldn’t answer. The joy of that morning had turned into the heavy weight of despair. She had to know. “How?”

  Irena’s eyes flared a venomous green. “Anaria.”

  That seemed to be enough explanation for Irena. Rosalia looked at her helplessly, hoping for more.

  Alejandro elaborated, “Anaria weakened the barrier between Hell and Chaos. If she took the throne, her nephilim would return to Earth and rule over mankind. And if Lucifer broke through to Chaos—”

  “He’d bring another dragon,” Rosalia whispered. Dragons, demons, hellhounds—the Lord knew what other terrors.

  “Yes,” Alejandro said. “Michael sacrificed himself to strengthen the barrier. He’s in the frozen field now.”

  In Hell. Tortured, with the dragons eating his body in Chaos, his face frozen into the floor of the territory that surrounded Lucifer’s throne. Oh, God.

  Rosalia’s knees wouldn’t hold her. She staggered back. In a blur of movement, Alejandro raced forward and slid a chair behind her. She sat heavily, her elbows on her knees, trying to breathe despite the drowning weight that seemed to be filling her chest.

  “We’ll get him back,” Irena said, and again, Rosalia was at a loss. Get him back? From death?

  “How?” she repeated, feeling stupid. She didn’t like asking questions unless she already knew the answers.

  “Khavi.”

  Khavi, the one powerful grigori the Guardians had left on their side. But was she powerful enough—knowledgeable enough—to pull Michael out of the frozen field? Could it possibly be done?

  Once again, Alejandro filled in what Irena had left unexplained. “As we speak, she is searching for a spell that will keep the barrier strong, and to return Michael’s spirit to his body.” He hesitated before adding, “It may take some time.”

  Rosalia’s every thought seemed sluggish. She forced her mind to work. “She has the Gift of foresight. Has she seen his return?”

  “Yes. But she does not yet know when or how it is done.”

  It was a relief, but not a significant one. In the meantime, one grigori and fifty Guardians stood against all of the demons, the nephilim, and the nosferatu. Only the Doyen, Michael, could transform more humans to Guardians. Unless Khavi could do that as well . . .

  “Can she make more of us? Can we increase our numbers?”

  “Khavi cannot.” Irena’s sigh seemed to soften her, and was filled with worry. “Michael bound himself to a new Guardian: Detective Taylor. You have met her.”

  Rosalia had a brief memory of a fragile woman with red hair. Tired, pale. “Yes.”

  “She can make new Guardians, but no humans are dying.”

  They were, but not in the manner that called for transformation: self-sacrifice while saving the life or soul of another from a vampire, demon, or nosferatu. With the Gates closed, there were fewer demons now, and Belial’s demons weren’t focused on tempting humans. Lucifer’s demons concentrated on their individual ambitions rather than collecting souls to fuel Hell’s throne. And they were all careful around humans, so that they didn’t risk breaking the Rules—and calling a nephil, who would slay them.

  She felt lost, again. This wasn’t what she’d expected to hear when she’d come. Not at all.

  Alejandro crouched beside her. “Has something happened, Rosalia? We have not heard from you since you took the vampire.”

  Although that was Alejandro’s subtle way of asking about Deacon, he wasn’t why she’d come. Belial’s demons were.

  Belatedly, she also realized why Jake had brought Irena and Alejandro to her. With Michael gone, Irena—the oldest Guardian and the fiercest warrior—must be leading them. And so Irena and Alejandro were who she needed to speak with after all. “I’ve come to discover if you know anything about Malkvial.”

  He nodded. “We have heard some.”

  “Do you know his human identity?”

  “No. Do you?”

  She shook her head. “Tell me what you know.”

  Alejandro rose to his feet again. “We’ve intercepted communications between other demons. They all play against each other for position, but Malkvial has taken a platform: He wants to slaughter the vampire communities and harvest the blood.”

  Rosalia couldn’t hide her surprise. The prophecy stated that vampire blood would kill the nephilim, which in turn would put Belial on the throne. Unsure how that blood was supposed to be used, Belial’s demons had been courting many vampire communities. But just to kill the vampires and store the blood for their use?

  Oh, the demons would like that, wouldn’t they? Killing instead of courting. Grimly, she asked, “Is there any news from the demon Sammael?”

  One of Belial’s demons was bound by a bargain to give the Guardians a daily ration of his blood. Living demon blood could feed a vampire without a partner, and so Special Investigations kept it on hand for emergencies. But the Guardians also received information through the demon.

  “Aside from the blood, he gives nothing to us but lies.” Irena’s lips thinned before she said, “Are you returning to us? You have been outside the corps for a decade. We need you, Rosalia. There are not enough of us.”

  No, there weren’t. And with Lorenzo dead, she had no excuse for limiting herself to Rome.

  Rome was not where the nephilim were, anyway. “I have one task to finish before I can dedicate myself completely. But if I am needed, I will be available.”

  She stood and produced her card. Irena took the information, but didn’t look at it before passing it to Alejandro.

  “Rome?” he read.

  “Yes.”

  Irena frowned at her. “What have you been doing? There are no vampires left there, and your brother is dead.”

  Rosalia might have been taken aback if the past few minutes hadn’t taught her to expect Irena’s bluntness. “But that was not all I did. I owed the Church—I have worked for them. For many years.”

  “Doing what?”

  Irena’s lips had curled into a sneer. Obviously, she was not a fan of the Church.

  “Listening. But they do not concern themselves with kings and emperors so much, and so I do not exist to them anymore. I never have officially, anyway. But now I do not exist even unofficially.”

  “You spied for them?” Alejandro asked. Rosalia thought he was amused, but wasn’t certain. He was a difficult man to read.

  “Yes. And trained vampires to do the same.”

  That surprised them. He and Irena exchanged a quick glance.

  “Did Michael know?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. After all, I reported the Church’s interests to him.”

  Irena threw her head back with that loud laugh. Alejandro didn’t smile, but stroked his goatee in a gesture that was familiar from Rosalia’s days as a novice, when he’d tutored her with swords. She’d thought of it then as his silent laugh; two hundred years had not changed that.

  When Irena’s laughter faded and she could hear herself speak again, Rosalia continued. “But now that I am back with you, I would like a territory to protect, if possible. I prefer Europe.”

  “That will work,” Irena said. “But you’ll have to take all of it.”

  Perfect. “I will.”
r />   Alejandro’s gaze sharpened. “And your vampires?”

  “They are gone.”

  “They were in Rome when the nephilim massacred them all?”

  Hatred sat bitter on her tongue, her heart. “Yes.”

  “And Deacon?” Irena asked. Both Rosalia and Alejandro had danced around the vampire. Apparently Irena would not. “Is he still with you?”

  “No. He is killing Belial’s demons.”

  Approval flared in Irena’s eyes. And realization. “And what task do you need to finish?”

  “I’m going to help him.” That was not all she intended to do, but she had no plan yet for the nephilim—and even if she had one, what good would it be without Michael? In the meantime, she would assist Deacon. She had her reasons for killing Belial’s demons, too.

  Alejandro began to shake his head. She cut off his protest.

  “I will not reveal myself. I will give Belial’s demons no reason to hurry and follow Malkvial, or to strike against us. Not when we are so . . .” She trailed off. Weak was not the right word.

  “Weak?” Irena’s smile had a dangerous edge.

  “Not weak. Outnumbered.”

  “You split hairs,” Irena said, but Rosalia didn’t think it was an accusation. “You should know that I do not disagree with killing demons at any time.”

  Alejandro appeared amused again. “We have only held back because the risk was so great,” he said. “If you think you can assist Deacon without turning Belial’s demons on us, do.”

  Irena frowned. “Won’t they turn on vampires?”

  Alejandro gave the same answer that Rosalia would have. “They would never admit that a vampire could damage them. And if the suggestion was made that Malkvial wanted to slay vampires out of fear, the others might balk. It might delay his taking the lieutenant’s position.”

  Rosalia nodded. “What of the nephilim?” she asked. “Has there been any sign of them?”

  “No,” Irena said. “Not since Michael was killed.”

  “Has Anaria given up?”

  “She is probably regrouping. We killed half the nephilim’s number in Chaos.”

  “Half?” Rosalia could not stop her smile. “Good. That is good.” And on that note, she would take her leave. “I will return to Rome, then. And I will keep you abreast, should I learn anything new. Be well, Irena. Alejandro.”

  “Be safe,” Irena said.

  Rosalia gathered the shadows, letting them pull her into their dark cocoon. Safe, yes. She would be. But the vampires? Her fear for them would not diminish. She felt so protective of vampires. And although Belial’s demons and nephilim were enemies of each other, always it was the Guardians and vampires caught in the middle. The nephilim were focused on slaughtering vampires except when a demon broke the Rules. And now, instead of protecting the vampires in hope of fulfilling the prophecy, the demons would be killing them, too.

  Demons. Nephilim. They all had to be stopped. But how would it be done without uniting the demons against the Guardians or the vampires, and without drawing Anaria’s wrath? How to remain untouched?

  How to stand by, watching and listening, as they destroyed one another?

  Rosalia stopped. Darkness swirled around her. Her thoughts raced. Her body was still, though a storm of shadows raged outside and a maelstrom of possibility raged within. What would be the demons’ downfall?

  Their arrogance.

  It was a lightning strike, illuminating the dark. Rosalia ripped apart the shadows, like tearing a veil away from her face. In the tech room, Irena stared at her, two curved knives in her hands. Alejandro stood slightly in front of Irena, his body angled protectively. Rosalia could not imagine what her shadows had looked like from outside, but it must have been terrifying for Alejandro to respond that way.

  “I will need you to stay out of Europe,” Rosalia said. “All of you. If there is something a Guardian must do, contact me. No Guardian can be near Deacon or me if we are to be safe—if all of us are to be safe. And if you discover who Malkvial is, I will need to know.”

  Irena vanished her knives. “Do you plan to have Deacon slay him?”

  “Not just Malkvial.” Rosalia smiled. Her heart shed the despair, was buoyed by hope. “We’re going to kill them all.”

  CHAPTER 4

  If the vampires following Deacon through the Paris streets were shooting for stealth, they’d missed by a mile. Fine by him. He’d make a meal of them if they came too close. Better than wasting half the night softening up a human woman with a bottle.

  A bead of sweat itched from his hairline down over his temple. The sun had set an hour before, but the city still suffocated under its heat. Deacon wiped the sweat away, searching for a suitable bar. Hotels worked best. Businesswomen traveling alone made up a significant portion of his diet, and their bedrooms lay no farther away than an elevator ride.

  Just imagining feeding from one seemed to make the air around Deacon heavier, weighing him down. Fuck. He didn’t want to play that game tonight. He didn’t want to get into another stranger’s body—or her head. But without blood, he hadn’t a chance in hell of beating Theriault. If the opportunity arose. Three days had passed since the gala at the chateau. In the previous two nights, the demon hadn’t spent a single moment traveling or alone, and Deacon pissed away time and money while waiting for an opening.

  And he spent far too much time watching the shadows. Wondering if Rosalia was still in the city. Planning how to get rid of her if she stuck her do-gooding nose in his face again.

  Reminding himself that sucking her dry wasn’t part of that plan.

  The assholes tracking him were all but asking for it, though. He glanced back along the narrow street. No vampires in sight, but he knew they were near. They’d done a shit job of blocking their psychic scents. Even if Deacon’s mind hadn’t been stronger than theirs, he’d have felt their contempt. Their anticipation.

  Looking for a fight, were they? He’d give them one—

  Deacon stopped mid-turn. He’d curled his hands into fists. He forced them to open.

  Fighting would call attention to him. It didn’t matter if that attention came from demons, Guardians, or his own kind. Once he drew notice, he’d have to abandon the city, leaving Theriault for later. Teaching a few pissant vampires a lesson wasn’t worth it. They’d obviously recognized him, but if he got off their radar, they’d move on.

  A hotel sat at the end of the street. Constructed with a white stone block façade and large enough to employ several uniformed doormen, it housed a restaurant along with a bar. Deacon battled the temptation to wait near the entrance long enough to catch a look at the vampires’ faces. Teeth clenched, he went inside.

  He wasn’t hiding. Just avoiding a conflict he couldn’t afford to have. But goddamn if it didn’t grate on a man’s pride.

  Resentment rolled through him like a hot and fetid stone as the hostess seated him at a dimly lit corner table. It cooled as he ordered and methodically chewed his way through a richly fragrant meal that was all texture and no taste to his vampire tongue. By the time he sensed Camille and her partner, Yves, entering the hotel, the resentment had become an icy weight, a bitterness at the back of his throat.

  A far cry from how he’d been feeling the last time he’d seen Camille. She and Yves had visited Prague, where they’d shared with Deacon everything they knew of the nephilim. Together, they’d made preparations to evacuate their communities if the demons targeted Paris or Prague. When had that been? Ten months ago? A year?

  She hadn’t changed. Her gaze searched the room for threats as soon as she entered, a habit she’d possessed for as long as he’d known her. Her dark hair still framed her pixie face, making her dark eyes seem huge and guileless.

  But the hardness in her gaze was new.

  Sixty years ago, they’d parted well, both recognizing that they were better friends than partners. Camille didn’t like that she couldn’t manage him, and Deacon didn’t like being managed. Yves, however, was an easygo
ing sort. He had to be, the way he let Camille run him. Deacon had never figured out if Yves knew how quietly she could maneuver a man. Perhaps the vampire knew he was the appearance of leadership in Paris, and Camille was the reality of it.

  But unlike the last time they’d met with Deacon, Camille and Yves weren’t here as his friends. As the Paris elders, they were here to run him out.

  Protecting the community came first. It always came first. And when protecting his people went really fucking wrong, friendship didn’t matter so much anymore.

  One side of Deacon’s table stood flush against the wall; a corner lay behind him. When Yves sat across from Deacon and Camille to his left, their backs were exposed to the room. They wouldn’t like that. And if it made them edgy and defensive, that suited Deacon just fine. He was heading that way himself.

  He’d made a mess of everything else. Might as well start a big fucking mess here, too.

  “I am not sure which surprises me more, Deacon,” Camille said. “That we had to find out from one of our vampires that you were in Paris, or that when we find you, it is here.”

  Camille’s gaze lingered a second too long on Deacon’s empty plate. When her eyes met his, the conclusion she’d drawn was clear: He’d hidden from them.

  Like a coward.

  Smiling took effort. Judging by the way Yves shifted his weight, as if reaching for a weapon, that smile hadn’t looked friendly.

  “In other words, after your boys lost me, they called Mommy and Daddy for help. Can’t let the demon-loving bastard get away.” They didn’t confirm or deny it, but he knew that was how it’d gone down. “Untwist your panties, Camille. I’m just passing through.”

  “Passing through? But you’ve stopped.” Yves looked Deacon over. “And food obviously isn’t all you’ve been eating. No humans, Deacon. Not in our city.”

  Not anywhere. No community allowed vampires to drink from humans. “You’ve got a volunteer willing to feed me?”

  “No. Not for you.”

  “No” would have been enough. But the “Not for you” made it crystal clear.