Demon Blood Page 9

  Many other community leaders would have refused to protect the vampire from Lorenzo. Before Rosalia had returned from Caelum, her brother had slain community leaders who’d harbored runaways, fearing that leniency would be interpreted as weakness. She’d managed to thwart him since her return, but by that time, vampires throughout Europe had become so terrified of him that few dared try to escape, and fewer communities would harbor those who did.

  Deacon had known that Lorenzo would come for him, yet he’d still given the young vampire his protection, confirming every belief she’d had in his goodness and his courage, even in the face of a powerful opponent.

  In ninety years, he’d confirmed it many times, so often choosing the right path over the easy or the safe one. She just needed to convince him that her path was just as important, just as right.

  Always easier said than done.

  A woman passing by Rosalia suddenly dropped into the chair to her left. Taken by surprise, Rosalia called in her bladed fan beneath the table and turned. When she saw Mariko’s familiar face framed by black hair cut into an angular fringe, she let out a breath.

  “No Gifts,” Rosalia said. “No psychic senses.”

  “I know. I’d heard you were hiding.” Mariko looked Rosalia up and down, taking in her jeans, sandals, and red T-shirt. “Not in your usual way.”

  “No.” Because she wasn’t hiding. The exposure made her uncomfortable, but she wouldn’t be recognized. She’d spent two hundred years wearing other skins, except for when she’d been with Guardians and her vampires in Rome.

  Mariko pointed to Rosalia’s plate, piled high with pastries. “Are those koláče?”

  “Yes.” Sampling food from carts and cafés throughout the morning had been the best part of shadowing Conley. Knowing her friend’s dislike of anything that had once resembled a fruit, she said, “The ones at the bottom are filled with cheese.”

  Mariko dug in and snagged two. Quick to laugh, quick to fight, the Guardian had trained in Caelum during the last twenty years that Rosalia had been a novice. Rather than being killed by her brother, Mariko had become a Guardian by saving hers. When Rosalia returned to Earth with the intention of helping Lorenzo, Mariko had been Rosalia’s staunchest supporter. By the time Mariko became a full-fledged Guardian, however, only her friendship with Rosalia prevented her from killing the vampire herself.

  Rosalia wasn’t sorry she hadn’t given up on Lorenzo. And she was forever grateful that Mariko hadn’t slipped in and killed her brother behind Rosalia’s back, like hacking off a gangrenous limb. Mariko preferred to get the pain over quickly, to make clean breaks.

  Rosalia admired that. She never managed to do it herself.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I called Gemma. Is that the one you’re looking at?”

  “Yes.”

  Knowing better than to say “demon” aloud, Mariko kept it simple. “Is he?”

  “I don’t think so. Look at her wrist.”

  She knew Mariko would immediately recognize the bruises in the shape of fingers on Nikki’s wrist.

  Mariko whistled through her teeth. “Bastard.”

  “And still alive,” Rosalia pointed out.

  Demons couldn’t physically hurt humans. If they did and broke the Rules, a nephil would be called—teleporting to the demon’s location—to slay him. A demon might fight back, but the nephilim were stronger, faster, than demons. Even most Guardians couldn’t defeat a nephil alone.

  Rosalia added, “But I’m not certain it was he who hurt her. So I wait.”

  “And if he did and is human? You’re hiding, so you can’t pull your ‘I’m going to shape-shift into a scary bitch and frighten him straight’ routine.”

  That routine never worked as well as it should, anyway. “Maybe something else.”

  “This is why we all need dogs,” Mariko said, frowning. “We could sic them on the people we don’t like.”

  “Hmm,” was Rosalia’s only response. She studied her friend. Mariko seemed edgy—making inane comments and picking at her pastry filling, but not yet taking a bite. Was she not doing her usual thing, either? Perhaps putting something off?

  “Why would you call Gemma?”

  Mariko took a deep breath. “The London community elders were slain last night and no one claimed their position,” she said, then crammed the pastry into her mouth.

  Oh, God. The slaughter of the vampire communities in every other city had been preceded by the deaths of the communities’ leaders. Why the nephilim killed the elders first, no one knew—only that each massacre had those early deaths in common.

  “How much time separated the others? How much time between the elders being killed and the entire city?” Rosalia had only heard the stories secondhand. She’d been beneath a church in Rome with a spike through her forehead when her brother had been killed—then a month later, her family. All slaughtered by the nephilim.

  “The shortest was two weeks. The longest was three months.”

  “In Seattle, they stopped the slaughter.” More than a year had passed since a Guardian had slain the nephil who’d killed the Seattle elders. That vampire community hadn’t been targeted again.

  “And we’re going to try to stop it in London, too. I’m here to tell you that, although you wanted everyone to stay out of Europe, a few of us will be in London.” Mariko held up her hand, though Rosalia hadn’t been going to protest. She couldn’t look for the nephil in London, find Malkvial, and bring the vampire communities together under Deacon. “We’re talking about evacuation, but there isn’t another community that wants to risk taking them in and moving the target to their cities. So we might bring them here to Prague.”

  Where many of the vampires’ homes and gathering places still lay empty after Caym had slaughtered Deacon’s community. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.

  “So we have two weeks—maybe—until another city is slaughtered,” Rosalia said.

  Mariko nodded.

  London had two hundred and seventy-three vampires in their community. Rosalia knew their names and faces, their stories. And if the Guardians—Rosalia’s friends—were in London when the nephilim came, hoping to stop their attack . . . many would die.

  Mariko read her face. “So whatever you have planned, Rosa—”

  “I need to do it fast.”

  “Yes. And I’ll help—”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have to take this on alone.”

  “I won’t be.”

  Mariko snorted. “Because you’ll be with him? Turn your back and he’ll stab you—”

  “Don’t.” Rosalia couldn’t think that way about Deacon. If she didn’t trust him, it was all over.

  “You think he’ll help you? Yes, he was forced to give up the info about us. Yes, he was used. But he didn’t ask for help. He didn’t think we could help him. Why do you think he’ll believe you can do this?”

  “I don’t know.” Rosalia heard the despair in her voice. She didn’t know if Deacon would believe in her. And now he’d resist her even more, because with the nephilim threatening London, she’d have to force the issue. Use him. She couldn’t wait for him to soften and agree to help her. And with one word from Deacon to a demon, to another vampire, her game would be up. “I want it done. All at once. And if it goes wrong, he already expects to die seeking his revenge. He’s already on this route.”

  “What route are you on?” When Rosalia didn’t answer, Mariko clenched her teeth and looked away. “We’re only supposed to sacrifice once.”

  “Tell that to Michael.”

  “He did that so you wouldn’t have to, too.”

  “No.” Rosalia shook her head. “He did that so we all wouldn’t have to. And that’s why you have to go.”

  “Dammit, Rosa—”

  “I’m not dead yet. And I don’t intend to be. But there’s little I can control now, and the more people who are involved, the more variables, the less I can predict the outcome . . . and the harder
it will be to make the decisions I might need to. But believe me, Mariko—sacrificing myself is never going to be my first decision.”

  She had a son. A grandchild on the way. If she had any choice at all, never would leaving them alone be her decision.

  Mariko let out a heavy, frustrated breath. “And him? You can anticipate him?”

  “Yes.” An ache bloomed in her chest. “He’s going to be very, very angry with me.”

  “But not that kind of angry,” Mariko said, narrowing her eyes at Conley. Obviously thinking of those bruises again.

  No, Deacon wouldn’t be that kind of angry.

  “Excuse me,” Rosalia said, and rose from her chair.

  With the sun lightly warming her face, she walked across the brick-paved street. The small table that Conley and Nikki shared had been cleared of their meal. He scribbled on a receipt; Nikki had lapsed into a sulking silence.

  Rosalia stopped beside her, and brushed her fingers lightly over the other woman’s wrist. “You don’t have to stay.”

  Nikki yanked her hand back. “What the—”

  “You deserve better than this,” she said.

  Conley’s chair scraped as he shot to his feet. His hand clamped around Rosalia’s upper arm.

  A warm hand. Not hot. Not a demon’s.

  A vein throbbed in his temple. “Get the hell away from her, bitch.”

  When he shoved, Rosalia didn’t move. She addressed Nikki alone. “I cared for a man who would as soon spit on me as talk to me, and he never changed. No matter what I did, he never changed. What do you owe this man that you haven’t paid for, over and over? You deserve better,” she repeated.

  Nikki’s gaze dropped to her wrist, shutting her out. Conley stopped trying to push Rosalia, spinning around and shouting for the management.

  Rosalia sighed and turned. Mariko shot her a thumbs-up, which changed to a flip of her middle finger when Conley yelled after her.

  “I still say a dog would have been better,” Mariko said when Rosalia reached her seat. “One bite, right to the balls.”

  “Conley is the type who’d kick a dog.”

  “So, better that he kicks us?”

  “Yes. And better than kicking her.”

  “True.” Mariko sighed, and they both watched Conley hurry the woman off, his anger radiating against Rosalia’s psychic senses like heat. “She might take a few anyway.”

  Rosalia wasn’t so sure. Nikki glanced back at her. When she looked up at Conley again, a new hardness had entered her eyes.

  It wouldn’t be that easy. It was never that easy. But at least it was something.

  Four hours later, Rosalia sat cross- legged on the bed in Deacon’s hotel room, watching him sleep. Afternoon light formed a glow around the edges of the heavy curtains, but didn’t penetrate. This was her element. The darkness. Where she was most powerful, most certain.

  She did not feel so powerful or certain now.

  Like all vampires in their daysleep, Deacon appeared dead. He didn’t breathe, didn’t move, and she could barely discern his heartbeat. But he had a heartbeat. And if she made one mistake, took one wrong step, she risked both their lives.

  She should let him go. She should try to carry this out on her own. But even a hint of Guardian involvement would endanger them all—and endanger the vampires, when no Guardians were left to protect them.

  Camille could bring the vampire communities together, but Malkvial would be suspicious if she approached him. He’d sniff out Rosalia’s presence. But Deacon, who’d betrayed the Guardians? Approaching Malkvial would still be dangerous, but the possibility existed that he’d believe Deacon if the vampire proposed an alliance.

  No one else fit. No one else was as strong as Deacon. And there was no one else whom she trusted so deeply.

  Leaning forward, she studied his face. She wished he still wore long hair so that she could smooth it back, have an excuse to touch him. Instead, she rose from the bed and vanished all of his belongings into her cache. She retrieved the body bag she used to move vampires during the daytime, and had almost finished zipping him into it when she felt another presence in the room.

  Calling in her crossbow, she whipped around.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Rosalia barely recognized Taylor, the new Doyen. Dried blood stained the sleeve and front of her white shirt. Her dark trousers were wrinkled, her bare feet filthy. She stank of nosferatu and a sewer. Her red hair formed a wild tangle around her pale face—and Michael had linked himself to her in some way. Her eyes were fully obsidian, hard and gleaming, deeper than black.

  She seemed to be struggling against something, though Rosalia couldn’t see anything holding her.

  “Are you all right?” Though concerned for the woman, Rosalia didn’t lower her crossbow.

  Taylor didn’t answer right away. Her hands made small, jerky movements, opening and closing—reaching for something, or forcing herself not to.

  Finally she spoke, her voice a strange, familiar harmony. Beneath the detective’s voice, Rosalia heard Michael’s melodic one. “You can . . . protect the vampire from me?”

  Protect Deacon? Oh, God. Protect him from a new Guardian, yes. If Michael was in there, too, Rosalia wasn’t so sure.

  But there was no other answer to give. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Taylor’s chest heaved, as if she teetered on the verge of crying. “I don’t mean to come here. But he brings me here.”

  “You’ve come before?”

  She answered with a jerky nod. She still hadn’t moved from her crouch by the door. Rosalia still hadn’t lowered her crossbow.

  “How many times?”

  “Every day. For a week.”

  So often? Fear crackled through Rosalia’s spine like ice doused with water. Thank God this woman seemed to have some control. “And Michael tells you to kill him?”

  Taylor shook her head. “Not . . . words. Not thought.”

  For six months now, Michael had been tortured in that frozen field. Rosalia couldn’t imagine the pain, the terror. But she could imagine how the surface of any human could be stripped away. How Michael’s thoughts could be distilled to base reactions, base emotions. “Impulses?”

  “Yes.” Another chill ran through her when Taylor said, “His impulses are terrifying. Just, Kill. Kill. I can’t separate his from mine. But I know this one . . . is not me.” Those obsidian eyes glistened. “I don’t want to kill him. It’s not me.”

  Rosalia nodded. “I’ll watch over him.”

  Taylor closed her eyes. “Thank you.”

  Quietly, Rosalia regarded the other woman. She’d jumped into the room without Rosalia sensing it. Was it even Taylor’s Gift . . . or Michael’s? “Can you teleport?”

  “Yes. When I regain control. Then I’ll get out of here—”

  “Not without us.” Rosalia turned and finished pulling the body bag’s zipper up over Deacon’s face. “There’s another hotel room in another city waiting.”

  And there, Rosalia would face whatever Deacon had to dish out. God knew she was going to deserve it.

  CHAPTER 6

  If Hell existed on Earth, Deacon imagined it’d look like his dreams while he slept.

  Every day for six months, they’d been the same. Lucid memories of the white-hot pain as Caym crushed his bones. The scent of his blood. The terror on Eva’s and Petra’s faces. And his grief and rage when Caym poured their ashes onto the floor. Over and over, until the sun set.

  Waking was a release Deacon wasn’t sure he deserved. He welcomed it, all the same—waking every night meant he had another opportunity to make the bastard demons pay.

  But when he woke, this time he didn’t immediately open his eyes and get on with it. His first shallow breath tasted cool and dry, as if the muggy Paris air had been run through a filter. The sheets smelled of lavender, not the harsh bleach of the bedding he’d fallen asleep on.

  He’d been moved. And whoever had brought him to this new room had remained here, heart pounding. His
psychic probe touched a familiar mind. Sweetness and sadness rolled up into one.

  Rosalia. He should’ve fucking guessed.

  He sat up. “Get out.”

  In a red dress, she sat on a love seat printed with fat pink roses, her legs curled under her, hair spilling over her shoulder. Her arms were crossed beneath her breasts, her fingers tucked into her elbows. Her eyes, those big goddamn brown eyes, looked for all the world like she’d expected that response from him. Like she’d been waiting to be kicked.

  “Let me explain,” she said.

  How long would it take him to dress and get the hell out of here? He threw back the sheet. “You’ve got about five seconds, sister.”

  “The London elders are dead. In two weeks, perhaps a bit more, the rest of the community will be, too.”

  The nephilim. Shit.

  But it had fuck-all to do with him. “Sounds like a problem for the Guardians. I’m not after the nephilim.”

  “I know. But to get to them, I have to go through Belial’s demons. That’s where you come in.”

  No, this was where he got out. He found his clothes tucked away in the bureau. Quaint little place. The kind of hotel where porcelain figures of children in lederhosen probably kicked their heels up on the reception desk.

  He cleaned out the drawers, throwing his shit on the bed. Spying his weapons, jacket, and bag in the closet, he went for them. Rosalia came up off the sofa, shadowing him, still talking like she had something to say that might change his mind.

  “I need to get to Malkvial before I get to the nephilim. But I can’t do it without putting the Guardians in danger. And if the Guardians are in danger, then every vampire is, too.”

  “Guardians can’t save us anyway.”

  “We wouldn’t know, would we? You didn’t ask for help and let us try to save your people.”

  So she’d stoop to hitting below the belt, would she? His jaw tight, he looked over at her, but she already appeared to be regretting it. But she wasn’t giving up. Her lips pressed together before she tried again.

  “We stopped the nephilim in Seattle,” she pointed out.