Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

  Oh, God. She couldn’t be serious. “They destroy free will? They choose to become vampires.”

  “Yes.” Anaria’s face brightened, as if Taylor had just made a point for her. “You see? It is a disease, one that behaves in the same way as a demon. A demon doesn’t force a human to do anything, but preys upon a human’s greed, fear, anger until an irrevocable choice is made, and his soul is lost. Vampirism is the same. It preys upon a human’s fears: weakness, death—and the human chooses to throw away the protection of his free will. What human could reject the lure of immortality and strength, especially as they grow older and death comes closer? Very few. And once they’ve given up their free will, the demons would easily destroy them all when Lucifer opens the Gates to Hell again. Is not the Guardians’ purpose to prevent the destruction of humanity at the hands of the demons? Yet you protect the vampires, those selfsame creatures who will bring that destruction about.”

  Speechless, Taylor shook her head. And though she tried, Taylor could not find the point at which the argument fell apart. If more humans knew about vampires, many of them would choose to become immortal, and demons could kill humans after they transformed. It all made a twisted kind of sense, but was so wrong.

  A layer of Anaria’s harmonic voice deepened in sympathy. “I understand why this troubles you. Certainly you have vampire friends. But you should not let your emotions cloud your judgment.”

  Un-fucking-believable. “And I suppose Khavi’s prophecy, which states that vampires will be the downfall of your children, has not clouded your judgment at all?”

  “Of course not.” Anaria’s brow furrowed delicately. “Nothing that Khavi predicts is certain, and moreover, she is a liar. She foresees much more than she tells anyone, and manipulates everyone to her end. Her prophecy concerns me not at all.”

  That rang far too true. Khavi had predicted Taylor’s death at the hands of a vampire, but had not prevented it. For several months, Taylor had wondered and suspected that Khavi had put the events into motion that led to her death, simply so that Michael would have someone as a tether.

  Anaria watched her face. “You know this is true,” she said.

  “I don’t.”

  With a sigh, Anaria shook her head. “Do not try to lie. Truth was once my Gift, and I still see it clearly.”

  Well, shit. Taylor looked away from her as two of the nephilim strolled by. She glanced back at the grigori, who was smiling at them, her eyes shining with love.

  “They will be humanity’s saviors. First, from the vampires. And when I take the throne in Hell, they will ensure that humans only choose love and kindness, saving all from the tortures of the Pit. Can you not see them as I do?”

  Taylor thought it prudent not to answer that one. “Which one is the savior who killed the two vampires in London?”

  “Do you think I would tell you, when you so clearly wish to do him harm? You have nothing to fear from them—I have told them never to slay a Guardian, unless they must to defend themselves. And I have stressed that you in particular are not to be harmed. Can you not make the same promise in return?”

  Though her gentle expression didn’t change, a note of steel had entered Anaria’s voice. The mother, in full-on protection mode. Taylor stepped carefully.

  “I don’t have enough skill with a sword to harm any of your children.”

  Anaria relaxed and seemed to take that as a promise. “That is true.”

  Taylor hesitated, then ventured further. “The humans whose bodies they’ve taken . . . Do you think that—”

  “My children are in control.”

  Anaria anticipated her, which told Taylor this wasn’t the first time the question had come up. All right. So throw something unexpected at her.

  “So he meant to rape the vampires in London? I thought you only needed them dead. Not violated.”

  But Anaria’s eyes didn’t so much as flicker. “My children are new to their physical forms. They have been imprisoned for more than two thousand years, and have had little opportunity to experience what humans take for granted.” She paused. “And the vampires were not forced or tortured.”

  “Threatening someone’s life until they acquiesce is still force.”

  “That is not what happened.”

  Oh, Jesus. Taylor felt sick as she realized what that meant. “And you think that is okay?”

  Anaria gave her that infuriating speaking-to-a-child expression again. “My children are only spirit. They are living proof that a body is only a vessel, and without psychic energy to fill it, that vessel becomes empty. You are letting your emotions and your human sensibilities cloud your judgment again. My child did no harm.”

  “Except for murdering them.”

  “Slaying them,” Anaria said. “Even more necessary to humanity’s survival than slaying the demons.”

  There was no point in arguing there, Taylor realized. Anaria was absolutely convinced that the vampires were a cancer that needed to be eradicated. But to say that a body was just a meatsack, that it meant nothing to violate it? No. And this time, she wasn’t left speechless.

  “Then why do I have Michael’s body in my cache if it is merely a vessel?”

  Khavi had explained it to her: His soul manifested as flesh in Hell, but his physical form matched the resonance of his psyche and completed the link between them—like a tuning fork struck and held near a sympathetic string until both vibrated at the same frequency. Every individual’s resonance was as distinct as a DNA strand and was the only reason Taylor hadn’t dumped his body out of her cache, breaking the link between them. If she did, he couldn’t come back. Khavi worked even now, trying to discover a way to bring his soul out of the frozen field—but it would be for nothing if he had no body.

  She hated him. But she wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer.

  And now she’d surprised Anaria. Her brows arched high, her lips parting. She leaned forward. “How did Khavi know to link you in that way?”

  That, she’d never explained. “I don’t know.”

  “He inscribed symbols into his body, yes?”

  Taylor had been dying, but she remembered that part. Using Irena’s flaming knife, the blade heated by the power of a dragon’s heartblood, Khavi had carved the demon script into Michael’s torso, his back, and his neck.

  “Yes.”

  “And you took his blood from the symbol for ‘merge.’ ”

  She hadn’t known what the symbol was. And she hadn’t known that sucking down a mouthful of the Doyen’s blood wasn’t a part of the standard Guardian transformation.

  “Yes.”

  “Then he took your blood, and—”

  “No.” Taylor shook her head. “He didn’t take my blood.”

  Anaria’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You tell the truth, but you must be mistaken. The link cannot be completed without an exchange of blood. What did he do, then?”

  His lips, always so hard, had been soft against hers. He’d tasted her, kissed her as if he meant it . . . and she’d been completely lost in every deep stroke of his tongue. Her head already spinning from the wound to her chest, and he’d blown through her mind. She hadn’t even cared that only a minute before, she’d been unable to breathe and coughing up . . .

  Oh, God. Coughing up blood. Her mouth had been full of it.

  She didn’t know what the other woman saw in her expression, but Anaria’s voice was suddenly sympathetic again. “So he took your blood?”

  Taylor had to swallow before answering. “Yes.”

  “He is sometimes so thoughtless and focused only on his goal, he does not see the pain he leaves in his wake.” Anaria sighed. “He should have told you that he has kissed many, many women, so that you would know it meant nothing.”

  It hadn’t meant anything, Taylor wanted to say. But she didn’t think it’d pass Anaria’s truth test. Despite all the dark and cold and screaming afterward, that kiss had been . . . warm. A moment of hope and clarity, after fear and pain and confusion.
/>
  She refused to dwell on it, though. There was still so much to do—and two vampires who still needed their murderer confronted and accused. She lifted her gaze to Anaria’s.

  “If you’d introduce me, I’d love to meet your children.”

  Deacon didn’t need the dry air to tell him he’d been moved. That he was moving. Either the Guardians had invested in a private jet, or Rosalia had chartered a plane. He faced a line of oval windows, their shades pulled down. The steady drone of jet engines didn’t drown out her breathing and heartbeat. They sounded near and clear—and directly behind him.

  So she hadn’t taken the hint, after all. Instead she’d laid him out on his side in a half-reclined seat and pulled a blanket over his legs. Now she was probably waiting for him to roll on over, so that she could tell him which demon she’d set him up to kill.

  He’d just come fresh out of dreams of a demon crushing him, of killing his partners, and here she was pulling at his strings.

  Goddamn her.

  He closed his eyes, holding it in. Anger sparked the bloodlust, and he needed to be cold now. When he turned to look at her, he had to be a hard bastard, one who didn’t give a fuck about how soft she seemed.

  Not that he needed to look. The warmth of her breath touched the back of his neck. She had to be lying just behind him, in the same position as he was. Any closer and she’d be spooning him. And it was too damned easy to imagine these seats as a bed.

  He sat up. She remained half-lying in the seat, covered by a dark cloak that swallowed her body in its voluminous folds. The hood shadowed her face, concealing her expression.

  Irritated, he reached over and pulled it back, expecting to reveal her sad eyes and the gaze that saw right through him. She had them closed, instead. Relief helped him even out his voice, smooth out his frustration. “When are you going to quit, sister?”

  “I can’t quit.” She still didn’t open her eyes, but she didn’t need to. Grief and anger suddenly burst through her shields, both as familiar to Deacon as his face in the mirror. “The nephilim killed my family.”

  She said that like she’d had family worth saving.

  But he couldn’t be rough on her while sitting this close. Spotting his clothes piled on the seat facing him, he took the opportunity to grab a little distance before he said, “I’m not crying over that, sister. If any vampire deserved what the nephilim did to him, it was your brother.”

  “No. I don’t mean Lorenzo.”

  She had other family?

  When he turned back around, she’d raised the back of the seat, but still sat half-turned with her legs curled beneath her. A man sitting like that would look broken; Rosalia just looked comfortable.

  But was she? Her fingers poked out of the wide sleeves to play with the folds of her cloak. And she’d opened her eyes, but didn’t look at Deacon, directing a pain-filled stare at the shaded windows.

  “Not just him,” she continued. “The nephilim slaughtered every vampire in Rome, including friends who’d shared my abbey for more than one hundred years.”

  Deacon remembered her abbey. She’d brought him there after he’d slain Caym in Prague. He’d stayed in her home for only a few minutes, but that had been long enough. Every piece of furniture and every decoration had told him a family had lived there, filled with warmth and steeped in history.

  Walking through that place so soon after losing Eva and Petra had been like a knife to his chest. And he hadn’t considered until now why only one woman—a human—had been in the abbey when he’d woken up.

  He hadn’t considered until now that the empty home might stab through Rosalia’s heart every time she walked through it, too.

  “Fourteen vampires,” she continued softly. “Some had lived with me since their transformation. I trained them. I fought with them. I saw them live and love. But the nephilim came . . . and now almost all of my family is gone.”

  Those staring eyes glistened with tears. Deacon turned and hiked up his jeans, giving her the moment she obviously needed.

  So she’d had her own little community in Rome. Friends, maybe a lover.

  No. Scratch that. Any man good enough to be with someone like Rosalia would have torn Rome apart trying to find her when she’d been in the catacombs. First stop would have been her brother, and Deacon hadn’t heard any rumors that Lorenzo had slain another vampire around that time. And Deacon would have heard the rumors; Rosalia’s brother had liked every other community leader knowing just how strong he was.

  “Your friends,” he said. “Anyone I know?”

  “One, though she had moved away from the abbey before you met her. She wasn’t with those slaughtered.” Before he could ask who that was, she said, “And I was trapped in the catacombs while they were dying. I still would be trapped there, if not for you.”

  If not for him? She had her gratitude on backward. Caym had told Deacon to lead the Guardians to the catacombs in hope that the nosferatu waiting there would kill them all. Rosalia’s rescue hadn’t been a part of it.

  “I hate to point out the obvious, sister, but even if you hadn’t been trapped, you couldn’t have done anything to save them. The nephilim would have killed you, too.”

  “I’d rather have died trying.” For the first time since he’d woken, she looked at him. “Don’t you hate being in a position where no matter what you do, it ends badly?”

  All right. He’d walked right into that. No matter what decision he’d made while dealing with Caym, it would’ve ended badly—for his community, for himself, or for the Guardians. She’d chosen a heavy-handed way of making her point, though.

  He tried to summon up a little anger toward her. He couldn’t. And now that he was on this ride, he might as well see where they were headed. He assumed she had another demon for him to kill.

  And he had to admit, as easy as slaying Farkas had been, killing him had been more satisfying than waiting around for Theriault.

  When he glanced at her again, she was back to staring at the windows. “So what do you have planned for tonight?”

  “We’ll be landing in Athens within an hour.”

  “Sardis’s community? He’s a prick.” His vampires deserved better. “Let the demon kill him.”

  “Valeotes—the demon—doesn’t intend to slay Sardis. At least not yet. He’s put Sardis and the community into his pocket. Valeotes promises protection; they give up blood in return.”

  And how long before the demon asked Sardis to do worse? “Everyone knows the shit Caym pulled on me, yet Sardis is taking that risk and working with him?”

  “As you said, he’s a prick. An arrogant one.”

  Her lip curled slightly, as if she’d smelled something foul. So Sardis disgusted her. Deacon couldn’t fault her taste in people.

  Heh. She must think it unfortunate that her plan included hanging around him. “And what’d you think of me when you found out about Caym? That I was a prick? Arrogant?”

  Rosalia looked at him. Her smile formed slowly, as if she held secrets behind it that she didn’t want to let out too soon.

  Or let them out at all. She didn’t answer him, but said, “After Caym destroyed your people, the Guardians visited every vampire community and killed any demons leading them. Most were Lucifer’s demons, but Belial’s demons obviously learned from it. Now they aren’t leading the vampires directly—either to avoid notice by the Guardians or because the nephilim kill the vampires’ leaders.”

  “What about Farkas?” The demon had planned to take over Budapest.

  “Farkas was Theriault’s demon. Not as smart, twice as arrogant. Valeotes follows Malkvial.”

  Was she still looking for that one? “Are you hoping to get Malkvial’s human name out of him, then?”

  “No. Taking the time to question him would be too dangerous for you—and Valeotes would just lie. I simply don’t want Valeotes’s fingers on any of Sardis’s buttons when you bring the European communities together.”

  She really thought that was g
oing to happen? She didn’t give up easily. He couldn’t decide whether her determination despite certain failure made her foolish or admirable.

  But he imagined that his quest for revenge probably looked the same from her end.

  “You said Malkvial intends to slaughter vampires once he’s taken the lieutenant’s position. So why would one of his demons pair up with Sardis?”

  “Because Sardis might be useful.”

  Yes. Vampires could kill humans. God knew what else. “So we kill Valeotes before that happens. Before he can use anyone.”

  “You’ll kill him, yes. We’ll be arriving in Athens just after sunset. That will give us time to look over Sardis’s compound before you go in.”

  A compound. Deacon knew the general layout only through other vampires’ descriptions. He’d never visited Sardis.

  What she’d said finally struck him. “After sunset?”

  “Yes.” She smiled slightly. “I do not imagine that anyone will detect my Gift, unless they are also flying at 35,000 feet.”

  He still couldn’t grasp it. “It’s daytime. Outside. Now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Her brows lifted. “Look.”

  Pulling in a deep breath, Deacon turned toward the windows and reached for the shade. Rosalia didn’t stop him. Taking her silence as a sign that he wouldn’t burst into flames, he slid the window shade up.

  His knees almost buckled. Daylight spilled through the glass onto his hand and arm. In ninety years, he hadn’t felt that warmth. Swallowing hard, he looked through the window. A shadow lay across the glass, like seeing through sunglasses, but outside it was unmistakably day. White clouds floated against a blue sky. And . . . the sun.

  He’d forgotten how bright it was. Even through the shadow that Rosalia’s Gift created, he had to squint. Incredible.

  About to say as much, he turned, but the distress on Rosalia’s face stopped him. Her skin had paled, and her eyes were tightly closed. Pain bracketed her mouth, held her body rigid.

  As if his silence tipped off Rosalia that he was looking at her, she glanced up at him before closing her eyes again. “My Gift isn’t . . . compatible . . . with the sun.”