Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

  And hadn’t been since he’d woken up, Deacon realized. Maintaining this shield inside the cabin had been the reason for her blank stare—and obviously the direct sunlight, even the sliver coming through the window, made it worse.

  With a final look outside, he lowered the shade, then sat to pull on his boots. Her sigh indicated some relief, but her fingers still clutched the folds of her cloak and her eyes remained closed.

  Deacon laced up his boots, feeling a little shaky himself. Though he’d come to accept the differences between living as a vampire and as a human, he had no idea how a vampire fell asleep at sunrise and caught fire at the touch of the sun. Natural law couldn’t account for it. Obviously something bigger was at work, a force more powerful than nature.

  And he’d accepted that the Guardians’ Gifts could rewrite natural rules, too. Irena shaped metal to her will. Alejandro could create fire from nothing and control the flames’ intensity. Other Guardians could teleport or instantly heal wounds.

  But accepting that Rosalia’s Gift could rewrite even the powerful unnatural rules that governed vampires knocked him for a loop . . . and humbled him.

  Leaning back in his seat, he looked down at her. With her legs curled under her, she had to sit sideways. The cushioned seatback pillowed her cheek. Her dark hair hung in tangled waves over her shoulder. The pain had eased from her features, so that she almost appeared to be sleeping.

  The princess, waiting for her kiss. Deacon wasn’t even close to qualifying for a prince.

  And maybe “princess” didn’t fit her so well, either. A Guardian’s Gift reflected some part of their human life. He couldn’t figure out why a woman like Rosalia would have darkness for a Gift.

  “So,” he said, and saw that a single word opened her eyes as quickly as a kiss would have, “what’s the story behind your Gift?”

  “I don’t know. It could be the manner in which I died—my connection to vampires.”

  She didn’t sound convinced of that. “You must’ve thought of other reasons.”

  “Oh, I have.” She laughed softly, but it didn’t last. Looking up into his eyes, she seemed to hesitate, as if uncertain whether to reveal the rest. Then her mouth firmed, determination slipped into her psychic scent, and she continued. “Perhaps from when I was a girl. My father . . . I do not know if a demon arranged for his death, or if my father died of natural causes and a demon took advantage of the opportunity. But one day, my father was no longer himself.”

  “A demon took his place?”

  “Yes. Lorenzo and I didn’t know then what had happened. And my mother . . . she didn’t last long.”

  That had to have been rough. “But you?”

  “Lorenzo and I avoided him as much as possible. My father didn’t care about us, anyway. Not until we were useful . . .” She stumbled and broke eye contact before finishing quietly, “. . . to him.”

  Useful. So he’d been right; she didn’t like forcing him into this. He didn’t like it much, either, but he didn’t have the urge to tell her to fuck off. Seeing this side of her had gotten to him.

  That didn’t sit well with him, either—but he wasn’t going to stop her from revealing herself, now that she’d started.

  “I challenged him once,” she continued. “I told him I knew what he was, and he ordered one of the servants to lock me into a wardrobe. No light, no food or water. He left me there for three days.”

  He could picture that all too easily. Alone in the dark, in her own filth. Hungry and terrified.

  But her voice warmed as she remembered. “Lorenzo was on the other side of the door. He tried to help me, to open the wardrobe. And when he couldn’t—he was so young then—he sat talking to me. At night, he slept outside the wardrobe doors. That’s what I remember best. The dark, yes—but also Lorenzo’s voice. They were both comforting. I felt safe. The dark was less frightening than being outside with Father.”

  Jesus. And that explained why she hadn’t slain her brother. Deacon and every other vampire in Europe just knew Lorenzo Acciaioli as a sadistic, tyrannical bastard. But he and Rosalia had probably spent most of their human lives protecting each other.

  “But your father didn’t let you die.”

  “No. Eventually I would be useful. He could marry me off.”

  The revulsion in her expression didn’t surprise Deacon, but his own anger did. This had all happened centuries ago. The thought of Rosalia being forced to marry shouldn’t feel like a punch to his gut. “Did he?”

  “No. I ran away to the convent. I thought Lorenzo would be safe, too—he’d already left our home. But he was not.”

  “Your father talked him into the transformation.”

  Acciaioli would have to be convinced. Most humans died after being transformed against their will.

  “Yes. He became a vampire and visited the abbey with my father. And that was the end of my human life—and the end of the demon’s life, too.”

  The way she skimmed over the details told him that it must have been bad. He focused on the good part. “You killed the demon?”

  “Michael did.” A shadow passed over her face. She adjusted her position, bringing her knees up beneath that long cloak. After a moment, she continued. “When I finished training in Caelum, I returned to Rome, where Lorenzo was already heading a community. I tried to help him—to change him. But obviously I did not; I barely contained him.”

  Because Acciaioli hadn’t just been a vampire. He’d been nosferatu-born, and strong. Unsurprisingly, he’d ruled his community unchallenged. The only surprise was that he hadn’t tried to take over the other European communities.

  Only recently had Deacon realized that they had Rosalia to thank for that.

  Almost seven years ago, Acciaioli had come to Prague looking for a fight. With Acciaioli had been his weird little brother; Deacon hadn’t known then it was Rosalia, shape-shifted. In that strange, pubescent-vampire disguise, she’d kissed Deacon—a halting, awkward kiss that had turned his stomach—and Acciaioli, who’d witnessed the kiss, had left Prague as fast as he could charter a flight.

  Whether Acciaioli had been embarrassed or disgusted, Deacon didn’t know. But Rosalia had obviously known what to do and how her brother would react—and had probably saved Deacon’s life.

  “Why didn’t the other Guardians slay him?”

  “He wasn’t breaking the Rules, so they left him alone.”

  And Guardians rarely interfered with vampire communities. “They couldn’t have liked it, though.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps not, but I wasn’t in Caelum or with other Guardians enough to worry about it. When I wasn’t trying to manage Lorenzo, I served the Church. I owed them for taking me in.”

  When she’d been human? Three centuries had passed. She had a completely fucked-up sense of obligation. “You work for the Vatican?”

  “I did.” She tugged at her cloak sleeves before hiding her hands within the wide material. “Now the Church doesn’t acknowledge my existence. Lorenzo is gone, and most of my family has been slaughtered. So I am just a Guardian again. Perhaps it’s what I should have been all along.”

  That bothered him. Whatever she’d been, “just a Guardian” would never fit. From just talking to her for ten minutes, he’d learned that much.

  And to think he’d imagined that he had Rosalia figured out, based on the little he knew. But he hadn’t guessed any of this about her. He’d been better off not knowing. Pushing her away was easier when she was just a gorgeous face, sad eyes, and a great pair of tits.

  Goddammit. She wasn’t supposed to matter. But now he knew what drove her. He just didn’t know how far she’d take it—or how long she’d drag him with her.

  Deacon glanced at her, realized she’d been watching him. Those sad eyes were back, and with a sigh, she uncurled her legs and sat forward in her seat.

  “I have to withdraw my Gift. If I wait until we’re in Athens, someone might feel it and know a Guardian is near.”

  Withdraw her G
ift . . . and put him back to sleep? Oh, hell. Not yet—

  Gritting her teeth against the pain sawing at every nerve, Rosalia reclined Deacon’s seat before collapsing into her own. Using her Gift during the day felt like being shredded from the inside out. And like a physical injury, it took time to recover.

  Long, shallow breaths helped her focus. After a few minutes, she opened her eyes. Deacon lay in the next seat, his big body motionless, his heart barely beating.

  Had anything she’d revealed had made a difference? She didn’t know. Though he hadn’t been as angry with her tonight, she still felt his resistance.

  What if she couldn’t persuade him? What would she do then?

  Despair followed her uncertainty; she forced them both away. She couldn’t afford to consider failure.

  But, dear God, she needed Deacon to believe that slaying the nephilim was important enough to see his part through to the end. Needed him to see that it wasn’t enough to kill as many of Belial’s demons as possible before one killed him. And Deacon had to believe that she could pull off the endgame—because after Deacon brought the communities together, Rosalia needed him to make an alliance that he would never consider otherwise. Not if he simply walked a path of revenge.

  But she had to believe in him, too. She had an advantage, though. She’d known him for so long, had admired his strength, his will, and his heart—and so that belief came easier to her than it would to him.

  He’d be angry when she asked him to form that alliance. But if he believed in the necessity of killing them all—demons and nephilim—he’d follow through.

  And by asking, she’d lose any chance she might have ever had to be with him. A chance that seemed so vital now. She risked her heart, but she had to hope it wouldn’t be broken.

  That heart sat heavy in her chest as she studied his profile. So many times she’d watched him, but never from this close. Near enough to touch, to explore the rough line of his jaw with her fingers, to feel the firmness of his mouth. So strong and hard, even while he slept.

  Did he dream?

  Lightly, she reached out with a psychic touch.

  Grief. Agony. They wrapped around her throat like a scream. Beneath them, rage and self-hatred seethed around a deep sense of purpose and an incredible will.

  Gasping for breath, Rosalia retreated. All vampires dreamed vividly, fueled by powerful emotion. She had no doubt he relived the murder of his people. Everything that fed his need for revenge—and his resistance to her—she’d felt in that psychic touch.

  An incredible will.

  She turned away, drawing her cloak tighter around her body. When Deacon saw the necessity of killing the demons and nephilim, when he wanted their destruction as badly as he wanted revenge, that incredible will would carry him through.

  And she’d probably never had a real chance with him, anyway.

  Before he’d lost his community, Deacon had earned his income by restoring classic automobiles. Rosalia hadn’t been able to secure one to rent on such short notice, but what the car she’d chosen lacked in age, it made up for in power.

  Deacon didn’t hide his appreciation as he circled the black Maserati convertible, his fingers stroking its gleaming lines. “If we’re going top down, you’d better pull back your hair.”

  As if she didn’t regularly fly with her long hair unbound. “I can withstand a few tangles.”

  His gaze lifted to her hair as he swung open her door. “At least it’ll look like you actually fed a vampire.”

  Yes. Tangled and mussed, as if he’d taken blood from her, not from a glass. As if they spent the first hour after sunset in his bed.

  Her skin tightened and her blood warmed as she pictured it. She wouldn’t have him, perhaps, but maybe . . . maybe at some point, she could hold him against her. His lips to hers, bodies aligned. To take him inside . . . She could barely even imagine how that would feel.

  But she wanted to know.

  Deacon waited, holding the door. His gaze had fallen to her neck. His expression had darkened, as if his words had given him similar thoughts, but they plagued him rather than brought pleasure. Fighting her disappointment, Rosalia slipped into her seat, inhaling his scent as she passed him.

  Beneath the clean fragrance of the soap, he possessed the same natural odor he’d had as a human male, but with a metallic undertone that marked him as a vampire. No cologne tonight. He didn’t need to conceal his nature from the demon. She did, however.

  The engine growled before settling down into a purr. Deacon entered the address for Sardis’s compound into the GPS system, and it immediately responded with directions that would take them out of Athens. As they drove out of the lot, Rosalia pulled in a perfume bottle from her cache, spritzing the fragrance on her neck and arms. Deacon glanced at her, his brow furrowed.

  “That’s not just perfume.”

  “It contains female human sweat.” Most vampires didn’t know that Guardians had no odor, but one might look at her more closely if he sensed something missing—even if he couldn’t pinpoint what that something was. “And my hair is taken care of, but if we want them to believe you are feeding from me . . .”

  She brought in one of his unwashed shirts from her cache. Concentrating on her neck and chest, she slid it over her exposed skin, transferring his scent.

  Deacon made a disgusted sound. “Give me a little credit, sister.”

  She lifted her leg, propped her foot up on the dash. She rubbed the shirt over the insides of her thighs. “Feel better?”

  His slow, sexy smile appeared and sent her senses purring in time with the engine. “I meant that wouldn’t fool me. There’d be a lot more sweat and the scent of blood.”

  With a smile, she vanished the shirt and settled deeper into the seat. “Most vampires aren’t you. And it’s ‘Rosalia.’ ”

  “What?”

  “My name.” Until he’d called her “Rosie” the night before, she’d thought he didn’t remember her name. He’d certainly never used it. “I’m not ‘sister.’ Not anymore.”

  His gaze ran up her legs. “Don’t I know it.”

  A few minutes earlier when he’d held the car door open for her, she hadn’t been certain if he did know it, but now his dark mood seemed to have lightened. She tried to watch him through the curtain of hair streaming forward past her face—not quite like flying, after all—before giving up and braiding it. He glanced at her, and though he didn’t say, “I told you so,” his eyes glinted with humor, and his fangs flashed in a grin.

  Not abrasive, not angry—and reminded her of how Deacon had once made it so easy to like him. Even when doubt had driven him out of the clergy and into the boxing ring, when he’d been battered both body and soul, he’d been quick to take his enjoyment where he found it. Quick to smile and to laugh, even with his eyes swollen to slits and his nose bleeding.

  She’d thought that Caym had broken that in him. Or, like so many who blamed themselves for their loved ones’ deaths, he wouldn’t let himself take pleasure in anything. Perhaps he made an exception when he controlled a ridiculous amount of horsepower.

  But even as she watched, his expression closed, leaving no trace of his grin. With a sigh, Rosalia pulled in her makeup out of her cache, applying a heavy line around her eyes and black lipstick.

  Though he glanced over at her, Deacon didn’t say anything until she changed her clothes, exchanging the sundress for a black miniskirt, thigh-high stiletto boots, and a top so small she was thankful she didn’t really have to breathe.

  “What the hell are you wearing?”

  “I’m giving them what they expect.” Vampires and demons too often trusted appearances; Guardians never did. “A whore looking for a dangerous thrill. Someone you paid and who doesn’t know any better. Who else would deign to be with you after what Caym did?”

  His jaw clenched so hard that his skin paled beneath the shadow of his beard. “You don’t care if they think you’re a whore?”

  “Why should I? I am wha
t I am; how someone treats me doesn’t change that.”

  He cursed. Rosalia stared at him. He seemed more bothered by it than she was—and she hadn’t thought he’d care at all. There’d been every possibility that she’d be treated like a whore in Budapest, miniskirt or not, and he hadn’t been concerned about the vampires’ response then.

  And he knew what sort of vampire Sardis was. Surely he hadn’t expected different? “If I go in as myself, both he and Valeotes will take time to figure me out, so that they can put me in my place. Especially Sardis, because he likes to put women in their place. But if I go in like this, they don’t have to think about it. They’ll assume that they know.”

  “Right.” Though he agreed, it clearly frustrated him. As if trying to get a grip on that emotion, he pushed his hand through his hair with fingers so rigid she was surprised he didn’t scalp himself. “Just . . . stay close. We both know exactly where Sardis thinks a woman’s place is.”

  “Yes.” On her back, legs open and mouth shut. And most of the women in the community complied. That deserved the hair-pulling kind of frustration. “I keep hoping they’ll kill him.”

  “The females?”

  “The males, too. Any of them. They must recognize that he isn’t the right kind of leader.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “The right kind?”

  “One who understands that he serves the people he leads, and who enforces the community’s rules to protect his people. Not to crush them.”

  The kind of leader that Deacon had been.

  He smiled grimly. “You mean, anyone who isn’t like your brother.”

  That, too. “Yes. But Lorenzo . . . I understood why no one rose up and killed him.”

  “Because no one can go up against the nosferatu-born,” Deacon said.

  Despite his words, his contemplative tone and the way his hands flexed on the steering wheel told Rosalia that he was wondering if, with his new strength, he could have defeated her brother. He’d beaten demons, after all—and even a nosferatu-born vampire like Lorenzo didn’t possess a demon’s strength and speed. So Deacon very well could have won.