The realization came with a strange sense of relief. Even if the nephilim hadn’t killed Lorenzo, Rosalia’s obligation toward her brother could have ended by now. Paid in full.
“Would you have protected him from a strong challenger?”
“No. Not from you. Not from anyone.”
That answer apparently wasn’t what he’d expected. He glanced away from the road to read her face, as if making sure she wasn’t lying. “Not even from a Guardian?”
“No.”
“You didn’t interfere with his challenges?”
“Oh, I did. If I could, I protected the vampires who challenged him.”
He frowned. “I thought your thing—whatever you owed your brother from when you were kids—meant you protected him.”
“Only from himself.” When Deacon still looked confused, she said, “I never tried to save his life. Only his soul. I just tried to undo what our father did, to make Lorenzo see that he should have been a better man. A better leader.”
“But you didn’t make him see.”
“No.”
She’d failed Lorenzo, or he’d failed her. Rosalia didn’t know which it was—except that, of the two of them, she’d been the only one to make any effort at all.
At the prompt of the navigational system, Deacon slowed to turn, then accelerated up a narrow winding road. A grassy verge rolled down from the road down into a rocky incline, where enormous houses overlooked the sea. The tang of salt flavored every breath. Rosalia savored the taste, the view, until Deacon’s voice brought her back into the car with him.
“You ever consider that it wasn’t your father who fucked him up?”
Had she ever thought that, even without a demon’s influence, Lorenzo would inevitably become a corrupted, power-hungry bastard? “Of course I’ve considered that. And if I believed it to be true, perhaps slaying him would have been easier.”
He stole another glance at her face. “So if he’d turned out the same without your father’s influence, you would have killed him?”
“I think so.” And wouldn’t have begged Michael to give her the opportunity to change him.
Deacon looked away from her, shaking his head in disbelief. “So every vampire he faced wasn’t physically strong enough to defeat him. And you were—”
“Too weak?”
“You said it, sister.”
“Everyone tells me the same.” She leaned her head back, stared up at the night sky. The full moon sat behind thin clouds shredded by the wind. “But I cannot believe that refusing to slay my own brother is a weakness—particularly as his only sin was being a complete and utter bastard. He never broke the Rules or the community’s rules.”
“Except for when he killed you.”
She lifted her head to look at him. “And I thought he deserved a second chance.”
“Yeah. You’re just full of those.”
Amusement speared through her as she realized what he meant. “I’m not asking for your help as a way of offering you a second chance.”
“Everything I know about your bleeding heart says that it is, sister.”
“You don’t know enough. A second chance suggests that you failed after the first one. And you’ve never disappointed me.”
“Bullshit.”
She had to laugh. No, he’d never believe that. He simply couldn’t see himself as she did. Ah, well.
His jaw clenched as if he held in a response. He wouldn’t have had time, anyway. As they sped around the next curve, Rosalia leaned forward in her seat.
“There it is,” she said.
CHAPTER 9
If Sardis’s ego hadn’t created such a grim reality for his community, the layout of his compound would have invited Rosalia to question not just the vampire’s taste, but whether he was secure in his masculinity. But the disparity between the main house—an enormous, templelike structure complete with Ionic columns—and the squat outbuildings that quartered the vampires living on the property was too great to ignore. And Rosalia wished she could believe Sardis’s extreme self-love had been the reason behind the marble statues bearing his face that dotted the landscaping, but she suspected that he never wanted anyone to forget who lorded over them.
“Jesus.” Deacon pulled the car up to the gates and let it idle. “How many live here?”
“Sixty.” And not one of them was out walking the grounds. Even on a night this hot, surely someone would rather be outside than cooped up within a building. “It’s a community rule: Anyone transformed has to serve Sardis for twenty years or buy their way out of service. Most can’t afford the amount he asks.”
Deacon’s expression hardened. “That’s complete shit. Did he lift that rule from your brother’s community?”
“Probably. And, like Lorenzo, he makes it difficult for them to leave after their service is up.”
Shaking his head, Deacon punched the gate’s intercom button with a stiff finger. None of his disgust leaked into his voice, however; he spoke like a man who expected to attain entrance anywhere he wanted to go.
She wasn’t surprised when Sardis let them through. Vampires all around Europe must have heard about Budapest by now. If the community here thought that Deacon posed a threat to Sardis, then refusing to face him could be interpreted as a weakness. So Sardis would meet with Deacon if only to show his people that he wasn’t afraid.
As Deacon halted the car in the semicircular drive at the front of the main house, Rosalia called in her fan from her cache of weapons. Black lace stretched over ribs constructed of steel. She deliberately caught Deacon’s eye, then pressed the release button. Six-inch blades shot out from the tips in an elegant array. She pressed the button again, and the blades retracted. Casually, she began to fan herself, and weighted her Greek with a heavy American accent. The more stereotypes she piled on, the less Sardis and Valeotes would be inclined to look beneath them.
“Hot tonight, isn’t it?”
Deacon responded with a gravelly laugh that she felt down to her toes. When he rounded the car and opened her door, she breathed in his scent again. He’d begun to sweat in the evening heat, but she couldn’t detect fear beneath it. She didn’t know if that spoke of his confidence, or if he simply didn’t care whether he made it out alive.
She preferred to believe it was confidence.
She followed him up the steps. They didn’t have to knock. The door opened, revealing a giant of a man.
Dimitrios Maniatis had been a celebrity bodyguard before his transformation. Sardis had recruited him for his intimidating bulk, but he didn’t have too much height on Deacon. As if realizing that, Maniatis drew up a little taller and crossed his arms over a wide chest.
“No weapons. Leave them here, or stay outside.”
Deacon hesitated. He must have decided that he’d make use of something inside, with or without weapons, Rosalia surmised. After he gave his short swords over to Maniatis, the big man patted him down.
Rosalia stepped up, fanning her face and neck as Maniatis manhandled her calves and thighs through her boots. His clumsy search continued upward, and he managed to grope her ass and fondle her breasts.
She warned Deacon back with her eyes when he stepped forward, his fists clenched.
The indignity over, she preceded Deacon inside, where an enormous foyer featured a row of Sardis-shaped busts upon marble pedestals. Cold air wafted against her exposed skin. Ah, vampires and their air-conditioning—as predictable as the dawn. As Maniatis escorted them toward the back of the house, she snapped her fan closed and passed it to Deacon.
“Will you hold this for me, baby? I don’t have anywhere to put it.” With a bubbly laugh, she glanced down at her second-skin shirt. Dear God. Her nipples appeared ready to pop through the material. “Obviously.”
Realization skimmed through his expression. Followed, she thought, by a touch of admiration. “You won’t need it?”
“Hell, no. It’s freezing in here.”
He slipped the weapon into his jacket
pocket. Smiling, she tucked her fingers into his elbow.
Maniatis led them to a large, open rotunda, capped by a dome painted to replicate the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. Though Rosalia wouldn’t have been surprised to see Sardis’s face in place of Adam’s, the vampire had employed restraint—a restraint that wasn’t in evidence anywhere else. A white piano stood near a huge curving window overlooking an infinity swimming pool and the sea. Nude female vampires frolicked in the water, while others lounged at the side of the pool—not facing the sea view, Rosalia noted, but the rotunda, where they lay exposed to the vampires inside.
Kyriakos Sardis waited in the center of the rotunda floor, his hands tucked into the pockets of his white silk pants, his shirt unbuttoned to the waist and revealing the tan he’d sprayed on to conceal a vampire’s paleness. Though young when he’d been transformed, the decadent lifestyle he’d led as a human had already begun to show, softening his face and thickening his torso. Five other vampires, equally tanned and unbuttoned, sat around the room on low-slung sofas and chairs, all upholstered in gold fabric. Not one vampire took his eyes off Deacon.
So they recognized Deacon as dangerous. Good.
The demon didn’t. Unsurprisingly dark-haired, blade-nosed, and strong-jawed, Valeotes sat on the piano bench with his back to the vampire nymphs. Amid the gaudy opulence, his manufactured beauty appeared understated, and his gaze piercing as he subjected both Deacon and Rosalia to a slow scrutiny—though he didn’t delve beneath her shields.
But then, he wouldn’t imagine he had reason to. Rosalia wasn’t blocked as a Guardian would normally be, just lightly shielded. Hiding in plain sight.
Deacon barely gave Sardis a glance, and looked past him to Valeotes. “I’m here regarding Malkvial.”
Rosalia’s stomach flopped over at the name. But she saw that Deacon had played exactly the right card. Deacon had the demon’s attention, and Sardis apparently didn’t know who Malkvial was.
He turned to Valeotes, his brow furrowed. “Who?”
The demon ignored him. He rose from his seat with a lethal, sharp elegance. His voice matched his movements, cultured and dripping with menace. “And what do you have to say regarding Malkvial?”
“I have a proposition for him. One he’ll find mutually beneficial.”
Though the demon’s lip curled, as if to indicate how little he thought of anything a vampire could offer, he inclined his head in agreement. And, recognizing Sardis’s curiosity, was cruel enough to say, “Let us speak in private, then.”
Deacon took hold of Rosalia’s hand as Valeotes crossed the room. She turned to leave with the two men, but stopped when Sardis called out, “The human stays.”
Without bothering to look back, Deacon said, “Not a chance.”
Sardis’s smile showed his fangs. “We’ve heard about Budapest. So we’ll keep her in here . . . as a bit of insurance in the event you attempt to slay our friend.”
Deacon turned to Valeotes. “I’m not interested in killing you. Farkas was one of Theriault’s demons, and horning in on a friend’s community. I need you to extend a proposal to Malkvial. You can’t do that if you’re dead.”
Valeotes flicked a glance down to their linked hands. “She stays.”
When Deacon looked to her, Rosalia shrugged. “Go on. They’ll see they’re worrying for nothing.”
She stood quietly as they left, feeling the vampires’ eyes on her. Down the hall, a door closed. The room Deacon had entered must have been soundproofed, because she heard nothing from them after that. Not footsteps, not voices.
Sardis’s gaze fastened on her face and slid down. Usually, it amused her when men focused on her chest. But if Sardis was hoping she’d feel as if he’d poured a bucket of sewage over her body, he succeeded.
Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her breasts—the wrong reaction, she immediately recognized, but too late. Sensing vulnerability, Sardis moved in close.
“What does Deacon intend to propose?”
His psychic scent radiated aggression. Rosalia realized this would go one of two ways: bad or worse.
Since bad required Rosalia cowing to him and playing stupid, she chose worse. “When he’s done, perhaps Valeotes will tell you.”
With a growl, Sardis grabbed for her neck. She forced herself to remain still. A human couldn’t dodge a vampire—wouldn’t even see his hand coming. To Rosalia, waiting, it felt as if he slowly closed his fingers around her throat.
She made a helpless noise and pulled weakly at his wrist.
Laughing, he lifted her into the air, pushed her back against the wall. Behind him, the other vampires watched without expression. The females frolicked and splashed outside.
No help would be coming from them. She had to hope Deacon finished quickly.
Sardis’s gaze leveled on her chest again. The aggression in his psychic scent turned sexual. Still holding her up against the wall, he palmed her thigh with his free hand.
“No.” She had to force the word past his grip on her throat.
He leaned in close, the bare skin of his belly pressing against hers. She tried not to gag. “No point fighting. Once we get our fangs into you, you won’t care who’s doing the sucking or fucking.”
Damn him. He’d pushed faster than she’d thought he would; he hadn’t even repeated his question about Deacon’s proposal. But Sardis didn’t truly care why Deacon was here. He just wanted to show Deacon’s whore her place.
Deacon.
She looked toward the doorway. He wasn’t coming yet.
The vampire’s cold hand slid beneath her skirt. Rosalia didn’t feign her shriek of outrage. He laughed and ripped away her panties, lifting them to his nose and sniffing.
“You’re not wet.” He looked up into her eyes, and lowered his voice as if relating a confidence. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll get in.”
The bastard. Cold anger swept through her veins. She might be playing a human, but even a human woman had recourse. And she could play a strong woman.
She smashed her knee into his groin.
Sardis went rigid, his face purpling. He didn’t collapse. Rosalia took advantage of his stillness and rammed her fist into his face. A Guardian could pound through his skull. She pulled her punch, and only his nose crunched.
Blood spurted over his mouth. He whipped his hand around, slapped her. Pain exploded through her cheek and upper lip. She tasted her own blood, felt its effect on Sardis as the scent hit him.
The rasp of his zipper seemed to rip through the room.
Fear rushed over her in a cold wave. She hadn’t wanted to make this decision. A human would be unconscious after that slap. A human couldn’t fight this. Rosalia could, but she’d have to reveal herself as a Guardian. She’d risk her plan, risk everything.
But she had to. Even if it meant she ruined any chance of defeating the nephilim. She wasn’t willing to let Sardis rape her.
One punch, through his head. Her fist curled.
Something thudded against the wall next to her ear. Sardis froze.
Deacon’s voice ground through the sudden silence. “Stuff your cock in this piehole, you fucking prick. It’s still nice and hot.”
Rosalia turned to look. Deacon had his hand in Valeotes’s hair, holding the demon’s head against the wall. Valeotes’s slack mouth hung open; his neck was a bleeding stump. Blood spattered Deacon’s face and clothes. His grin would have frightened Rosalia if she hadn’t been so relieved.
Sardis whimpered. “She’s just a whore.”
Deacon’s grin vanished. He dropped Valeotes’s head, grabbed Sardis’s below his jaw, and twisted. Steel flashed—her fan. Blood sprayed her face and chest. Sardis’s grip loosened on Rosalia’s neck and her feet hit the floor.
Deacon tossed Sardis’s head next to Valeotes’s. “They’re in Hell now, so I guess they’re both fucked.”
Rosalia almost laughed, but the fury in his psychic scent hit her like a blow. He looked around at the other vampires.
&nb
sp; “If I ever hear of any of you forcing a woman—human or vampire—I’ll do the same to you. And if you ever watch it again without interfering, if you ever hear of it happening without holding the prick who did it responsible, then before I kill you, I’ll make you suck the blood out of your own dicks.”
He turned back to Rosalia, gave her the fan. “Let’s go.” He pulled her along, and didn’t slow until they encountered Maniatis, lurking uncertainly near the door—probably regretting that he’d molested her, wondering if he was next to die.
“My swords,” Deacon commanded.
Obediently, Maniatis handed them over. Rosalia looked behind them. Vampires, male and female, stood in the hall watching them leave. They reeked of terror, of disbelief—and relief.
Deacon pulled her outside, pushed her into the car, and slammed the door. He leaned over, looking at her face. With a gentle hand, he touched her lip. The cut no longer bled, but his rage grew hotter.
He vaulted over her into his seat. The tires screeched as he ripped out of the drive. Someone at the house had the sense to open the gates. He tore through them, onto the narrow road.
Rosalia watched him. Only once had she seen him angrier: when Caym had murdered his people. His rage had been mindless then, burning against her shielded psyche. Though not as volcanic now, she didn’t know what to say or how he’d respond. He certainly hadn’t reacted this way ninety years ago, when he’d rescued her from a similar situation.
“Deacon, I need to thank you—”
As if her gratitude snapped something within him, he slammed the brakes. Rosalia gasped, bracing herself. The car skidded onto the deserted roadside. He cut the engine and got out, blocking his psychic scent. He stalked past the car, into the pool of yellow headlights.
She couldn’t feel his anger now, but she saw it. He walked with his head down, his fists clenched. Slowly, she opened her door and moved to the front of the car, where she sat back on the warm hood. She waited, listening to the distant crash of the sea, drawing in the lush scent of the grass crushed by the skidding tires.
Demon Blood Page 15