Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

  Rosalia flew directly to Gemma’s room, landing on the gallery that overlooked the courtyard and served as the walkway connecting all of the second-floor chambers. Beyond the door, the young woman slept. Vanishing her wings, Rosalia continued to her own chambers, two rooms separated by a corridor leading from the gallery. After checking in with Vin, she returned outside.

  The roses had folded for the night, but the jasmine had bloomed and filled the air with its heady fragrance. The birds rested quietly in the trees, and the tinkling of the fountain was the only sound in the still air.

  Fifteen years ago, she’d had a lap pool installed at the end of the courtyard. The scent of chlorine sometimes overpowered the flowers’ perfumes, but Rosalia had never regretted the change.

  She stripped off and dove in. Though she could swim at extraordinary speeds, she sought only a methodical rhythm: twenty strokes, and turn. She’d have liked to work herself into exhaustion, but Guardians couldn’t tire. Peace couldn’t be found in sleep. Only the rhythm.

  Once she found it, she turned her mind to the daunting task she faced. Of all the vampires she trusted, Camille was the only one who might pull off such a scheme. But Rosalia knew Yves too well. He was a good man, but he’d make a mistake.

  And Malkvial would have no reason to believe Camille, anyway.

  She pushed away the despair, the doubt. There had to be some way. But she still hadn’t thought of one two hours later, when a knock at the front door pulled her out of the water.

  She climbed from the pool, wondering if she’d been mistaken. Shaking the water out of her hair and slipping a silk robe on over her naked form, she listened—and the knock came again.

  At three thirty in the morning? That didn’t bode well.

  Typically, she used a psychic probe to discover the identity of the caller. But there was another way, just as simple. She brought in a crossbow from her cache. Forming her wings, she flew up to the roof, where the bell tower at the corner provided cover and offered a view of the door.

  Deacon.

  Her heart thudded. Her mind raced while she decided what to do. She hadn’t thought he’d come here.

  Why had he come here?

  His fist rose to the door, but he paused before knocking again. As if he’d heard her, his gaze swept her direction, found her atop the roof. He stepped toward her.

  Defensive mode kicked in. She fired the crossbow. The bolt stabbed the ground in front of his boot. He froze.

  “I can hear you from here. Just say what you’ve got to say, then leave.”

  He lifted his hands, as if in surrender. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve already accepted your apology.”

  “No. I never had time to give it.”

  “Well. Now you have.” She turned to go, but paused when he said—

  “Yves will fuck it up.”

  God. He could already see where she would go next, the best course of action? “You’ve stated, very clearly, that you don’t care.”

  “Then tell me why I should. Tomorrow.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “Tell me when we go hunting another demon tomorrow. Tell me another reason why I should care. And if I don’t, there’s the next day, and the next demon. I know you’ve got one lined up.”

  Rosalia sank to her heels. “Are you offering to help me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  His slow smile caught her off guard, and her heart thudded again. “I’ll give you a reason tomorrow, too. But tonight, it’s because I was a complete bastard, and I’m sor—”

  A scream split the air—from inside the abbey. Oh, Lord. Gemma.

  Rosalia dove from the roof and hit the ground running. Across the courtyard, she leapt to the second-floor gallery leading to Gemma’s bedroom.

  She flung open the door. Gemma was sitting up in bed, screaming. Her eyes were open, but unfocused. Seeing horrors that wouldn’t let her go.

  Rosalia vanished her crossbow and ran to the bedside. “Baby girl, it’s okay; you’re safe—”

  Gemma shrieked and jumped into an attack, barreling into her and toppling them over. Rosalia took the brunt of the fall against the slate floor, her wings trapped beneath her. Gemma’s fist smashed into her cheek, and Rosalia actually saw stars. Hallelujah, she’d taught this young woman to hit hard.

  “Gemma, baby, you’re safe! Wake up and see that—” She broke off as Deacon rushed into the room, sword drawn. “Get back! She’s fine. I’m fine. Just . . . wait. Out there.”

  Deacon hesitated when she took another blow from the screaming woman. Then Gemma’s fist froze midair.

  She glanced down, her eyes losing their terrifying emptiness. “Oh, God. Rosa.”

  “Ciao.” Rosalia breathed out a laugh. “You’re okay. Yes? We’re both okay.”

  “Yes.” As Gemma scrambled to her feet, Rosalia glanced at the doorway. Deacon had gone. She looked back as Gemma put her hands to her face. “Oh, God.”

  The young woman broke into wretched sobs. Rosalia drew her into her arms, down to the bed, and vanished her wings. Curling up behind the taller woman, she stroked her blond hair, straightening the sweat-tangled strands.

  After a while, Gemma quieted. “It’s the same. Always the same. Giacomo and Svetlana coming in to protect me. Then the nephilim.” A shudder wracked her body. “God, they were so big. Those black wings. Their skin so red . . . and their eyes glowing red. Their swords were already bloody. I yelled at Svetlana to get behind me, because a demon couldn’t hurt me. Couldn’t go through me. But then she and Giacomo were just . . . gone. And everything was covered in red.”

  Almost every room in the abbey, and Gemma had cleaned it all long before Rosalia had been freed from the catacombs. The young woman had been left on her own for months, until she’d run across Vincente.

  Gemma drew a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to rinse her out. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

  “It’s okay. You were asleep.”

  “Yes. Okay.” She tensed. “No, it’s not. Let me be sorry.”

  “Okay.”

  Gemma growled in the back of her throat. “You always do that. You let people beat up on you, and you never hit back.”

  Shock held Rosalia silent for a moment. “Gemma, I can’t—”

  “Hit me, because I’m a human. If you do, you Fall. I get it. I don’t mean me, and I don’t mean hitting.” She made a motion in the air with her fist. “I mean that when you love someone, you let them walk all over you.”

  Realization slipped through her. “Vincente.”

  “Yes. But not just Vin. You put everyone ahead of yourself, Rosa.”

  Not everyone, but a few. And she could not be sorry for that. “It gives me pleasure to know that the ones I love are happy. And safe.”

  “And that’s the only thing that gives you pleasure. What other pleasures do you have?”

  Rosalia almost laughed. How absurd this was. “Gardening, swimming, slaying demons—”

  “Those are solace. Those aren’t pleasures.”

  “My greatest pleasure is you and Vincente.” She rested her hand on Gemma’s belly. “You will see.”

  “But we have each other, too. You don’t have anyone.” She took a deep breath. “Oh, God. I’m sorry, Rosa.”

  “I do not want to anger you by saying it’s okay.”

  Gemma’s short laugh ended on a sigh. “It’s just been building up for a while.”

  “Then I will think on what you’ve said.” She paused. “Would you like me to stay here while you fall asleep again?”

  “Yes.” But she didn’t immediately close her eyes. “I used to be so jealous of Vin for this.”

  “For what?”

  “I remember, even after days when he wouldn’t talk to you, when you’d spent an evening arguing, that I would walk by his room and see you on the bed, holding him like this. I always wanted that.”

  Rosalia’s throat tightened. “Your grandmother was—”

 
“Wonderful, yes. But I was still so jealous of Vin and his sweet, beautiful princess mama, who would always come and cuddle with him, even when he was awful.”

  It had been all that she could do. “I heard you outside the room . . . but I never knew. I would have asked you to join us.”

  “And Vin and I would have begun our cohabitation as children. Father Wojcinski would not approve.”

  Rosalia laughed and squeezed her softly. Lord, but she loved this woman.

  Gemma raised her hand to cover a yawn before asking, “Vin must still be out?”

  It wasn’t really a question. They both knew that if he hadn’t been, he’d be in here with her—Father Wojcinski or not. “Yes. He says that the late nights will be good training for when the baby comes.”

  “And I’ve told him that since you don’t sleep, that makes you the perfect babysitter.” The laughter left her voice. “He says it’s not a good idea to ask, though. Why is he such a stubborn ass?”

  Now Rosalia’s eyes did fill. Sometimes, he really was a sweet boy. “Gemma . . . I can’t.”

  “You’ll be busy, but—”

  “No, it is not that. I cannot hold the baby unless she is sleeping. If she pushes at me, or tries to get away . . . even a baby’s free will must be honored. Toddlers are impossible. They always want down, even when it is not safe for them. If I want to remain a Guardian . . . when a child pushes me away, the only time to hold him is while he sleeps.”

  Gemma lay quietly as she absorbed that. Then sadness and understanding filled her psychic scent. “Oh, Rosa.”

  “I cannot regret a moment of it, Gemma. So do not be sorry on my behalf. Just hold your baby and Vincente tight, and celebrate that you can hold them. Yes?”

  “Yes.” Gemma’s nod was followed by a quick look over her shoulder. “Did Vin know that you couldn’t restrain him?”

  “Yes.”

  “No wonder he was the most spoiled kid I knew.” Gemma rested her head on the pillow again.

  Rosalia smiled into her hair. “Yes, he was.”

  His sweet, beautiful princess mama.

  Deacon would have agreed with most of that. But the last bit rattled him, like a right hook he hadn’t seen coming. And not just a mother, but one whose relationship with her adult son sounded strained at best.

  What was wrong with that kid?

  He wouldn’t find out by continuing to eavesdrop. They hadn’t spoken in a while, and he’d prowled through every courtyard path and open room by the time he heard quiet movement from upstairs. Stopping by the fountain, he glanced up. Rosalia closed the bedroom door behind her, quickly found him below, and vaulted over the balustrade. Her wings appeared, spreading wide. She caught air and drifted to his side, the bottom of her silk robe splitting open to flutter like another pair of wings and offering a glimpse of her inner thighs.

  A glimpse. He could probably count himself lucky to get that. Christ, what a bastard he’d been. Barely fit to look at her, let alone kiss her.

  Yet he knew that was one of the reasons why he’d come back.

  She landed lightly beside him. He’d expected wariness, uncertainty—at least defensiveness, considering that he’d just overheard an intimate conversation—but she simply smiled at him before sitting on the bench facing the fountain.

  Gardening, swimming, slaying demons. On that short list of pleasures, the last was the only one she wouldn’t find in this flourishing paradise. He’d never seen so many flowers open at night, small explosions of red, purple, and orange. Planted for the vampires who’d once lived here, he thought—or because a Guardian didn’t sleep either night or day.

  He sat next to her, and he felt the brush of her wing against his back before she vanished them. When she half turned toward him, he said, “So I guess I got a jump on tomorrow, and heard another reason.”

  “You did. And Gemma . . .” She trailed off as her gaze fastened on his neck. Her brow pleated, and a moment later her fingers were on his collar, tucking and smoothing. She continued, “Her nightmares haven’t stopped. This was worse than it has been, though. Perhaps hearing of London has brought it back to her. And although slaying the nephilim will not undo what has been done . . . I would like to tell her they are dead.”

  With a final pat, she finished straightening him up, but didn’t remove her hands. Her eyes rose to his. Her lips parted . . . and formed two unmistakable silent words.

  Don’t move.

  He heard it then, over the splashing of the fountain: another heartbeat. Despite Rosalia’s warning, he couldn’t sit still with a threat behind him. He turned.

  The woman—the red-haired detective. Her eyes were blue instead of completely black, and she was sitting . . . just sitting on the flagstone path a few meters away, like a bone-tired traveler. Rosalia caught Deacon’s wrist before he could reach for his sword.

  The detective’s weary gaze sought Rosalia. Her voice was her own, feminine—and she spoke in English. “I didn’t come when you wanted me to.”

  “It’s all right, Taylor. We made it there.”

  To Athens? Rosalia had planned to let this woman teleport them to Greece?

  She didn’t look possessed now, though. Just lost.

  Taylor rubbed her hand over her face. “I feel like I should be tired. But I’m not. I want to sleep. But I can’t.”

  “No. We can’t sleep.” Rosalia’s voice had deepened in sympathy. “Meditating helps, though. Do you know how to drift?”

  “The others have tried with me. But Michael’s never gone.” She touched her fingers to her forehead. “And I can’t push him out.”

  “Well, we’ll try anyway. And maybe it will work both ways, and offer him some peace, too.”

  Peace? For what? Deacon looked to Rosalia. “What happened to Michael?”

  Rosalia hesitated. Not just reluctant to say it, he realized. Reluctant to say it to him. What was it, top secret Guardian info?

  That was fair. But considering that the man kept trying to kill him, Deacon should probably know what to expect. “What happened?”

  Rosalia took a deep breath. “He’s dead.”

  Dead? Christ, no wonder Rosalia was so hell-bent on her plan, then. Without Michael, the Guardians were practically sitting ducks for any force of demons . . . or just a few nephilim.

  “Worse,” Taylor said. Her gaze settled on Deacon and didn’t waver. “He’s in Hell, in the frozen field. Anaria accessed Chaos, thanks to info you gave Caym. She made a spell that would have opened a portal between the realms. To close it, Michael sacrificed himself . . . and tied himself to me.”

  Was this true? Deacon looked at Rosalia. She gave a small nod. So Michael wasn’t just dead, he was being tortured for eternity—and Deacon was partly responsible.

  It had been some time since he’d felt this low.

  And he sunk lower when Taylor said, “And the vampire that you created for Caym killed me. That’s how I ended up a Guardian.”

  So that was why she kept jumping into his rooms, hoping to slay him. Deacon had no words. Explaining wouldn’t make a difference. I needed to save my community. That only mattered to him—and he couldn’t say he wouldn’t have done it again, or taken another route. He’d sacrificed everything to save them, and that was a reason he could never regret.

  But he could regret the fallout, and the innocents caught.

  He looked Taylor square on. “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded. “Me, too.”

  He glanced at Rosalia and searched for something to say. She turned away from him. “Come with me. I might be with Taylor beyond sunrise, so we’ll get you settled in first.”

  After retrieving the bag he’d left by the entrance of the abbey, he followed her up the stairs to the second level. She turned into a corridor, where a heavy door opened into a long, high-ceilinged chamber. He recognized this room. He’d woken up here sixth months ago, but he hadn’t noticed then the personal touches. Propped on a nightstand, a dark-haired boy smiled out of a silver frame. Books lined
a recessed shelf in the warm yellow walls. At the far end of the chamber, cream marble tiles and half-melted candles surrounded a tub; pink and white bottles filled the corner niche in an open shower. In the sitting area, a delicate vase holding red roses adorned a carved wooden table. And the art . . . He’d expected pastorals and landscapes, but it was modern, all angles and bright colors.

  Recognizing one of Eva’s paintings was like a punch to the gut. He walked over to the canvas—had to touch it, feel the rough strokes beneath his fingers.

  When he turned, Rosalia was standing beside the bed, stripping back the sheets. A faint blush warmed her cheeks.

  “They’re clean, but I don’t air them enough. So they’ve become stale,” she explained, moving to a wardrobe and reaching in for a new set of linens.

  “I don’t care.”

  She smiled and returned to the bed. “I do.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. “This is your room.” He said it as flatly as possible. He wasn’t making assumptions. Not about her, not anymore.

  “Yes.” In the space of a breath, she’d changed the sheets and replaced the bedding, then glanced up at him. “With Taylor here, I want you as close as possible.”

  So she knew about Taylor’s darker side. “But you don’t sleep. Why would this be close?”

  She moved back out into the corridor, opened the door opposite her bedchamber. “I’ll be in here.”

  Though the smaller chamber had the same yellow walls and slate floor, there wasn’t any room for personal touches. File cabinets and racks of equipment crowded together at one side of the room, and several computers topped one long worktable. Five TV monitors hung from the walls, running the broadcasts from five twenty-four news stations at a low volume.

  “Vincente calls it my War Room. If you want to check in on Theriault and review his tapes, the feed from Paris is there”—she pointed to a computer—“and the surveillance van feed is here.”