“ ‘His legs are of pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold: his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars. His mouth is most sweet.’ ” Her gaze locked with his. A soft smile curved her lips. “ ‘Yea, he is altogether lovely.’ ”
He’d heard conviction in her voice before, and he had no doubt that she believed what she’d spoken. But he’d looked in a mirror. His mug didn’t qualify for ugly, but he wasn’t a prize, either. It only followed that when she looked at him, she saw someone else.
And for now, that didn’t matter at all.
CHAPTER 12
The best part of having a vampire computer-genius friend with legal access to many countries’ police databases, and illegal access to dozens of others, was that tracking down convictions and dates of death was a damn sight easier. In a conference room at Special Investigations, armed with a computer and the list of names, Taylor began searching for the nephil who’d raped and murdered the London couple.
All of the nephilim had possessed humans who’d been bound for Hell. No one knew exactly how the judgments were made or exactly why a soul went Above or Below, but Taylor preferred to believe that it wasn’t for the petty stuff—and considering how much free will mattered, so that even demons had to follow the Rules, Taylor thought that was where the line was drawn. Getting down and dirty with seven naked friends? You still get a pass through the golden gates. Rape? Not so much.
She’d met all of Anaria’s children, in their human forms. She remembered faces. And so far, she’d been able to match fifteen of them to convicted murderers, rapists, and one child predator.
The rapists, she scrutinized closely, looking for the same MO as used in London. Facedown, hands behind the backs—and the victim could be male or female. Nothing had popped, yet.
Maybe it wouldn’t. There was a good chance he’d never been caught, or he’d be in a database her friend hadn’t accessed. Or she’d miss him because the database didn’t have a picture, or the conviction was too old. Or he’d been convicted of something else. Taylor knew the chances of nailing him down this way were slim.
But this kind of work was familiar, and Michael was quiet, so she kept on.
As another name matched yet another face, she began hoping that Anaria was right about her children—that they were in control—because otherwise the woman had her own personal village of the damned living under her roof.
And Taylor’s mind kept heading back to those body resonances. To possess the body, the nephil had to alter his own resonance until it matched the human’s psyche; if it didn’t match, the body rejected him. And the nephil possessed all of the human’s memories, used the same brain that the human had. So maybe the nephil was in control—but Taylor wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the nephil had undergone a hell of a personality change.
She was almost through the list when Michael seemed to bristle, and a moment later, Taylor realized that someone was in the room with her. She swiveled the chair.
With black hair in narrow braids, a face sharper and harder than Anaria’s, and wearing giant wading boots over jeans, Khavi stood clutching a ten-pound bag of potatoes to her chest. Taylor didn’t even ask. After spending two millennia in Hell with only a hellhound for company, Khavi’s forays into the modern world had revealed a personality that swung from eccentric to batshit crazy.
As far as Taylor knew, however, that hadn’t included necrophilia.
Taylor opened her mouth and Khavi said, “You want to know if the nephilim have become like their hosts. They have.”
Ah, yes. At least a conversation with a prophetic grigori was never boring. And despite knowing that Khavi had probably let her die, Taylor kind of liked the woman. As frustrating as Khavi was at times, holding back information and never making any sense until whatever she’d predicted smashed into a person from behind, Taylor never felt the urge to punch her in the face during a conversation, unlike the time she’d spent with Anaria.
Well, okay. Taylor had threatened to shoot Khavi in the head once. But Khavi hadn’t ducked, so obviously they’d both known it wasn’t going to happen.
“I found her island, too.”
Khavi dumped the potatoes onto the worktable and began sorting through them. By what criteria, Taylor couldn’t fathom. “Yes, yes. Anaria has always loved the sea.”
Something in Khavi’s easy reply told her, “You knew where she was?”
“Of course. But what good is it? If we move against them—separately, or all together—we will be slaughtered.” Khavi stopped sorting spuds long enough to meet Taylor’s eyes. “That is not conjecture. I have seen it.”
Well, shit. “Rosalia’s got her plan, whatever it is. She’s intending to kill all of the nephilim. Have you seen that?”
“I cannot see what I do not know.”
“Any hint?”
Khavi’s mouth tightened. She began stuffing one pile of potatoes back into the sack. “I have seen that we do not lose the balance.”
“Uh-huh,” Taylor said. Because that made so much sense.
Frowning at her, Khavi hefted two spuds, one in each hand. “A balance. There is light”—she lowered her left hand, raised her right—“and there is dark. There is action and consequence.” She evened their height again, like a set of scales. “They all must be kept in balance, and that is why the Doyen must punish a Guardian who breaks the Rules, and Lucifer must enforce the Rules for his demons. It is why the nephilim are here, because he cannot enforce the Rules with the Gates closed.” She lowered both potatoes. “We do not lose the balance.”
Her heart sank—for Rosalia, for the London community. “So the nephilim don’t die.”
“I cannot see.” But she shook her head. “I do not believe so, however.”
Dammit. Taylor pushed her hand through her hair. She wouldn’t tell Rosalia that, though. The woman was so sweet, and so determined. And maybe she’d slay enough of them, even if she didn’t get rid of them all. Maybe enough to save London.
“Now you are going to ask, ‘What of the vampires in London? ’ ” Khavi shrugged. “I have seen them slain; I have seen them live.”
“So how do I weigh the scales toward the ‘live’ side?”
“Find the nephil who drank the community leaders’ blood before he shares the resonance with his brothers.” Her gaze flicked to Taylor’s desk. “I know you have already started.”
Holy shit. “Do I find him?”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
All right. Sometimes she did want to punch Khavi in the face. But knowing this was useless, she backed up. “What does that mean, sharing resonance?”
“It is simple. A leader knows all of his people, almost always by psychic scent. That knowledge is stored in the blood—and when a nephil takes the blood, and looks for the right sounds, he can hear all of the vampires in the community.”
“All of their psychic scents?” Which never felt like scent to Taylor, during those odd times when she recognized another person’s emotions. She only heard sound.
“Yes. And nephil are not like Guardians, or grigori, or demons. They are connected. So when the first nephil separates all of the sounds from one another, he can pass that knowledge through his blood into the other nephilim. When they attack a city, there is nowhere for the vampires to hide. The nephilim can hunt down an entire community in a single night—and clean up any strays that they find along the way, vampires who don’t belong to the community.”
Strays . . . like a family of vampires in an abbey. God. Poor Rosalia. Just bad fucking luck.
“So if I find the nephil who took the blood, I can stop this.”
“I’ve already said you don’t.”
“Okay, humor me. What happens if I do, and we slay him?” It wouldn’t be Taylor. Maybe another Guardian could. Another three or four Guardians.
“Then they will likely choose another community—and the more vampires, the better. One will kill that community leader, a
nd it would begin again.”
“But it would buy time.”
“Perhaps. I do not see that. But perhaps it will change.” She held up a potato, put it in the bag.
All right. Taylor couldn’t stand it. “What are you doing with those?”
“I intend to teach Lyta to juggle. Potatoes now, demon heads later.”
Lyta, Khavi’s hellhound who always remained in Caelum—thank God. Taylor could manage to be around Sir Pup, another hellhound who was often at Special Investigations, because he so often shape-shifted into a Labrador’s form . . . albeit a three-headed one. But Lyta remained in her demonic form, standing taller than Taylor did, peering out from glowing crimson eyes, her scaly hide covered with poison-tipped barbs and sparse black fur, three jaws full of giant serrated teeth. Taylor couldn’t help it; that hellhound scared the shit out of her.
“You will have to face that fear soon,” Khavi said.
Yeah? Taylor preferred to put it off. But at least she could lie to this grigori. “I’ll go see her as soon as she’s juggling.” She glanced at the two piles. “What’s the difference?”
Khavi picked up one from the pile on the left. “These reminded me of demon heads.”
Ooooookay. “The shape?”
Khavi gave her a strange glance, as if wondering whether Taylor was blind and/or stupid. “No,” she said, and squeezed the spud. The potato exploded into a pulpy mess, dripping over her fingers, clumping on the table. “You see? Just the same.”
Taylor laughed, and faintly, thought she heard Michael laughing, too. Then the darkness abruptly swept up and grabbed hold of her, and yanked her away.
Watching Deacon approach an unwary demon in Budapest had been difficult. Knowing that he’d been alone in the room with Valeotes had been worse, but Sardis’s attack hadn’t let Rosalia focus on her fear. Now she knew what it was to wait outside a hotel suite while Deacon talked his way into a seat at a poker table surrounded by six hostile vampires and one suspicious demon.
Terror had her by the throat.
She’d wanted to go in with him, but he’d insisted her presence would make getting to the demon more difficult, and Rosalia went along with it. She’d brought him, but the task of killing the demons fell on his shoulders, and she had to let him take the lead. This had been why she’d needed him—one reason among many. He could think on his feet, and knowing his own strengths, find the best way to slay the demon. Deacon didn’t need her to hold his hand, guide him through every step. He just needed to see the demon in front of him. And so she was left outside, seeing neither of them, only listening.
She paced in the thickly carpeted hallway, her arms crossed over her chest, holding herself back. Deacon would draw his sword soon, surely. Would she hear it over the pounding of her heart? If he needed help, would he call for her?
She knew he wouldn’t.
Fear began to ratchet into panic, nerves stretched to breaking. Oh, Lord, she couldn’t do this again. She’d find a way to go in with him.
Only . . . she couldn’t. When the endgame with Malkvial came, Deacon had to go in alone. So she had to become accustomed to this terror now.
She didn’t know if she ever could.
An alert from her phone startled her. Her heart stuttered, then resumed its quick beat as she read the text message from Vincente.
Target on the move. Will update our location when he stops.
She replied, then held on to her phone, re-reading the message. Deacon, her son, the woman who would be her daughter, their unborn child. She’d pulled them all into this with her, risked their lives, too. She closed her eyes.
Dear God, keep them safe.
Of course, that was what He’d made her for. When she opened her eyes, her heartbeat had settled.
Farther down the hallway, the elevator dinged. Wearing sequins and a tuxedo, a middle-aged couple exited, clinging drunkenly to each other as they lurched toward their room. The woman giggled uncontrollably. Diamonds dripped from her ears and throat.
Monte Carlo never slept, which made it an ideal location for vampires; its residents surrounded themselves with wealth and luxury, which made it ideal for demons. And the vampires here were the most moneyed of all the European communities, which made them ideal targets for a demon like Fournier.
Unlike Sardis, this community leader hadn’t welcomed him in. Instead, Fournier had killed Henri David and taken over his identity.
But the demon hadn’t been careful. Like Theriault, whose bid for leadership Fournier supported, he hadn’t taken steps to conceal his nature—and a vampire couldn’t attend a state function during the daylight hours. Recognizing David’s face in a press photo had tipped Rosalia off, and an overheard conversation with Theriault had confirmed her suspicions, sealing the demon’s fate.
She didn’t think he’d have had long, anyway. The vampires here feared him, but their hate went deeper. They’d have either worked together to kill the demon or died trying.
Despite that hate, however—and the likelihood that they’d heard rumors from both Budapest and Athens—the vampires hadn’t been pleased to see Deacon. They assumed he was here as Fournier’s ally, and treated him accordingly.
A year ago, they’d have been honored to host Deacon at their table. For six decades, he’d been one of Europe’s most respected leaders—and unlike Lorenzo, he’d earned that respect rather than demanded it—but Caym had trampled that respect into garbage and Deacon had earned the reputation of a demon-loving traitor.
A reputation that Deacon seemed to think he’d deserved.
Now that deserved the “bullshit” Deacon so often tossed at her. He had to be the most blind and stubborn man in all of Creation, determined to see himself in the darkest light possible. He couldn’t recognize his actions in any description that contained a hint of goodness or painted any positive aspect onto his character.
But his return to her abbey had exposed the truth: that his heart was as good as Rosalia had known. That he couldn’t turn his back when lives were threatened.
She’d taken a risk by telling the story behind his transformation. All she’d concealed was a name—and of course he hadn’t recognized himself in that, either. But even if she’d revealed all, even if such manipulation would make him walk away, Rosalia didn’t believe he would leave until they’d seen the plan through. For now, however, she wouldn’t put him in a hurry to walk away once it was done—and she hoped by then he’d have more reasons to stay.
A round of laughter came from within the suite, Deacon’s voice among them. Good. They’d all relaxed a bit. The demon wouldn’t know what hit him.
It came with the shattering of glass and the sound of scattering poker chips. Rosalia’s fingers clenched, her whole being focused on the noise from within. Swords clashed.
Fournier had managed to defend himself? Oh, no. Deacon’s advantage depended on speed and surprise. Barely realizing that she’d started forward, she stopped short at the dull thud of bone pounding into flesh. He’d used his fists? No. Oh, God, no. He’d lose every advantage in a hand-to-hand fight. She was reaching for the door when silence fell.
Rosalia froze, wanting to scream, but she waited, trembling. A moment later, she heard Deacon’s gravelly voice.
“He shouldn’t have cheated.”
The vampires inside responded with laughter so giddy they reminded Rosalia of the staggering drunk woman. Relief hollowed out her chest. She put a hand to her stomach and backed away from the door.
She heard Deacon take his leave, apologizing for the mess. Almost eagerly, the vampires assured him that the body would be taken care of.
Of course they would. As far as these vampires were concerned, Deacon headed their community now. And even when it became clear that he didn’t intend to step into the position, no one here would forget what Deacon had done for them. Whatever his reputation had been entering the suite, he left as a leader—just as he had in Budapest and Athens.
Deacon came into the hall, wrapping a han
dkerchief around a bleeding palm, an operation made awkward by the use of only one hand. His gaze found Rosalia and narrowed. “You were supposed to wait near the elevator.”
She didn’t answer. Taking the ends of the handkerchief, she tied it tightly to stanch the wound until it sealed. Long, narrow, and deep—he’d obviously grabbed Fournier’s blade as it had been stabbed toward him. If Fournier had swung, Deacon would be missing half his hand.
Frowning, she examined his knuckles. They’d bled, but the skin had already healed. The clenching of his jaw as she prodded told her that he’d hit Fournier hard enough to break them.
“Henri was a good man.”
Anger thrummed in that statement—and regret, as if he wondered whether he could have done anything to prevent the vampire’s death. If, by coming here to slay his first demons instead of to Madrid or London, he might have stopped Fournier.
Her response echoed his regret—and his anger. “Yes.”
“No more. The demons don’t get even one more vampire.”
She met his eyes. “Then we’ve got a lot of work to do. With swords. Not your fists.”
His grin reopened a split in his bottom lip. So he’d taken a hit, too—and was proud of it. With a sigh, she smoothed her thumb beneath the cut, wiping away the blood.
“You should see the other guy.”
Laughing, she let go of his hand, stepped back. He absently licked the blood from his lip, watching her. The amusement in his gaze shifted, became sharp and predatory.
Not bloodlust. Just Deacon.
“Head back to the elevator, Rosie.”
No. She wanted to stay right here, and see where that hunger led. Only her awareness of the vampires inside the suite got her feet moving. Deacon followed behind her. Never before had she been so conscious of the sway of her hips, the snug fit of her trousers over her backside.
And she was utterly certain that by the time the sun rose, she’d have taken him into her bed. Into her body. If not for the vampires, she’d have gotten a room in this hotel.
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