Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No.”

  By her silence, he knew she was looking for evidence that he’d lied. In a few seconds, he thought he’d be able to see her, too. A blurry image was already returning.

  “It’s healing,” he said.

  “That quickly?” Now that he could almost focus on her, he didn’t just hear the concern in her tone, but saw it in her eyes. Her hands ran down his shoulders. A note of realization entered her voice. “You healed quickly last night, too. And you’re stronger. Faster.”

  She’d begun to frown. As everything she’d just said sounded damn good, Deacon couldn’t see what there was to frown about.

  “That’s a problem?”

  “No,” she said, though her expression disputed her reply. Deacon wondered if she’d realized yet that he could see her again. “You’ll be safer. The demons will know why you’re coming now, and they won’t let you talk first. But they still won’t anticipate your speed. Especially now.”

  “But?”

  “But you might have to lower your shields. The vampires who see you need to know you’re a vampire, not just masquerading as one.”

  “Because anyone who sees me move that fast will think I’m a shape-shifted Guardian.” And that would destroy Rosalia’s whole reason for going in as a human. It’d paint a target right on the Guardians’ backs, the scenario she’d been trying to avoid. He didn’t like the idea of lowering his shields, though, and letting strangers into his head. “Will blood do the same? If a demon or a vampire gets a whiff of it, there’s no mistaking me for a Guardian.”

  She nodded. “You’re right; that would be better. It’s tangible. Demons might not believe anything vampires say about a psychic scent, but vampires know the smell of their own.”

  Yeah, psychic scents were too tricky, particularly for untrained vampires. How many had run into Rosalia and had no idea what she was? Hell, even Deacon had, though he’d never make the same mistake again. The feel of her mind was familiar now—though he hadn’t gotten very deep into it.

  “Your shields held when you came,” he told her. “Every time.”

  Her skin flushed, but her smile was pleased—not a hint of embarrassment there. “You told me to hold them, so I did,” she said matter-of-factly, then looked him over. “Your vision is healed now?”

  “Yes.”

  She studied him, saw through him. Her heart beat a little faster. “You’re hungry.”

  Even hungrier now that he was thinking about it, and thinking about how she’d held her shields with her body shattering around him—because he’d told her to.

  He shoved that away, pushed up to his feet. “Did that delivery come yet?”

  “Not until this afternoon,” she said. He could feel her watching him stalk between the chair and the bed. “You said you didn’t want to risk the bloodlust with me. Was that why you didn’t feed from me last night? Was that why you risked drinking the nephil blood?”

  Christ, she hadn’t realized that by now? “Yeah.”

  Her face seemed to lighten, and she laughed a little, shaking her head. “I’m truly not so delicate, Deacon. Even with my arm broken, I could have held you back.”

  But could she now? He stopped pacing and faced her square on. “So are you offering? But know it’s not just fucking, Rosie. Do you want me in your head, hearing your every thought?”

  Her smile faded as she regarded him, and he realized it didn’t matter if she said yes. He’d vowed he wouldn’t drink from her. That still stood. Because if he got into her that deep, if she gave him that much more to care about . . .

  Who was he kidding? Blood or no blood, he was fucked.

  She sighed. “Perhaps not yet. Then you’d know all of my reasons far too early.” A dagger and a drinking glass appeared in her hand. She set them on a small table, and held her wrist over the glass. “But I can help you take the edge off.”

  After filling the glass with her blood, Rosalia headed into the War Room, offering Deacon space to drink it, and taking time to gather her thoughts into something manageable. Into something that wouldn’t tempt her to throw the rest of the world away.

  She’d wanted him to drink from her. She’d wanted to know if that sensation could shatter her expectations, too. And she’d wanted to feed him, to nourish him with her body. After one time in his bed, she could understand very well how two people could hole up forever.

  But if she let him drink from her now, if she let him into her thoughts, it wouldn’t be the world she’d throw away. No, she’d lose Deacon, instead. She wasn’t ready for that yet. She wouldn’t ever be ready for that.

  She needed to be, though. Already, she could feel him pushing her away. Guilt, probably, for taking pleasure before his community had been avenged. Or, despite her assertion that she wasn’t delicate, maybe Deacon thought he’d already hurt her—or that he’d lose control to the bloodlust. Or he’d been disappointed. Sex might not have been satisfying for him without the blood. Whatever his reason, he’d begun withdrawing before he’d even left the bed.

  Would it be the same next time? And the next? How long until the pleasure and anticipation of being with him became dread, as she waited for him to push her away yet again?

  With a sigh, she sat at her desk, flicking through St. Croix’s file. Now that she’d met the man, another story had begun to form in her mind. A father who died early. A mother who’d taken over their business affairs . . . and raised a son who reminded Rosalia of a demon.

  It sounded so very similar to Rosalia’s story, and to Lorenzo’s—except she suspected that two key players had been moved around.

  The door opened and Deacon came in, showered and dressed and smelling like her soap. She loved the scent of her fragrance on his skin. But did it bother him?

  His gaze fell to the file open in front of her. “You got something on him. Something bad?”

  She wondered what he’d seen in her face to draw that conclusion. But although she hadn’t been thinking about St. Croix, she could cover it.

  “It could be bad. Or it could mean that he’s on our side.”

  “Your side.”

  Her side? Uncomprehending, she glanced up at him. He stood with his arms crossed over his wide chest, his features unreadable. Completely withdrawn.

  “My only pony in this race is killing Belial’s demons, princess. I’m not on one side or another.”

  “I see.” She looked back at the screen. Her throat ached. “Well, what I’ve found could mean that St. Croix hates demons as much as we do. Look here.”

  On-screen, she accessed a newspaper article that included details into the investigation of his father’s death twenty years before.

  “We knew the father was dead,” she said. “But until we pulled this out, I didn’t know there were questions surrounding the circumstances. It was ruled a suicide, and St. Croix’s mother took over his company.” She paused, glanced up at him again. His gaze was fixed on the screen. “Many humans still think of men as the superior gender, so demons don’t usually take a woman’s place. But maybe one did.”

  “The mother? Shit.” Standing next to her chair, he flipped through the file on the desk until he came to the picture of a beautiful woman and her unsmiling ten-year-old son. “A demon raised him.”

  “I think so. And that is why it could be good or bad. Perhaps he joined Legion because he’s just like them. But perhaps he joined them so that he could tear Legion down from the inside.”

  He stared down at St. Croix’s picture for another moment, as if trying to read the soul inside the man. “You aren’t meeting him by yourself.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Say he brings a demon friend with him. St. Croix grabs on to you and holds you for the demon, and you’re screwed.”

  She turned away from him, closing out the newspaper article and bringing up St. Croix’s financial data. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, Deacon.”

  Humans had often been connected to demons—
and some humans had known the Rules she had to follow, while others didn’t. It hadn’t mattered. Every human had been a danger to her, so she knew how to stay out of their grasp.

  She had to smile. The one time she hadn’t evaded two drunk humans . . . led her to Deacon.

  He slammed his hand on the desk. Startled, she looked up. Anger darkened his face. “You almost died last night, Rosie, because this guy brought in something you weren’t ready for.”

  She was ready for the nephilim. She just couldn’t beat them alone.

  Deacon didn’t wait for her response. As if he had the final word, he said, “You’ll wait until tonight. I’ll go with you.”

  “Tonight, we have to be in—”

  “Fuck your plan, Rosie. You’ll wait.”

  Fury stabbed through her chest, hot and sharp. “My plan means you slay another of Belial’s demons. That’s what you’re here for, remember? Unless, Deacon, you’ve suddenly got another pony in the race. Do you?”

  She waited for an answer, desperately hoping that one reason would be her. Even if it was just: I need you to point me toward the demons, Rosie. Anything.

  She waited . . . for nothing.

  Her anger slipped into pain, like a sharp stone lodged near her heart. She had to get out of here. She didn’t need to meet St. Croix for several hours, but she couldn’t stay and let Deacon continue to shove her away.

  She stood, moved to the rack of surveillance equipment along the wall, selecting everything she might need. She could feel Deacon watching her.

  “So you’re going?”

  “Yes.” Her voice sounded flat. Good. Maybe he’d think she didn’t care. “Vincente and Gemma are here. They’ll be in contact with me while I’m talking to him.”

  “Observing you?”

  “Yes, here in the War Room. Stay near them. If Taylor shows, she can’t get through humans any more than the nephil could.” She turned, offered a humorless smile. “You might be fast enough to beat her now, anyway.”

  She headed for the door, brushing past him. Deacon caught her wrist.

  “Rosie, wait.”

  She jerked her arm out of his grip. Surprise jolted through his psychic scent. He reached for her again, as if her tearing away from him had been an accident. She stumbled back, calling in her crossbow. She leveled it at his chest. He froze.

  “Don’t touch me.” She wouldn’t be able to walk away if he held on. She backed toward the door. “Just . . . don’t touch me.”

  Deacon didn’t move. He stared at her, his hand still outstretched. The withdrawn expression in his gaze became determination, and he stepped toward her as if he didn’t care whether she’d shoot a crossbow bolt through his heart. She wouldn’t—but she didn’t wait to see what he’d be throwing at her next.

  She turned and fled into the sun.

  Jesus. Oh, God.

  Taylor ripped up out of the dark, feeling as if she’d gone on a three-day bender. The sun was warm on her back. Waves crashed. No need to guess where she was. Anaria’s island, again. All right. So, maybe try to find that nephil from London again. She slowly calmed the heaving of her chest . . . and realized she wasn’t alone. She looked up.

  Anaria sat in the sand about thirty feet away, sobbing into her hands.

  Oh, man. Taylor didn’t think any of the sudden ache in her chest had been compelled. Anaria cried like her heart had been broken, and it was so wrenching, so sad. And Taylor didn’t have to guess what had happened. She’d knocked on too many doors, told too many people that a loved one was never coming home.

  She felt Michael begin to push her toward the sobbing woman, but she held him back. What did he think she was that she needed to be prodded to do this?

  On bare feet, Taylor crossed the length of beach and sat next to her, sliding her arm around Anaria’s shaking shoulders. The grigori shuddered and looked up, her eyes completely white, glowing brilliantly. “My children . . . they felt him die.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Taylor said. Not sorry the nephil was dead, but sorry for her.

  Anaria’s face collapsed, and she covered her eyes with her hand, bowing her head. “Did you . . . Do you know who did this?”

  “No,” Taylor said truthfully, grateful that she could. More than grief had layered Anaria’s voice in that moment, a note both bitter and deadly, and even Michael seemed wary . . . ready to take over at a second’s notice. “No Guardian or vampire, so far as I know.”

  Her lips trembling, Anaria nodded. “Thank you.” She shuddered again, before looking blindly out over the crashing waves. “I’ve lost so many. My husband. My brother—though Michael was lost to me long before the others. My friends and my children.”

  Taylor didn’t know what would comfort her. “Do they go to . . .” Heaven? Above? Something else? “Where the angels are?”

  “Yes. Of course, yes,” Anaria said, wiping her cheeks. “You have seen the angels in his memories?”

  “No.” Just flashes of nosferatu and demons. Only killing.

  “Yes, of course,” she said softly, staring out into the sea. “There is too much he would not wish you to see.”

  Like what? But Anaria was crying again, and Taylor could only hope that whatever he kept from her stayed hidden.

  She didn’t want to try handling more than she already was.

  The church was rarely empty or silent, and this day was no exception. Two women spoke together in a center pew. A man knelt, praying. From the confessional, she heard soft weeping, and Father Wojcinski’s compassionate response. Their quiet voices filled Rosalia’s mind with warmth, and she let herself take comfort in them.

  In a gray-haired, petite form and swathed in a black dress, Rosalia genuflected and made her way to the back pew, where she waited. She didn’t wait long.

  “He’s here,” she murmured to Gemma, monitoring the conversation from the War Room with Vin and Deacon. The church’s proximity to the abbey meant they had no need for the van today. Even the infrared would be of little use if St. Croix had arranged for any demons to arrive first—the day was already too hot for an accurate reading.

  Standing at the chamber entrance, St. Croix observed the room, his gaze skimming over Rosalia and moving on. Though she knew he hadn’t yet slept, he didn’t appear tired. His handsome face displayed no emotion, and his blue eyes were distant and icy as he regarded each person, but she sensed uncertainty in his psychic scent. She guessed that he didn’t know what to do here; a church was out of his element. Finally, he chose a seat on the back pew across the aisle from her, tapping his fingers together between his knees.

  Not as cool as he appeared. Good.

  She rose and walked toward him. He glanced at her, and she watched a polite mask fall over his features. Preparing to gently tell the old lady that he preferred to be alone, Rosalia guessed. Before he could speak, she sat next to him—and since no one was looking their way, she shifted into her natural form.

  St. Croix’s eyes narrowed. The curve of his lips suggested amusement, but it was a thin, cold smile, with an undercurrent of anger.

  She began, “Tell me, Mr. St. Croix, what have you discovered about me?”

  She knew he’d found nothing—there was nothing about her to find.

  He was careful not to admit that. “Less than you have about me, I’d wager.”

  “Yes.” And she didn’t yet know what she most needed to. “And I’ll give you more, but how much more depends on the answer to one question: Did you kill Rachel Boyle, or did your mother?”

  It was as if she’d stabbed him. Pain slashed across his face before his expression hardened into a smooth mask. “I think we are done here.”

  He stood and began to walk away. And because that young woman’s death had hurt him, she said, “My mother poisoned my father. She cut his throat in their bed. She paid assassins. She tried everything, and when everything failed, she poisoned herself. I should hate her for leaving us alone with him. A mother should protect her children, don’t you agree?”


  He stopped. He didn’t turn, but he stopped—and so he must be listening.

  “A father should protect his children, too,” Rosalia continued. “Mine made certain that I found my mother’s body. He told me that she was burning in Hell for her suicide. I believed him, because of all people, he would know who burned in Hell. Only later did I realize that they are also liars, and bargainers . . . and it’s entirely possible that she killed herself only after making a deal that protected us from him. And so I cannot hate her. I do hate him, however—and if he wasn’t dead, I’d hunt my father down and kill him.”

  He finally turned. “So what are you—a support group for demon children?”

  Though his tone mocked, he took a step toward her. Good enough, she thought.

  “I’m something better, Mr. St. Croix. I’m someone with information. You are looking for your mother?”

  “Don’t call her that.” His mouth twisted. “You know where she is? Who she is?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re of no use to me.”

  But he didn’t go. No, he wanted to see what she offered him. Because he did lack information, and he knew it.

  “Sit down,” she said.

  After an internal struggle, he did.

  “You’ve gone to Legion. You’re looking for her in the wrong place. Legion was created for Belial’s demons, but what your mother did—” She broke off when the mask shifted, revealing the ice and hatred beneath. “What would you have me call her?”

  “A sopping, murderous cunt.”

  “Here?” Pointedly, she looked to the altar. “I think not.”

  Through her earpiece, she heard the muffled hoot of Gemma’s laughter and the rumble of Deacon’s beneath it. For the first time, she saw humor in St. Croix’s expression.

  “Perhaps not,” he agreed. “Madelyn will do.”

  His mother’s Christian name, but not the name he’d probably called his real mother. At the age he’d lost her, she would have still been his mum.