“What Madelyn did to your family better fits the style of Lucifer’s demons,” Rosalia told him. “You won’t find her at Legion.”
She saw the speculation in his eyes, and her pulse jumped when she realized where his thoughts were turning.
“No, Mr. St. Croix. Lucifer’s and Belial’s demons are enemies, but that does not mean Belial’s demons will help you. If you go to them, they will do everything possible to break you, simply because it will entertain them. A demon is a demon, no matter his allegiance.”
He nodded. Perhaps he’d seen enough of Belial’s demons to believe it. “Where would I find her, then?”
“The Gates to Hell are closed. If she is among those Below, it will be five hundred years before the Gates open again.”
“I’ll wait.”
He probably could. “As a vampire?”
“If hate alone can’t keep me going.”
“It can’t,” she assured him, though the hatred seething within him could certainly drive a man for a lifetime. “If Madelyn isn’t in Hell, you will probably find her in one of two ways. The first, it’s likely she will be doing to another family what she has done to yours.”
When he glanced at her, frowning, she said, “Demons are creatures of habit. Rarely do they think or act in an original way. If something succeeds once, they will do it again.”
“So I’d look for a family that resembles mine, with a suicide as a red flag.”
“Yes. Though it is still a daunting task. Thousands of families might fit the criteria in Europe alone. I can help you there.”
Though his sudden suspicion didn’t show on his face, she felt it in his psychic scent. He didn’t trust anyone who offered him something for free. That was fine. This wasn’t an offer, but an exchange.
“How?”
“There are others like me. We search for demons, to slay them—and that is all we do. We’re familiar with their patterns, their scents, even the human forms they take. If we come across a woman who fits Madelyn’s pattern, I will tell you.”
He regarded her without expression for a long moment, but she could sense the wariness and temptation behind it. “And what do you get?”
Smart man. “I need to know who is directing the demons at Legion. Who stepped up after Belial’s lieutenant left?”
“The new executive director—”
“No.” She’d already looked at that demon, an American, and discarded the possibility. “It’d be someone who isn’t as visible. Someone who, for the past six months, has been moving people around and pulling strings. He’d be based in a European office, high-ranking, with a solid foundation of supporters, but not at the top. Not yet.”
He frowned. “I can make enquiries—”
“And reveal your interest? No. It has to be done quietly.”
His gaze sharpened. He apparently enjoyed a challenge. “I’ll get names for you, then, if you do the same for me.”
“Mine won’t come as quickly, but they’ll come,” she promised.
“And if Madelyn takes the second route? You said she would likely try one of two things.”
Rosalia suspected that he would prefer the second. “She spent twenty years building your father’s small firm into a financial powerhouse. When you took it over, you tore her work apart.”
“She’ll come after me,” he realized, and dark pleasure swept through him, so reminiscent of a demon’s.
Rosalia battled her revulsion. “Yes.”
“If she comes after me, I won’t need a name. What could you offer?”
“Knowledge, Mr. St. Croix. To start, how to better guard your emotions.” She smiled as surprise and unease suddenly radiated from him. “Like those I’m feeling now. The shields Gerald and Sally taught you to create might have been sufficient to block a vampire. They won’t a demon.”
His eyes narrowed. “And you?”
She deflected that with a deliberate misunderstanding. “And I’ll teach you how to recognize Madelyn if she comes for you. To begin with, she’ll have hot skin.”
“Hot—” He broke off, his face paling. Repugnance and horror crawled through his psychic scent before hatred surrounded it with ice. “And they can change their human shape, too?”
Oh, dear God. Rosalia stared at him. Her father had been cruel. But he’d never done what she suddenly suspected Madelyn had to St. Croix.
“Yes,” she finally said. “And there is more. I will tell you all—but I have something I must finish first.”
“And that ‘something’ is why you need me.”
“Yes.”
He nodded and stuck out his hand. When she took it, her warm skin the same temperature as his, relief moved through him. “You’re not one of them.”
“No. As I said before—I’m something better.” She left her card in his palm, the paper blank except for a phone number. “I look forward to your call.”
She watched him leave, shaken by the depth of Madelyn’s depravity. Nothing a demon did surprised Rosalia anymore, but she was still sickened by it.
And St. Croix . . . She could pity him, but she could not like him. Where another man—like Deacon—might be angry and withdrawn, and just as determined to have his revenge, he didn’t resemble the demons he wanted to destroy. Deacon had suffered, but he was still a good man, and a generous one. He didn’t look at others simply to see how they could be used.
Perhaps when St. Croix found Madelyn and took his revenge, he would change—but Rosalia feared the damage had been done. Not everyone could be repaired.
Lorenzo hadn’t been.
“Rosa?”
She looked toward the aisle, where Father Wojcinski stood, wearing his short-sleeved clericals. Smiling, she rose to her feet and joined him.
“When I saw your companion leave, you were looking very much as you did in my kitchen three nights ago.” He studied her face, as if trying to read behind the smile. “Are you still conflicted about using the man in this quest you spoke of, or have you convinced him to help you?”
Her heart seemed to drop into her stomach. Keeping her dismay from her expression, she murmured, “Piccola bambina,” before vanishing the audio receiver, to let Gemma know she hadn’t been cut off.
“I have convinced him.” Though she couldn’t forget how he’d withdrawn that morning—or how the worst was yet to come. Deacon must have noticed how she was positioning him at the head of so many communities. Focused on his revenge, he hadn’t yet asked why, but eventually he would. “Partially.”
The priest sighed. “You cover it well, but I suspect I have just revealed something I shouldn’t have. Will this jeopardize what you’ve done?”
She shook her head. “He will not leave before we’ve finished.”
Of that, she was certain. But that didn’t mean Deacon wouldn’t be angry—and wonder if he’d been manipulated. That would not rest easy with him.
“But now he will think you’ve misled him.”
“And I will tell him I have not—and that is truth, Father. So do not fret. You have jeopardized nothing.”
He regarded her closely, and he had known her too long and read her too clearly. Leading her to a pew, he sat. “Nothing, Rosa?”
“Nothing that was not already in jeopardy.” Like her heart. She knew her smile was brittle. “A demon destroyed everyone he cared about. He’s a good man, and a brave one—but I don’t know if he will risk happiness again, Father, or even if he feels that he deserves it. How can I be with a man who will not let himself love me without hating himself for it? I deserve more.”
“If he’s as good a man as you say, Rosa, then so does he.”
They were in agreement about that. Deacon deserved more, even if he didn’t believe it. But what could she do if he would not take what she had to give him?
She would not quit yet, though.
“Ah, I see your determination. I know now that all will be well.” Smiling, he squeezed her hand. “And as we are discussing matters of the heart, it would not
be amiss to mention that I am meeting with Vincente and Gemma tomorrow to discuss the wedding ceremony. I assume the reception will be held at the abbey?”
She had just assumed, too, but now she realized that neither Gemma nor Vincente had said a word about it. “I’ll ask them.”
If Father Wojcinski thought it strange that she didn’t know, she couldn’t read it in his expression. He appeared tired, she realized—probably still losing sleep over an abuse and depravity that was almost worse for having been committed by a human . . . someone a child should have been able to trust. She would take care of that, soon.
And perhaps it would be tomorrow’s item on the list of things a Guardian shouldn’t do.
CHAPTER 16
Rosalia took the long way back to the abbey, winding through the streets, shifting into several different forms. She walked through her front door as a young boy, spooning the last of a pistachio gelato into her mouth.
She could hear Deacon in the War Room. He’d likely been there all day, listening to surveillance from Theriault and St. Croix—the inactivity must be wearing on him. As amazing as his walking around during the day was, it wouldn’t take long before he felt trapped by the sun, limited to moving between two rooms.
In any case, surveillance was her responsibility, not his. She’d have to find something else for him, something he’d enjoy and that would keep both his hands and his mind occupied.
Gemma’s soft snores were audible through her bedroom door. Relief lightened Rosalia’s heart. The young woman hadn’t slept after the nephil’s attack last night. Perhaps a nap would erase the tiredness from her eyes. Vincente’s, too. Although, judging by the sound of pacing coming from Gemma’s room, Vincente wasn’t sleeping with her.
Rosalia sighed, stopping by the kitchen to toss the gelato cup. Never had she imagined having to ask her son whether his wedding dinner would be here. And never had she imagined the possibility that the answer would be no.
But it needed to be asked, and so there was no use delaying. She started across the courtyard, her footsteps over the grass like a scrape in her ears. And a heartbeat, strangely muffled.
No . . . that was a heartbeat.
Whirling around, Rosalia called in her sword. Her gaze searched the empty gardens. If the person had a scent, it was covered by chlorine and roses, lavender and the lemon tree. A soft ripple drew her to the swimming pool.
Taylor floated beneath the water. She’d removed her shoes, but still wore a jacket and trousers. Her eyes were closed. Meditating—or trying to.
When had she come? Rosalia’s heart pounded, and she listened again to the sounds from the War Room. She hadn’t been mistaken. Deacon was up there, alive.
Vanishing her sword, Rosalia retraced her steps through the courtyard, but didn’t head upstairs to Gemma’s room. Stopping at the fountain, she sank onto her favorite bench, cradling her head in her hands.
Last night’s encounter with the nephil, St. Croix, even Taylor . . . So much had begun to spin out of control, and Rosalia felt as if she was holding it all together with her fingernails. What would be next? And what would she do if it was worse?
The sun shone hot and bright overhead. In Caelum, the sun was the same—always the same. It never moved from its position, never clouded, never darkened with the night.
Her first years there had been like a dream. Everything had been so clean, so bright. And there’d been so much to learn . . . Guardians from parts of the world she’d never heard of or imagined.
She’d been so filled with hope, and she’d let herself forget her life before Caelum, to forget everything but Lorenzo. And so she’d never thought about how her father had railed at her nurse because Rosalia hadn’t been clean enough, and had ordered the woman to hold her face in a basin. She’d let herself forget how the woman had cried, but complied. The nurse had left afterward, and Rosalia had been the one who’d made certain Lorenzo never had a speck of dirt on him, never a hair or a collar out of place—always remembering her desperation, the nurse’s hand on the back of her neck, the dark blooming spots in front of her eyes . . . and the relief, the dizzying, overwhelming relief when she’d been able to breathe again.
Those years in Caelum had been like that: Gasping for air, so dizzying and so full of hope that she’d felt faint. Now she sat, feeling as if her face was back in that basin, desperately trying to lift her head, blinded and unable to breathe.
But she didn’t know if the hand on the back of her neck was the nephilim’s, the demons’, or her own.
She heard a door open upstairs, but didn’t look up until Vin’s shadow crossed her face. Heavens, he was a mess, as if he’d slept in his clothes—even though, like everyone else in this household, he hadn’t slept at all. She suspected, however, that he wouldn’t welcome her straightening him up. She tucked her hands into her elbows, and remembered the advice that Father Wojcinski had given her three nights before. For now, she would only listen.
“Gemma needs to leave the abbey,” he said.
Rosalia frowned, but didn’t reply. With a tilt of her head, she invited him to sit next to her.
Vin shook his head and remained standing. “Her nightmares are worse when she’s here. They always have been. But she stayed, even after everyone was killed, because she felt obligated to keep up the abbey after you disappeared. And she hasn’t told you, but she can’t walk through these rooms at night without seeing them drenched in blood.”
Rosalia closed her eyes. Oh, God. How it hurt that the woman she considered her daughter was going through this. It hurt that Gemma hadn’t said something. And it hurt because Rosalia couldn’t make it better for her.
But Vin had known. No wonder he’d been so adamant about not living here. But he hadn’t told her about Gemma then, either. Why was he now?
“I need you to convince her, Mama. It has to be you, or she won’t leave.”
“Okay.” If he said so, she believed that. “I’ll try.”
“Thank you.” With a short nod, he turned away.
“Vin.” When he looked back, she said, “It would help if I knew why you can’t convince her, and I must.”
Suddenly agitated, he pushed stiff fingers through his rumpled hair, as if this was more difficult for him than anything he’d said earlier.
“All right.” His hand dropped to his side and he seemed to brace himself. “She’s staying for you. So you won’t be alone.”
She stared at him. “Why does she think I shouldn’t be alone?”
“Because you never have been, Mama. Ever. When you were human, you had Lorenzo, and then the nuns. After that, you had the Guardians and the vampires here, your family. Even when you came back from beneath the catacombs, most of our family was dead . . . but Gemma and I were here. She’s worried about you. About whether you can handle it if there’s no one here.”
Not just Gemma, she realized. Vincente thought this, too.
Astonished, Rosalia could only shake her head. She’d never imagined that they had this view of her. Since returning from Caelum two hundred years ago, Rosalia had been alone—almost always alone. Hiding, listening, managing . . . but rarely participating in the lives of those she watched and watched over. Her friends and her family had been bright spots . . . deep breaths, in all of the darkness. It had made them all the more precious.
Deacon barely knew her, yet he had seen it. Lonely and desperate, he’d called her. He hadn’t been wrong, but she’d made it through centuries of alone rather well, all things considered.
“I’ll convince her,” she said.
Vincente nodded again, but this time he didn’t turn to go. “What did you do to Lorenzo?”
Oh, no. “Vin—”
“He threatened me, but went after you. What did you do?”
Rosalia’s jaw clenched. He was obviously determined to hear this. She couldn’t imagine why, unless he wanted to pick apart another failure. A Guardian should have slain Lorenzo after the threat. But she hadn’t been able to kill her brot
her in cold blood.
“I woke him up with my Gift,” she said. “I took him outside, and kept him awake while he burned. I fried him almost completely through, and told him that the next time he dared to think of my son, I would bring all of his community out to watch while I burned him to ashes, then take his place and lead them.”
Vin stared at her, mouth parted in shock. No, that was not the mama he knew. She’d never let him see the darker side of living with a Guardian.
But the shock quickly faded, his eyes narrowing. Rosalia braced herself. She’d taught him to look not only at actions, but at the reasons behind them. And Vin knew her too well—she never had just one reason for anything.
“You threatened his position. You knew he would retaliate. You couldn’t bring yourself to outright kill him, so you forced his hand—made him come after you—because you could slay him if you had to defend yourself.”
“Yes. I just didn’t expect that he would make a deal with Belial’s lieutenant, and that I’d be facing seven demons instead of my brother,” she said wryly.
Unamused, Vin shook his head. “You should have just killed him, Mama.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Then you should have left it alone.”
After Lorenzo had threatened her son’s life? “I couldn’t do that, either.”
“God!” Vin spun away from her, throwing up his hands. “What can you do? Are you a Guardian or a sister?”
That knifed deep into her heart. “I am a mother, too. I couldn’t take the chance that he’d follow through on his threat.”
“He wouldn’t have touched me. He wouldn’t have risked breaking the Rules.”
Rosalia hadn’t been so certain. Lorenzo had wanted to hurt her enough to make the threat. He might have hated her enough to take that risk. And she had no doubt he’d have been arrogant enough to think he might get away with it.
Studying Vin’s rigid back, she sighed. Her son shielded his mind too well for her to detect his emotions, but it wasn’t difficult to read through his anger and frustration to the fear and concern beneath. When she’d chosen to make Lorenzo come after her, she’d made a decision that had almost cost her life. Combined with last night’s attack from the nephil, her mortality had been thrust into her son’s face—after decades of never letting him see her bloodied by so much as a scratch.
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