Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

Her leaving set a pattern for the next several days. Dawn found Deacon in the garage, where he’d work until the sun set. Then he’d snag a unit of blood from the kitchen and join her in the War Room. She’d lay out the plans for the evening, and they’d be off. Deacon would slay another demon in another city. Then she crammed yet another city into their nightly schedule, and barely got him back to the abbey before the sun rose again.

  During the day, she swam. He heard her as she swam. And gardened. Her hair smelled like chlorine and her hands like earth. He imagined her out in the sunshine, with the War Room doors open and listening to the surveillance on St. Croix and Theriault the same way another woman might listen to the radio.

  And she didn’t touch him. The first night, he saw the way her fingers clenched when he’d emerged from her bedchamber, showered and dressed for the evening. But she didn’t straighten him up.

  The next night, he’d deliberately left himself a mess. She’d crossed her arms over her chest and tucked her hands in tight, and he remembered where he’d seen her do that before: with Vin, as if she’d been afraid her son might slap her hands away.

  Since then, he hadn’t had a hair out of place or a collar bent wrong.

  And once he got over being pissed, not a minute passed that he didn’t think of taking that step toward her. After Malkvial and Camille, she couldn’t possibly have anything else to drop on him. And though she was only a few rooms away, he missed her like hell. Warm and sweet and clever, yet so vulnerable. She looked at him like he was worth something. She truly believed he could pull her plan off. She’d trusted him. And he knew the pleasure they’d found in bed had just been them—no plan, no calculation there. They’d fit together well.

  But he didn’t go to her, and didn’t call her in. It was better this way. Once they’d finished, she wouldn’t have a use for him, and he’d be gone. Far easier to make the break now.

  And so he stayed in the garage, and the few words that passed between them were about the demons he’d be killing. She put the blood in the refrigerator and told him to help himself when he needed it. She asked him daily if he’d seen Taylor and to send the Guardian to her if he did.

  But they spoke only after sunset. During the day, she left him alone. She never came into the garage. He shut off the air-conditioning and let in the heat, stripping to the waist while he worked beneath the car. By afternoon, the garage sweltered. Sweat rolled into his eyes.

  He didn’t sleep, and no longer had nightmares, but the days were still his own personal hell. A hell of his making, and one he deserved. The small heaven of her, he didn’t.

  And when Taylor teleported in, both her eyes and her mind dark, empty voids, he realized that he was finally going to pay.

  Rosalia’s hands were deep in the soil when the psychic darkness rolled into her—the same she’d felt while flying over the Mediterranean.

  Taylor. Oh, God.

  She leapt to her feet and ran. The sparring chamber passed in a blur. Lowering her right shoulder, she rammed into the wall shared by the garage. Stone and plaster exploded around her.

  Rosalia stumbled through, her right arm shattered with pain, sword in her left hand. She froze.

  Deacon lay on the concrete, Taylor’s blade at his throat. She stood over him, her eyes empty, but she was struggling against Michael’s hold. Her hand trembled. A line of blood ran down the side of Deacon’s neck.

  “Taylor.” She tried to keep her voice calm. Agony engulfed the arm that she lifted toward the other woman. “Bring your sword here. You don’t want to do this.”

  The other Guardian made a soft sound, a whimper that wasn’t just her. Michael’s harmonic voice deepened it almost to a growl. Her shaking increased.

  Deacon’s gaze never left Taylor’s face. “Maybe she does, Rosie. Maybe he’s just giving her what she wants.”

  Taylor’s life had been taken away. Her will, possessed. They were both reasons to seek revenge . . . if Taylor had been another woman.

  But Taylor wasn’t seeking revenge. Michael was seeking it for her. And Rosalia had been appealing to the wrong Guardian.

  “Michael,” Rosalia said, and hoped to God that he could hear her. Hoping the tortures of the frozen field hadn’t just reduced him to base impulse, but that some semblance of reason was left. “If you make her do this, she’ll carry that forever. If you want this, wait until you come back and do it yourself. Don’t lay this burden on her.”

  Taylor gasped and began breathing again, air sawing past clenched teeth. Some of the darkness receded. Either he’d let go a little, or she was taking control. Rosalia pushed harder, striking Michael where it would matter most. No Guardian cared more about honoring free will—not just in humans, but in everyone.

  “Michael, she’s fighting you. You’ve taken her free will. Don’t use her for this. She’s not like us. She doesn’t kill for revenge—only for defense or to protect. Don’t make her into something else against her will.”

  Michael’s hold on her broke. Taylor’s sword vanished. She fell to her knees, retching and coughing.

  Rosalia rushed to Deacon. “Are you all right?” She could see he was, but she needed to touch him. His blood slid beneath her fingers when she checked the wound on his neck, but the puncture had already healed. Sweat bathed his skin. “Why is it so hot in here?”

  He didn’t respond. She looked up at him. His eyes were fixed and staring, like the daysleep . . . or death.

  Ice crept up her spine. “Deacon?”

  His psychic scent suddenly battered against her shields. Deacon’s . . . but not just a vampire’s. Dark and strong, it slid over her mind like the scales of a snake. A nephil’s psychic scent.

  Deacon sat up.

  “Deacon?”

  He faced her, spoke. His empty eyes sparked terror in her heart, but the words he spoke were worse.

  The demon language.

  She grabbed his hand as he stood. With frightening ease, he flung her away. Rosalia smashed against the side of the car. Pain ripped though her arm. Glass shattered and rained down. Fighting against tears, Rosalia struggled to her knees. She watched him turn and head for the door.

  For the sun.

  She caught him halfway across the garage, tried to tackle him to the ground. It was like wrestling with a mountain. Wrapping her good arm around his waist, she tried to dig her heels in.

  “Taylor, help me!”

  Deacon spoke again, still in that unintelligible language, his voice frighteningly even. He trudged forward, dragging her along, Rosalia’s weight nothing to his strength.

  Taylor appeared beside them. “He’s being called.”

  Horror gripped her. “What?”

  But Rosalia understood, too well. Like the nephil whose blood he’d taken, now Deacon was being called to enforce the Rules. He couldn’t resist the call—but he couldn’t teleport; he couldn’t fly. He could only walk out into the sun.

  “A demon has broken the Rules,” Taylor said, her voice harmonic and her eyes black, and Rosalia didn’t know if she was translating the words Deacon was shouting, or if Michael was speaking now. “The demon must be slain.”

  Taylor reached out, touched them both. And teleported.

  Darkness surrounded him. Pain screamed through his mind. But the pain wasn’t his. It was hers.

  The darkness suddenly receded, though the world remained dim, as if viewed through smoked glass. Deacon recognized Rosalia’s shadowy veil, her Gift enveloping him in darkness. He saw her, standing in front of him, a sword in her right hand, her left arm hanging limply at her side. The shadows beneath her boots stretched toward Deacon, bleeding into the veil around him. Beyond her, a nephil with giant black wings held a demon’s head. The scent of the demon’s blood pierced the veil, sparked Deacon’s hunger.

  Staggering, Deacon rose to his feet. It was so fucking hot here, bone-dry. Not anything like Rome. He smelled human blood—and saw a human male in a white robe, lying facedown on a yellow rock. His shadow stretched unnaturally long
and thin toward the veil around Deacon. The sun was high overhead. In the distance, sand formed dunes against the horizon.

  He could almost piece it together. A demon had killed the human. The nephil had been called to slay the demon. Deacon just couldn’t figure out how the fuck he and Rosalia had gotten here. This sure as hell wasn’t Europe.

  The nephil’s gaze touched Rosalia before moving past her to Deacon. His lips drew back from his fangs as he spoke. Deacon didn’t recognize the words, but he felt the creature’s rage and grief.

  “He wants to know if you killed his brother,” Taylor said from beside him. “Rosalia, he can sense the blood in Deacon. He knows.”

  “And if he tells the others, Deacon’s as good as dead. They’ll hunt him down.” Her grim determination resonated through the shadows. “Get him out of here, Taylor.”

  The detective didn’t move. Her expression tightened as the nephil looked at her and spoke again. With a chilling smile, he began to edge toward her. Two swords appeared in Taylor’s hands—Deacon wondered if she realized that she’d called them in.

  “What’d he say?” Rosalia slipped between them, staying beyond the reach of the nephil’s weapon. “Taylor! What’d he say?”

  “He said, ‘My mother isn’t here.’ ”

  Dark humor slipped into Rosalia’s voice. “But I am.”

  She rushed forward. Darkness snaked around her, thickening her form into an indistinct shape, creating shadow limbs, until it was impossible to determine the exact position of her hands and her head. Her sword flashed out of the darkness—the nephil barely managed to block it. He stumbled back against the slashing fury of her weapon before recovering and bearing down on her.

  The shadows from the veil to her feet stretched thinner, thinner. The pain of her Gift was a volatile, living agony against Deacon’s shields. He had to get closer. Had to help her.

  He stepped through the veil, into the sun. Fire erupted from his skin, engulfing him in flames. Instinctively, he dove back into the shelter of her Gift, clenching his teeth against the flaring pain.

  Stupid. Stupid. Of course she couldn’t track both the nephil and him at the same time. He had to stay put.

  Taylor joined her, weapons awkward in her hands. Though her eyes were pure black, she was slow—slower than she should be. Not just fighting the nephil, but fighting Michael, too. She dodged the nephil’s blade, but not by virtue of her own skill. Each time, she was yanked back at the last moment like a puppet by her strings.

  She was fighting Michael . . . but Michael was fighting to save her.

  Deacon shouted, “Taylor! Let him have you!”

  Rosalia stumbled to one knee, her legs swept out from under. The nephil raised his weapon. Deacon broke out of the shadows, into the dazzling day. Instantly, his exposed skin caught fire. He didn’t give a fuck. If a vampire ball of fire barreling toward the nephil could make him hesitate for even a second—

  Just before the sun blinded him, the creature fell.

  Rosalia cried out his name. Pain engulfed him again, his and hers. He felt something cover his head and shoulders, smelled chlorine and earth and his own charred flesh.

  Jesus Christ, it hurt like a son of a bitch. He breathed shallow, controlling it. “What happened?”

  “Taylor cut off his head.”

  Deacon hadn’t seen it—not just because his sight had burned out. When Michael had taken over, Taylor had just been that fast. Christ Jesus. He almost laughed. “Then I’m damn lucky she’s been fighting him whenever he pops in to kill me.”

  “Yes.”

  He felt her shudder against him. “Rosie?”

  “I just . . . pulled the bodies into my cache. A few Bedouins have seen.” He felt her move, as if shifting around, being careful not to jar him. “Taylor! We have to go.”

  He heard footsteps, dimly saw movement beside him as Taylor laid her hand on his shoulder. Pain shot down his arm. Rosalia’s Gift vanished from around him—then he had hard concrete beneath him instead of hot sand. Judging by the scent of oil and the sweltering heat, Taylor had teleported them back into Rosalia’s garage.

  The detective’s blurry figure backed away from them until her shoulders met the wall. She slid down to the concrete floor, pulling her knees against her chest. Deacon felt Rosalia’s breath against his shoulder, the press of her lips to his skin, and the prayer of thanks she whispered.

  God wasn’t the reason he hadn’t fried out there. Rosie was. But before he could pull her into his arms, before he could thank her, she turned away.

  “Taylor, don’t go yet.”

  Deacon’s sight had healed well enough to see the bleakness of Taylor’s expression, her blue eyes shattered and her mouth in a tight line. Rosalia moved to her side, crouched down on her heels next to her.

  “He’d have killed Deacon,” she said softly. “He’d have killed me. And if Anaria and the other nephilim learned that we’d slain the nephil in Lorenzo’s home, her revenge could have taken her to my family. Vin, Gemma, their baby. The Rules do not hold her back. You saved so many lives.”

  “I know.” Taylor pushed her hands through her disheveled red hair. Frustration overwrote the bleakness. “He was going to kill me, too. They aren’t completely loyal to Anaria. And she refuses to recognize what they are.”

  Rosalia had pegged the other Guardian well, Deacon realized. Taylor would only kill to protect or defend. And although slaying the nephil hadn’t been easy for the new Doyen, this one wouldn’t hang on her.

  “This is the wrong time to ask you . . .” Rosalia trailed off. “No, perhaps it is the right time. This has been difficult, and it is a horrible thing that I’ll ask of you—and only you could know if you can withstand more than this.”

  Taylor shook her head, laughing a little. “I already have. So lay it on me.”

  “Deacon and I have been working to destroy both Belial’s demons and the nephilim. But although we have found a way to slay the nephilim, the demons are left to kill. If Michael was alive, I would ask him. I would do it myself, but I might fail. Anaria won’t.”

  “You need Anaria?”

  “I need you to teleport with her . . . but you would be bringing her into a nightmare. Into any mother’s worst nightmare.”

  “Into a slaughter?”

  “Of the nephilim, yes.”

  “Oh, fuck me.” Taylor pushed her hands into her hair again. “And if I can’t?”

  “Then I’ll return to my original plan.”

  I would do it myself, but I might fail.

  Deacon’s voice was rough. “Does that original plan involve you dying?”

  “God willing, no.”

  In other words, Rosalia felt she had no choice but to try. And only by the grace of God would she succeed.

  “No fucking way am I letting you do that. I’ll chain you down first.”

  Rosalia glanced over her shoulder at him. Not upset by his threat or pulling her crossbow out again, as he’d half expected, but with a soft pleasure—as if surprised that anyone would care enough to forbid her from gambling with her life.

  Christ, how that ripped at him.

  “We all have to take risks, Deacon.”

  “You don’t. Not this one.”

  “That’s up to Taylor.”

  Deacon’s anger battled with his fear. Anger was on the verge of winning when Taylor lifted her wry gaze to Rosalia’s.

  “For once, Michael’s not pushing me one way or another—finally letting me decide.” Her chest rose and fell on a heavy breath. “Would you want me to do it, or him?”

  “That’s also up to you. You’re a Guardian, and so you slay demons. But this will be cold, Taylor, and you are new. Michael, Deacon, and I—we have seen enough demons that the burden of slaying them is a light one. And if you hesitated, if you struggled against him at all, you would be in danger.” Rosalia held her gaze. “But there will also be humans to protect. After bringing Anaria, they would be your priority. I can’t imagine that would be a struggle
for either of you.”

  The detective managed a slight smile. “You’d be surprised how easy it is for me to find something to struggle against.”

  The warmth of Rosalia’s answering smile transformed her features from beautiful to resplendent, hitting Deacon like a punch to the heart, but her smile faded quickly. “I will be taking steps that no Guardian should take, Taylor. You should hear what I have planned before your make your decision.”

  Taylor laughed. “You’ve already got me halfway there, just by being the one Guardian who gives a warning before throwing a girl into the deep end.”

  Rosalia outlined it all. From Theriault, to the first demon had slain in Budapest, all the way to how she saw the end. Christ. Laid all out, Deacon could see how many places it’d could have gone wrong—but hadn’t, because she’d considered so many angles, understood the personalities of so many involved. And even though she still didn’t know every detail of when or where or how the battle between the nephilim and demons would go down, Deacon believed she could pull it off.

  Hell. She’d already pulled off one miracle. Every night, vampires had been greeting him with smiles and handshakes instead of disdain and hatred. If she could do that, then he could easily imagine everything she said would happen here.

  Taylor asked few questions until Rosalia spoke of the humans she planned to bring in. Then her eyes became obsidian and her voice a dark, disapproving harmony. Taylor fought him, and Rosalia finished the outline of her plan with her hands shaking.

  As she fell silent, waiting for Taylor’s response, the phone began ringing in the War Room. Rosalia glanced upward, as if torn. Finally, she rose to answer it, leaving through the hole she’d smashed through the connecting wall. Both he and Taylor remained quiet, listening to her half of the conversation.

  Rosalia returned and told them what they’d already heard. “St. Croix’s waiting at the church, with possible names.”

  And Deacon wouldn’t try to stop her from going this time. “You’ll bring the surveillance equipment down so that I can listen in here?”

  “Yes. If you’ll turn the air-conditioning back on.”