“So how does this fit into your plan if I have to kill him?”
“Oh, Malkvial isn’t waiting for you. He’s challenging you, but he wouldn’t want to give the impression to any other demons that you’re important enough to bother with himself.”
“I have to kill the messenger,” Deacon realized.
“Yes.” She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Demons can be clever, as Malkvial seems to be, but they are rarely original. The only time they surprise me is when love enters the mix. But it isn’t here.”
Deacon’s gaze searched her face. She laughed, but worry and a touch of panic whistled through her psychic scent, a cold wind past a jagged cliff.
And he could have told her that she was wrong: Love was here.
But he had to push it away.
Rosalia hadn’t expected this. She’d imagined many other scenarios, but not this particular one.
Deacon could handle this, no doubt. But it served as a reminder of how much could go wrong, how quickly everything could fall apart. One missed step. One wrong move. The dreaded possibilities rushed in on her without cease, spinning through her mind. Like falling from the sky, unable to form her wings.
“You all right?”
She had to be. They’d almost reached the club. “Yes.”
He wasn’t convinced. His gaze searched her face. “You’re scared. You’ve been worried since we left the demon’s place.”
“I’m not scared.” Her pride stinging, she frowned at him. “Not of this demon. Just . . .”
“You don’t like not being in control. Or letting someone else dictate events.”
He saw her so well. Knowing how he disliked her maneuverings, she wasn’t sure if that pleased her or not.
“Trust me. I’ll pull it off.” He grinned, and her heart flipped over. “Then you’ve got to fix your inner control freak. Just let go.”
“I can’t.”
His grin turned wicked, showing plenty of fang. “You did in my bed.”
She had to smile. So she had, and loved it. And she trusted him to carry this through now, just as she had then. But—“If everything goes out of control there, no one dies.”
“I came damn close a couple of times, princess.”
A laugh burst from her, but she couldn’t make it last. She’d come close, too—but not for several days. Barely touching, rarely talking, never kissing. She hated it. But today had been better, giving her hope that they could take another step forward.
She glanced up at Deacon, but he was no longer smiling. He stared ahead, his jaw set.
“You hear that?”
Only the puttering of motorboats on the canals, voices and appliances and televisions within the residences. Listening close, she looked toward the club, a tall, narrow building topped with steep gables. No lights shone through the windows. All was quiet. She didn’t dare try a psychic probe to find out why.
And she hoped to God that the silence didn’t mean they’d been too late.
But his senses were different, she remembered—stronger now. “What are you picking up?”
“Vampires, blocking their minds. At least, they’re trying to. Their fear screams.”
Anger wound up inside her, hot and hard.
He glanced at her. “They’re pissed, too.”
“Good.” Fear without anger too often led to subservience. If they got the chance, Rosalia suspected these vampires might fight.
No one met them at the entrance. The heavy wooden door opened easily, and they passed into a large foyer, empty but for the paintings that filled the walls. Pastel landscapes, bold modern pieces, religious scenes that dated back to the Renaissance era, they all shared one feature: the sun. Rising and setting in shades of orange and pink, or high and brilliant in its full glory.
“I’ve never been able to decide whether Stefan put these up as a welcome or a warning,” Deacon said. Though his voice was casual, Rosalia had never seen him as focused.
Listening for sounds deeper within the club. Waiting to see if the demon came for him.
Rosalia adopted the same easy tone. “Perhaps he does neither, but uses them to gauge a visitor’s personality. A cynical or suspicious vampire sees the sun that destroys him; an amiable and hopeful one sees a generous gift from their host, a room bursting with beauty and memory.”
And though she said “perhaps,” Rosalia knew it for certain. A strong and thoughtful vampire, and a good friend of Tomás Lakatos, Stefan had come to Amsterdam from Budapest ten years before. He’d renovated this building, formerly a small hotel, into a club and boardinghouse for both community members and visitors, with his own suite on the top level, and in the basement, a reinforced chamber designed to keep out demons. In the public areas, he’d created meeting spaces much like those in Budapest, with billiards and game tables, surrounding everyone with warm woods, soft lighting, and comfort.
Deacon pointed to the double doors leading to the community’s meeting room, formerly the hotel’s dining room and kitchen. Yes, Rosalia heard it, too—hearts thundering, and a small moan, almost like a whimper, as if someone was holding back a scream through clenched teeth.
Deacon drew one of the short swords from the harness beneath his jacket, approaching the meeting room. “I told Stefan that since he’d included one of Eva’s paintings, it showed he had damn good taste. What do you think he made of that?”
That Deacon was incredibly loyal to those he loved. But she said, “That you were only pleased that Eva had sold the work because you depended on her money. And that she was your sugar mama.”
He choked back a laugh, but was still grinning when he opened the door. The effect was exactly what she’d hoped—the vampires saw confidence, and the demon saw a cocky male that needed to be put down.
And though the vampires crowded into a three-deep circle around the room had been shielding too well for Rosalia to sense their fear, now she felt their hope, rising like warm air. They parted, giving Deacon a clear path to the demon.
In the center of the darkened room, the demon stood in his natural form, a grotesque combination of goat, snake, bat, and man. Leathery wings stretched over a skeletal frame. Black horns curled back from his forehead. Red scales gleamed over bulging muscle. His taloned hands were empty of weapons—he didn’t need them. At his feet, Stefan lay on his stomach, his cheek against the polished wood floor and facing the door. With backward-jointed knees, the demon lifted his split-hoofed foot onto Stefan’s head, applying enough pressure that the vampire’s face distorted with pain. The demon’s threat was clear: one wrong move, and he’d crush Stefan’s skull.
As threats went, it was a poor one. Painful and gory, certainly—but it wouldn’t kill the vampire. When Deacon destroyed this demon, Malkvial wouldn’t be losing a particularly clever ally.
And Malkvial must have known what he’d sent.
Rosalia’s gaze searched the vampires’ faces as Deacon steered her to the left. She recognized all the vampires, except for two standing near the doors. Not blocking the exit, but just close enough for the vampires here to realize that they wouldn’t make it through.
Not vampires at all, she thought. Demons, shape-shifted.
But probably not here to kill Deacon. Malkvial had sent a challenge, testing the vampire. What good would that be if the messenger was killed and no one reported the results to him?
Deacon pushed her toward the line of vampires. “You all watch over her. If one hair is harmed, you’ll pray for the sun.”
The vampires nodded. Cool hands welcomed her in, urging her behind them. Good. Their protection made her seem weaker than anything else could have. The demon barely looked at her.
Everyone was looking at Deacon, who came to a stop less than ten feet from the demon. “You’re wasting my time.”
“Am I?” His leg flexed, and Stefan’s skull cracked. Blood gushed from his nose.
Around her, the vampires sucked in breath. From the circle at the left side of the room, Stefan’s lover, Gille
s, screamed and tried to leap toward the demon. Two others caught the auburn-haired vampire, dragged him back into the circle. The demon glanced at the male, his pleasure at Gilles’s distress evident, before returning his attention to Deacon.
“A complete waste of time.” Deacon absently tapped the side of his blade against his leg, as if the demon concerned him not at all. “See, I’ve come across a demon like you before. He got off on pain, too.”
That description pleased the demon. He grinned. “I do love it so.”
“Except Caym only beat up on those weaker than him, and he couldn’t take any pain himself. I think you’re like that, too. The second I cut into him, he started screaming.”
That was a lie. Deacon hadn’t given Caym time to scream.
But it was effective, sparking the demon’s anger. Rosalia smiled. Anger could act as fuel in a battle, but didn’t help thought—and this demon needed all the help he could get.
“And he was dumb as a brick,” Deacon added. “He always had to be told what to do, where to go, who to kill.”
The demon didn’t like that much, either. His grin had vanished, replaced by a sneer. He opened his mouth, but Deacon didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“So, you’re of no use to me. You don’t have the brains to pull off what I have in mind. But run back home and tell Malkvial that I have a proposition for him, and that I’ll expect he’s got brains enough to find me tomorrow at midnight. And I won’t waste his time.”
“I’m not a vampire’s messenger boy.”
“All right. You’re not a messenger boy. You will be the message, instead.” Deacon’s voice hardened. “And you’ll tell Malkvial this: We vampires won’t be fucked with. We won’t be your pawns. And when you crush our head, two will rise up in its place. In this case, it’ll be me and Gilles.” Deacon flipped his sword around, holding it by the blade and swinging it toward the circle of vampires. “So come on up, Gilles. We’ll send this message together.”
Deacon tossed the weapon in a slow high arc toward the other vampire. The demon looked to the side, his gaze following the path of the sword. Deacon whipped out his second blade from the sheath beneath his jacket.
Dumb as a brick.
The demon’s head fell that heavily, too, thudding to the floor beside Stefan.
When the cheers erupted, Rosalia was already pushing through the vampires. She sprinted to the center of the room. As Deacon turned, she leapt up and flung her arms around his neck. Pressing her mouth to his ear, she breathed, “Two by the door.”
Holding her at the waist, Deacon swung around. “Run back to Munich,” he called out. “If he finds me at midnight tomorrow, we’ll negotiate.”
She watched them slip through the door. “They’re going.”
He looked down at her. His gaze focused on her lips, and Rosalia’s heart began to race. The arm around her waist tightened, lifting her to his mouth. Then the vampires were on them, jostling Rosalia hard from behind, celebrating, hugging Deacon, shouting—and forgetting their strength. A human shouldn’t be in the middle of this.
“Deacon.” She pulled away. “I’ll wait by the exit.”
She turned at the wrong time. A shorter vampire coming in for an embrace whacked her forehead against Rosalia’s mouth instead. Pain sliced her bottom lip. She tasted—smelled—her Guardian blood.
Oh, no no no. Not in a room full of vampires.
“Oops!” The vampire laughed, finished the embrace, and danced away.
The vampire hadn’t noticed the difference. She couldn’t have known how Guardian blood smelled. Or that Rosalia’s cut was going to heal, very quickly. But others might notice.
Deacon did.
He swung her back against him. She saw his fangs slice his tongue. His thumb gently pulled down her bottom lip.
“I’ll heal you up.”
And cover the scent. His head lowered. She rose up to meet him. Just like a kiss.
God, she wanted him to kiss her so much.
He licked across the wound. Pleasure flashed through her body—deep, more than a kiss. A vampire’s ecstasy at the taste of blood, echoed back through her veins. Deacon stiffened, his big body going utterly still.
His bloodlust flared hot against her shields. The cheers went silent as the vampires all felt it—as they all realized what it meant.
He’d had a taste of her blood. The bloodlust wouldn’t let him stop until he’d quenched his thirst, and even if she ran, he’d come after her.
Deacon flung himself away from her, vampires scrambling from his path. He slammed his back against a wall, holding on, trembling. Every muscle in his body straining, he fought the bloodlust.
He was going to lose.
Deacon met her eyes. “Run.”
“It won’t matter—”
He reached out, yanked the nearest body next to him, shoved the vampire to Rosalia. “Get her out of here!”
The young female obeyed, scooping Rosalia up. She hesitated, seemed uncertain where to go.
There was nowhere this vampire could go. Deacon was faster and stronger. And he would be coming after her soon.
“The safe room,” Rosalia reminded her.
The vampire’s eyes brightened. Carrying Rosalia cradled against her chest, she turned and sprinted to the stairs. Rosalia’s teeth rattled with every step. The chamber door was unlocked. The vampire swung it open, several inches of solid steel. The interior was bare, utilitarian. Vampires didn’t need much. Two supply cabinets stood side by side, a porcelain sink hung from the wall, and a shower filled one corner. The rest lay empty.
As soon as the vampire set her down on the concrete floor, Rosalia told her, “Go.”
“Are you sure—”
“I’m sure.”
The vampire left—probably more fascinated by the idea of watching outside as Deacon tried to slam his way in until morning than waiting here.
Rosalia closed the door, silencing the noise from upstairs. The chamber had been soundproofed. Perfect. No one would know anything about what went on in here. They’d assume. They wouldn’t know.
She vanished her shoes and stood beside the entrance with her back against the wall, waiting. Her heart pounding.
Deacon wouldn’t have control. And if she lost hers, he couldn’t promise to catch her. But she wouldn’t need him to. If she gave him her blood, he would feel every emotion that she’d tried to contain. He would hear the thoughts she hadn’t spoken. He would know what she’d hidden from him. She’d only needed the control so that she wouldn’t expose herself to him, give everything away.
But now . . . if he wanted it, she’d let him take it.
A moment later, Deacon slammed into the door, the impact shuddering through the reinforced wall, his bloodlust burning against her mind. Then the handle turned—and she felt his shock and despair beneath the hunger. He’d thought it would be locked.
As if she would ever let him batter himself bloody on a door she could open.
He burst through, his momentum carrying him past her position against the wall. She swung the door closed again. Locked it.
Deacon spun around, his eyes narrowing on her, predator sighting his prey. Growling her name, he launched forward, reaching for her.
Grabbing his wrist, Rosalia stepped to the side, yanking him around and slamming her foot against the back of his knee. He fell, and she shoved him facedown to the floor. Holding his wrists, she pulled upward, pinning him with his arms crossed behind his back, and his spine arched away from her, denying him the leverage to rise. She straddled his waist as he tried to break his wrists free, the veins in his arms standing out against straining muscle. Heavens, he was strong. But she had the advantage here.
A part of him must have realized it. Though his body fought, relief rose through his psychic scent.
“I can hold you,” she told him. “But the bloodlust won’t fade. And when dawn comes, you won’t fall asleep. Until you’ve been sated with blood, you’ll keep trying to come after me.”
He shook his head, his chest heaving. “Run,” he grated, his voice unrecognizable. “Get out.”
“Why? I want this. I’ve hated every single day we haven’t touched.” Her hands clenched as he roared, his body bucking as he tried to throw her off. She rode it through, and said as he quieted, “But if you don’t want me or my blood, I can hold you like this all night, until the vampires fall asleep. By then I’ll have thought up a way out of this. Or I can feed you here and prevent you from taking me. It’s up to you, but either way, my blood—everything I am—is yours.”
“Hurt you.”
“You can’t. I’m not a delicate princess.” She felt him fighting through the haze of bloodlust, his body shaking. She bent and kissed his clenched fist. His hand opened, reaching for her. “My blood or me. Just tell me which you want.”
His head fell forward. Self-hatred and longing battled through his psychic scent. Through clenched teeth, he ground out his answer.
“You.”
She let him go.
CHAPTER 20
Free, Deacon exploded upward. She slipped from his back, landing hard on the floor, rolling onto her side as if to get up. Don’t let her get away. Unable to stop the growl tearing from his chest, he caught her slim ankle, dragging her toward him, using his knees to shove her thighs wide. Her fingers clenched on his shoulders and she tilted her head back, exposing her neck.
Mine.
He drove up, fangs spearing into her throat. Rosalia gasped, arching beneath him. Her hot blood poured over his tongue, a frantic rush of sound and light, driving away thought.
His fingers found her wet. Ripping aside her panties, he thrust deep, her silken heat clenching around him, sucking him in. She cried out, and her hips rose to meet his. Her strong blood rushed through his body, her thoughts lost beneath the psychic roar, a raging storm of emotion and thought that battered his mind about, leaving him only pieces of her to see.
Hidden from him. He needed more.
Drawing hard from her vein, he pounded into her, and she took every inch. Her nails shredded his shirt, his back, then scraped downward to dig into his ass, urging him to take more. So sweet and warm and welcoming. She’d given him this, given him the hero’s welcome upstairs, where he’d been met with hope instead of the hatred he’d deserved since a demon had poured Eva’s and Petra’s ashes to the floor.
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