She stood, formed her black shirt and pants. “Deacon?”
He jerked on his trousers. “Don’t manage me, Rosie.”
“Manage you?”
“Yeah. You’ve got me where you want me, like I said. No knife at my throat. I’m in. You don’t need this to persuade me.”
She looked at the grass, flattened by the weight of their bodies. “You think I did this so that you’d meet Malkvial?”
“Not the sex. We’re good together that way. But love, Rosie? You overplayed your hand.”
“I didn’t play anything.”
“But I’m supposed to believe you love me?” He turned his back to her again and scooped up his shirt. “I get it, all right? We’re lying there, and you took advantage of an opportunity. You think I have doubts, that I might pull out. So you give me another reason to help you. But I’m telling you I won’t pull out before seeing this all the way through.”
She never thought he would. “I know. You wouldn’t. But you think the only reason that I love you is because you’re helping me?”
He whirled on her. “Don’t fuck with me like that. Look, just leave it out.”
Suddenly, she understood. He didn’t doubt her reason for loving him, but just that she loved him at all.
“Why is it so hard to believe?”
“Look at you, Rosie. Fucking look at you! Look at everything you are.” He wadded up his shirt as if trying to control his anger. “So don’t feed me that line of shit. It’s not necessary. I’m in.”
She had to try again. She couldn’t give up. “That’s not why—”
“I’m in!”
She stared at him. Rejection, complete and utter, radiated from his posture, from his mind. A gaping hole opened in her chest. She scrambled to breathe, to think, for anything that would get her through the next few seconds.
And found what there’d always been: a reason to keep going. She had millions of them.
“All right,” she managed to whisper. “We’ll proceed as planned.”
“Yeah, we’ll proceed as fucking planned.” Bitterness roughened his voice. He turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to see her face. “No declaration necessary.”
CHAPTER 21
For several hours, Rosalia had too much to do to dwell on Deacon’s rejection. Arranging his travel, installing the surveillance in the church, and testing it. But as soon as she had everything in place, her mind couldn’t let it go. Her gardens needed tending, but she couldn’t stand the sun—she felt too exposed, when all she wanted to do was cocoon herself in darkness and figure out what had gone wrong.
She shut herself in the kitchen, instead, closing it up and turning off the lights—and tried to keep busy.
Only her hands were. And so she wondered, over and over: What could she have said that he might have believed her? Perhaps he didn’t trust her words, not after learning about Malkvial and Camille. But hadn’t she shown him? Yet he looked at everything she’d done and had seen something else. Had seen manipulation and lies. That was what he believed of her. Not love.
And as long as he believed it, nothing she said or did would matter. She deserved better than that. She deserved someone who would trust her.
It was easy to think so, anyway. She had a harder time convincing her heart.
She heard footsteps approaching, wished it was Deacon to come and tell her that he’d reconsidered his knee-jerk reaction. But the sun was high, and she could hear him in his garage, and the steps were as familiar to Rosalia as her own heartbeat.
Vin came into the kitchen. He flipped on the light, then frowned. “Mama?”
Rosalia looked at the dishes lining the counters. It would take ages to eat all of this. “I hope Gemma’s with you.”
“She’s at the dressmaker’s. I’m taking pictures for the caterers so they have a layout of the kitchen and courtyard.” He held up a camera. “Unless all of this is you trying to get a head start on the cooking?”
Rosalia frowned, uncertain she’d understood. “You plan to have the reception here?”
“Where else?”
“But Gemma—”
“Is all right during the day, or when she has someone with her.”
She took that in, then looked around at the mess she’d made. Breathing deep, she tried to steady herself, afraid she’d burst into tears.
Vin came around the preparation island, peeking under a lid. “Ah, your gnocchi. You can’t make it right, but you never give up.” He snagged a bite. “A bit heavy, hmm?”
“Yes.”
He turned, leaning back against the edge of the counter. “Mama, I’ve got a shoulder right here.”
Now her eyes did fill. That was exactly what she’d said to him as a young boy, so many times. “You shouldn’t have to comfort your mama.”
He smiled. “If you became human again, I’ve got about ten years on you. So, this is not only a should, but you will listen to me and let me make it better.”
Laughing, she let him draw her in. But the moment she laid her cheek on his shoulder the tears did come, silent and hot. There was no question of love here. No matter their problems, that was never in doubt.
Had she thought it would always be so simple?
She pulled back, wiping her cheeks. “You do not know how much I appreciate you being here. Thank you.”
“I’ve got to make up for ten years of being a punk, right?”
“No. You had your reasons.”
“Yeah, but only half of them were good ones.” He snatched a thin slice of prosciutto from a platter. “After Pasquale, I wasn’t thinking straight.”
Who would have been? “He was your best friend.”
He shook his head. “There was that. But I also saw what Sofia went through. No one should have to bury her child—or her grandchild. And I thought: That’s going to be Mama in sixty years.”
The words were a fist into her heart. She dragged in a deep breath, his face wavering in front of her.
“You see, Mama? You can barely think about it. So part of me thought, It’s just easier to take off now.”
Oh, God. “You stupid boy. I should slap you.”
Laughing, he pushed his hand through his hair. “I know. I get it now. I have Gemma, the baby—and it won’t matter when I lose them. God forbid. It’d rip my heart out. Today, tomorrow, a thousand years. It doesn’t matter when.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
He sighed. “And all my life, I’ve never seen you torn up like you were the other night. So it hit me that maybe I’d screwed everything up, leaving. And I’ll be the one burying you. Not once in my life have I thought that before. And I didn’t take it well.”
And when facing grief or fear, he became defensive and angry—and he’d lashed out at her. “Gemma has given me a lecture about not saying, ‘It’s okay.’ And so I won’t.”
It felt good, not saying it.
“Good. Because it’s not okay, but I’ll do better.” He regarded her for a moment, and she felt his grief again—but it was lighter, softer. “Pasquale loved you, you know.”
She’d known. “It was a boy’s crush.”
“A strong one. He wanted to be with you forever.”
So he’d attempted to become a Guardian. She saw better why Vin had blamed her. And saw that he didn’t blame her now.
“I wish he could have been,” she said.
“Well, if he hadn’t done that, he’d have become a vampire. And he’d still be gone.” His gaze never leaving hers, Vin took her hands in his, squeezed gently. “Gemma and I won’t turn. We love you; we never want to hurt you—but we won’t turn.”
She closed her eyes. “I know.”
“I didn’t want you to have the hope that someday we’d transform. We won’t.”
He was right. This was a hope easier to live without, to know that it could not happen. Opening her eyes, she hugged him close. Then she fixed his collar and his hair. His quiet laugh warmed everything in her.
He took another p
iece of ham, said casually, “St. Croix was outside my building last night.”
Her heart jumped. “What?”
Though she hadn’t moved, he put his hand out as if to stop her. “Don’t take off and look for him. He said, ‘Tell her that as long as we have the same goals, I won’t use this.’ ”
She put her hands to her head, dragging her hair back. Oh, God. Where had she made a mistake? Where had the link been?
Guessing the direction of her thoughts, Vin said, “He’s been watching the church.”
Damn. Damn. Neither Gemma nor Vin regularly attended, but they’d been going in to see Father Wojcinski. St. Croix would have recognized him from Lorenzo’s house. “Are you feeling safe? Should I make arrangements for you both to leave?”
He gave her a chiding look. “I own a security firm, and I grew up knowing how to keep demons and vampires out of my home. A human is nothing. I think he just wanted to even things out.”
“He threatened you?” She would kill him.
“No. And it didn’t even feel like a threat toward me. He just wanted you to know that he had something on you.” His gaze searched her face, and his brows drew together. “He’s not Lorenzo, Mama. You don’t have to almost-kill him on my behalf. Especially since he’s human.”
She sighed and patted his cheek to reassure him that she wouldn’t. “Oh, Vin. When did you become the levelheaded one?”
When she came into the garage, Deacon immediately recognized Rosalia the Guardian. Her black cloak swirled around her boots, and she outlined the steps she’d taken, buying a plane ticket to Rome so that Malkvial would be pointed right to him, and installing surveillance.
All business. She didn’t speak a word of love. The sadness in her eyes almost broke him.
He’d made himself turn away the night before. Whatever he saw in her, it was just wishful thinking. And it had hurt like hell when he’d realized that her declaration couldn’t be true, no matter how bad he wanted it, now matter how his heart latched onto it as reality. He’d backed away, faced it logically. And here she was—the woman who didn’t give up on anything—carrying on as if she hadn’t ever said she loved him.
He wished he knew what was going on in her. Even drinking her blood hadn’t shown him. And although he’d hated reading the thoughts of strangers, he’d have given anything to know hers.
Would have given anything if her heart could be his.
But Guardians didn’t give their hearts to men like him. Rosalia didn’t. He knew the paragon she’d loved before. Maybe she’d transferred some feelings, but they weren’t for him. The only reason she’d chosen Deacon for her big plan was because he’d been ruined. And over and over, she’d seen him at his worst. Seen him beaten, seen him fail. And tonight, he’d sink again.
For her.
He knew it was for her. If it was just revenge, he could have it now. With the nephil blood in him, he wouldn’t just be slaying demons until they killed him. No, he could take them all now. One by one, and it might take time, but he could destroy them all and come out the other end. He could take off now and avenge his people.
That wouldn’t stop the nephilim, and the communities would still be in danger from them—but a part of Deacon still thought, Fuck ’em all. Every vampire in Europe had turned their back on him. He didn’t owe them anything. He didn’t want to be a hero to them. He didn’t care what they thought of him making a deal with a demon—another deal.
It mattered to him, though. Even as a trick, the thought of bargaining with Malkvial grated at his soul, churned like vomit in his gut.
But it was important to her. And if he did this, and she pulled off this whole plan, when he left the sadness wouldn’t be there. He had two goals now: Avenge his people. Take the sadness from her eyes.
So he was here, listening as Rosalia told him how Malkvial would fuck him up.
“He’ll test you, primarily to see if you have someone waiting to save you.”
“Like a Guardian?”
“Yes.” Her gentle gaze saw right through him. No wonder she’d known a declaration of love would affect him. “You’ll have to take it.”
“You think I can’t?”
“I know you can take anything a demon has to dish out, but your instinct will be to fight back.” She lifted his hands, her thumb smoothing over the scars on his knuckles. “Don’t. He can’t lead the demons if there’s an unanswered challenge—so if he feels challenged, he’ll need to put you in your place . . . no matter what you’re offering him.”
Too bad he did know his place. “What if you’re wrong?”
“You’ll be able to tell. When he’s testing you, he’ll wind up to it, try to scare you and pull in any cavalry you’ve got waiting. If he wants to kill you, it’ll be fast.”
“Then I fight back?”
“Yes. If it’s fast, defend yourself as best you can.”
As best he could? “Can I beat him?”
“I don’t know. Malkvial didn’t get where he is just by laying low and being smart. There’s a reason the strong ones haven’t challenged him. They must know he’s not just brains.”
That made a hell of a lot of sense. “All right. So, try not to fight him.”
“Yes. And Deacon—” She caught his face between her hands, staring solemnly into his eyes. “There will be a cavalry. If you feel the threat is genuine, just say my name. I’ll be there. I swear to God on high, I will be there.”
“Of course you would. If Malkvial killed me, your plan is shot anyway.”
Her mouth hardened. Her hands fell away. Ashamed, he caught them, holding her wrists while he struggled.
She’d been right about his need to fight back—and that had been against the blow she’d landed last night. But she hadn’t deserved it. She might not love him, but she was a Guardian. And she was Rosalia. Her heart wasn’t his, but it was a good heart. Too big, maybe. He wouldn’t have loved her so much if it wasn’t.
And if she vowed to be there, she wouldn’t give a thought to her plan—her only thought would be of saving him. Deacon believed that, down to his soul.
“I’m a bastard. A sorry one.”
She gave a sharp nod. “Apology accepted.”
She didn’t say it was all right. He was glad for that.
But not so glad when she pulled her wrists from his, and walked away.
Still in his human form as Karl Geier—nondescript and blond, wearing a navy polo shirt and khaki pants—Malkvial arrived an hour early. From an empty apartment in a building flanking the old church, Rosalia watched him leap over the surrounding fence and break the lock at the front doors. Hidden in the high arched ceiling, her cameras covered almost every angle of the interior. Paint-dotted plastic sheets covered the pews, left over from an incomplete renovation. Dust had settled thick on the floor, the altar, on every stained window sill. She’d been careful not to disturb any of it while installing her equipment, but she still held her breath as he crouched to examine the floor, as he quickly checked the chambers beyond the sanctuary.
She checked the time. Taylor had teleported Deacon to Naples after sunset, where he’d caught a flight back to Rome. He’d be arriving within a few minutes.
If he came. He could take off now, if he wanted to. He had strength enough to complete his revenge, and he thought she’d manipulated him at every turn. And this bargain with Malkvial . . . There were very few things that would be worse for him.
“You look awful, Rosa.” With a sigh, Gemma sat next to her. “Is it this place?”
“It is many things.”
Gemma smiled, watching Malkvial open the door in a chamber floor, revealing the stairwell that led to the underground chambers. “I looked for you here. Not in the catacombs. But I came here.”
Rosalia didn’t glance at the screen showing the ossuary, where her blood still stained a stone column. “Thank you.”
“The others said, If she hasn’t come back, she’s not going to. I looked, though. At Lorenzo’s house—”
Disbelieving, Rosalia shared a look with Vin. She didn’t know who was more horrified.
Gemma rolled her eyes. “I went during the day.”
“He could have smelled you. Tracked you back to the abbey.”
“I was careful. You’d threatened him; then you went missing. So I had to check. I’d hoped to find you in the dungeon.”
Rosalia shook her head, trying to calm herself. She touched Gemma’s hand. “You looked for me. That means more than I can say. Thank you.” She drew in a deep breath. “I can’t remember any of it. But I remember waking up and learning that everyone was gone. For a while I thought you were, too—and I was ready to recruit Vin and track you down.”
“You knew where I was after I left?” He glanced at her face. “Okay. That was a stupid question. And I damn well would have looked for both of you.”
She’d never doubted that. Smiling, she glanced back at the monitors, and tensed when Deacon appeared. He walked into the church. No hesitation. No bravado. Just confidence.
Malkvial waited, casually sitting back against the altar rail, his hands braced on the top. They stared at each other down the aisle. Rosalia’s heart pounded, terror suddenly digging in. She’d have given anything to do this part.
Gemma leaned forward in her chair, her hands clasped in front of her mouth. “What’s the script going to be?”
“I didn’t give him one.” She saw the younger woman’s shock, and the same on Vin’s face. They both knew she hadn’t given up control like that before. She explained, “Deacon has his reasons for doing this. I can’t just give him mine. Malkvial would never believe it.”
Vin stared at her. “You wouldn’t even let me go in without a script. And you had vampires with you for a hundred years who still had line-by-line points to make whenever they faced someone.”
“Deacon knows what we need to do,” she said. “But he can decide how to get there.”
She fell silent as Malkvial suddenly smiled. Vin’s hands came over her shoulders, and he circled his thumbs over taut muscles.
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