Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

  It had been a one-sided slaughter. All wearing the same colors, no opponents lay next to the fallen. It had been precise and methodic, each man killed with a single blow. It had been terrifying—many had run, but they hadn’t been spared. The scattering of the bodies and their positions told her they’d been cut down as they’d fled . . . and so, so many had fled.

  And there was Anaria, her sword bloodied, gazing up at Taylor with a soft, slightly disappointed smile, as if speaking to a child who continually failed to understand. Behind Anaria stood the Guardians who’d helped her massacre the human army.

  When Anaria spoke, Taylor couldn’t understand the words but their meaning was painfully clear.

  “These wars they wage upon each other, it makes them like demons! They choose to throw away love and kindness in return for power and fear—and I will stop them before they destroy all of humanity, Michael. I vow to you.”

  She swore—and Michael knew what he would have to do. The agony of it crushed his heart, stole his speech; he was certain he would never breathe again. Certain he would never be able to bear it, or live with himself for the decision he had to make.

  But if he did not, it wouldn’t end. Anaria would save everyone from themselves until they were all dead.

  “And she always needs an army to stand with her,” Taylor said hoarsely. Her throat ached. Her heart ached, as it had been crushed along with Michael’s when he’d ordered his sister’s execution. “I suppose if you can bear that, then I bear this.”

  As if satisfied, he retreated into the screams that always lingered in the back of her head, and quieted them.

  Taylor began to breathe again. She breathed until the presence of another Guardian drew her gaze up. Irena hovered above her, motionless but for the wings holding her aloft. The serpent tattoos winding around her arms seethed.

  “You cow-fucking idiot.”

  Ah, shit. Khavi must have told her that Taylor had run into Anaria . . . several times.

  “I really prefer goats. Or ducks. I would love to hear you say that.” But although they’d become friends in the past several months, Taylor could only push the Guardians’ leader so far. When Irena’s eyes narrowed and began to glow a poisonous green, she added, “She obviously didn’t harm me. And if you’re going to worry, add in a couple more: I attacked Rosalia, almost killed Deacon, and helped them slay one of the nephilim. I think I’ve also slain a demon and a nosferatu, but I’m not certain. And there might be more that I can’t remember.”

  Irena’s mouth dropped open, and she landed in a crouch on the tower. “Michael?”

  “He asks for permission now. Kind of.”

  The other Guardian closed her eyes. “Rosalia and Deacon?”

  “All right.” If you could ignore the heartache and longing wailing from both. “Just getting ready to kill a shitload of nephilim and demons.”

  “Already?” Irena blinked her eyes open. “I do not know Rosalia, though Alejandro speaks well of her. Do you think what she has done is feasible? Will she and Deacon be safe?”

  Taylor hoped so. “Yes.”

  “Will you be safe?”

  “I don’t think Anaria will hurt me, no.”

  Irena seemed to choke. “Anaria is involved?”

  “Not really by her choice.”

  The other woman stared at her. Probably debating whether to chain her somewhere, then realizing that Taylor could just teleport out. Finally, she let out a heavy breath.

  “You are certain you wish to do this?”

  She hadn’t been a little while ago. Now she was. “Yes.”

  “Then take this.”

  A steel spear appeared in Irena’s palms, and Taylor had to stop herself from lurching forward, snatching it from the Guardian’s hands. Power hummed from that weapon, which could pierce stone like a blade into water. The heat of a dragon’s blood drew her . . . and drew Michael.

  “I cannot make it flame,” Irena said as Taylor reached for it. “Michael told me that only those with the dragon blood in their veins can.”

  So she wouldn’t, either. That was all right. As soon as her fingers closed around the shaft, she could feel the power of it burning through her. When she vanished the spear into her cache, she still sensed it, a quiet, warm hum through her mind.

  Irena smiled slightly, but the worry in her eyes hadn’t disappeared. “When the time comes, I would like to be there with you, Rosalia, and Deacon—if it does not upset her plan. I want you all to have someone watching your backs.”

  And that right there was why Taylor liked this woman so much. Watching each other’s backs. The Guardians weren’t always so different from the family and job she’d known.

  “If it doesn’t upset her plan, I’ll bring you in,” Taylor promised.

  Just before dawn, Rosalia forced herself out of bed, and dressed while Deacon laughed at her heavy sigh. She’d have preferred to stay with him, but she’d spent the whole of the previous day—and a good portion of the night—neglecting everything else. She pushed him off into the shower and then to his garage before heading out into her courtyard. The garden needed tending before Gemma’s wedding planner arrived for a tour of the abbey.

  But when the knock came, she found Irena waiting there instead, dressed not in her outlandish longstockings and rabbit-fur mantle, but simple gray trousers and a long-sleeved shirt.

  Rosalia did not even know what to think. Guardians could change their appearance, yet she’d never seen Irena as anything but the barbarian.

  But Irena herself wasn’t wholly unexpected. The Guardian had known Rosalia intended to use Deacon, but she hadn’t told Irena that included his bargaining with a demon.

  “I came quietly,” Irena said, her Italian marked by a strong Slavic accent. “You will not be revealed by me.”

  Rosalia nodded, stepping back and inviting her in. She led the Guardian to the courtyard, and when Irena spoke again, she heard the movement from within the garage stop, as if Deacon had frozen in place, holding his breath.

  “From the San Francisco community leader, I have heard that Deacon has made a bargain with Malkvial.”

  Unsurprised that word had already reached the States, Rosalia answered, “Yes.”

  “You requested him to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  Irena’s green eyes suddenly glowed with anger. “You dare risk his soul?”

  Rosalia blinked. She’d expected to be called a fool for trusting him, which she would have turned about very carefully. But Irena was concerned for him?

  Michael, it seemed, had left them in good hands when he’d passed the reins over to Irena.

  “No,” she said. “His part of the bargain is not so difficult. He only has to stay alive to fulfill it. And I will fight to my last breath to see that he does. We need but two days more.”

  “This was of his free will?”

  Rosalia gestured toward the sparring chamber, where curtains covered the ragged hole in the wall that opened to the garage. “Ask him.”

  Irena nodded. “I will return after sundown—”

  “No. Ask him now.”

  She led Irena to the garage, where even the air-conditioning couldn’t win against the heat coming through from the sparring chamber. Deacon waited for them, his big body tense.

  Irena didn’t hesitate. She called in her kukri knives, prepared to strike. “You have been fooled by a demon!”

  “No, Irena. Feel him,” she said, remembering her own reaction. “Look how he sweats in the heat.”

  Deacon held out his hand. Irena touched his skin, then looked up into his face. Astonishment dropped her mouth open.

  “The nosferatu blood did this?”

  “No. This was nephilim blood,” Deacon said quietly. He watched Irena carefully, braced as if for a blow—facing his friend for the first time since she’d discovered the truth of his bargain with Caym.

  “You killed a nephil?”

  “I helped.” Deacon wiped his brow, glanced at Rosalia. He was cle
arly uncomfortable—a discomfort probably made worse by her witnessing it. To her relief, she heard a knock at the door.

  “You’ll excuse me.” She lifted her hands, backing toward the sparring chamber. “A cohabitating couple becomes desperate, so marriage simply can’t wait.”

  Rosalia’s parting joke creased Irena’s brow. She glanced at Deacon. “You are marrying her?”

  A bark of laughter escaped him. He shook his head.

  “She smells like you.”

  That shut him up. What would the Guardians think of Rosalia, fraternizing with him? He knew she was afraid of their reaction regarding the humans. Would being with him, even temporarily, make their reaction harsher?

  But Irena didn’t seem interested in dwelling on it. Moving to the center of the room, she stood, her gaze skimming over the worktable, the GTL, the engine parts scattered on the benches and concrete floor. Her Gift lay in metal. He’d seen some of the amazing sculptures she’d created with barely a thought. And here he was, sweating over an old car. It probably seemed piddling to her.

  When she looked back at him, however, he didn’t read any judgment in her expression—and Irena never bothered to hide her feelings, for good or bad.

  He should say something. He didn’t even know how to begin. There were too many dead. But of those living, Irena was the one he’d hurt the most.

  But as usual, Irena did not hesitate to speak her mind. “You’ve chosen this bargain?”

  “I have.”

  “Of your free will?”

  When he nodded, she frowned. Her eyes narrowed and she regarded him more closely, her expression turning thoughtful. “I was certain that when I saw you, I would want to kill you.”

  Was that why she’d come during the day? “I expected to have taken a few punches by now,” he admitted.

  And he would have taken them. Hell, he’d like her to do it now. It wouldn’t make the past go away—but maybe it could make them both feel better.

  Maybe. Or nothing could.

  “Yes.” She looked at her hands, as if imagining them as fists. “And I thought I would be angry. But instead I am sorry. I am sorry it came to this. I am sorry that you felt I couldn’t help you. And I am sorry that even though you didn’t come to me, I still couldn’t save them—any of them. My friends and yours.”

  “Me, too,” he said quietly.

  “I wondered if I should kill you then. When we found you.”

  With a spike through his head, after he’d slain Caym—after Caym had poured out the remains of his partners onto the floor. “Then, I would have welcomed it.”

  “I know. It is why I did not kill you. I thought it would be worse for you to live.”

  Was it? He would have agreed, once. This burden would always be his to bear.

  But worse would have been having no opportunity to pay for his mistakes. No opportunity to grieve. No opportunity to avenge them.

  “You should have killed me, then, if you meant to punish me. This is better.” More painful than death—even more painful than he could imagine Hell—but better.

  She understood. Though coarse and blunt, she wasn’t slow. “So you are still fighting.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “That is good.” She made a vague movement with her hand. “I have something for you. After Rosalia took you from Prague, I gathered this. It did not seem right to leave them on the floor. I thought I might spread their ashes in Caelum, but you would know of a better place for them.”

  He came closer, and his chest tightened, filled with an unbearable ache. She clutched an iron box between her hands. The lid of the box had been sculpted like a bed, and atop it, Eva sat laughing and clutching the sheet to her chest; Petra, lying on her stomach, looked over her shoulder with the sardonically amused expression that she’d aimed at Deacon more times than he could count.

  “I liked them. I didn’t know them well,” Irena said. “But this is how I remember them best. I came to you, do you remember? I dragged you from your bed to take you hunting. And they laughed.”

  “I remember,” he said hoarsely, taking the sculpted urn.

  The iron was heavy. He cradled it in his arm, tracing his fingers over their likenesses. So perfect. Petra’s metal hair moved on a breath, each curl a delicate wire. Eva’s mouth almost soft, her fangs sharp.

  He could not even voice his gratitude.

  Irena must have known. She walked past him, giving him a few moments.

  When he turned, she was surveying a fender, running her hand over the dented steel. “I have never understood why you do this. New automobiles are faster and better, and you have money to buy them.”

  He didn’t point out that he had money because he’d restored those cars. And he didn’t know why himself. He’d always loved it. He liked reclaiming their beautiful design and function.

  “Newer vehicles are faster. I don’t know about better.”

  She smiled and picked up the fender. With her Gift, she could smooth it, strengthen it. He didn’t think he’d enjoy restoring anything if the work was that easy.

  “And I like to work with my hands,” he added.

  “I do, too. But only when it is a new weapon.”

  “You don’t fix them?”

  “My habit is to throw damaged weapons away.” She replaced the fender and looked over at him. “I have been trying to change that habit. With the proper effort, a repaired weapon can also be strong. Perhaps a friendship can be, too.”

  Christ. That fast, he choked up. He’d never expected this from her. Had never hoped for it, had never even considered it a possibility.

  “I’m willing to make that effort,” he managed.

  “So am I.” She came to him, ran her fingers over the urn cradled in his arm. “We have both lost too many friends, Deacon. Let us not lose another.”

  Speechless again, he could only watch her walk across the garage. She paused at the makeshift curtain they’d put on the wall, and turned.

  “I should warn you that I’m more likely to punch friends.”

  “I know.” Her fists had knocked out his teeth more than once.

  She narrowed her eyes, as if considering. “Maybe next time.”

  She passed through the wall, the curtain falling into place behind her. A moment later, he heard Rosalia’s soft inquiry, and Irena’s accented reply. He moved toward the curtain, and lifted heavy fabric aside.

  In the painful flare of light, he saw Irena’s fiery hair, the brilliant color in the blooming garden, and Rosalia’s beautiful smile before his vision went dark.

  A single moment that had been worth ten thousand times the pain.

  As soon as Rosalia saw the wedding planner out, she returned to the garage. Immediately she spied the iron urn on the worktable, recognized the beauty of the sculpture on the lid. Tears stung her eyes. Irena was not always the barbarian, and Rosalia could not imagine how much that meant to him.

  Deacon slid out from beneath the car on a little rolling plank, and she crouched beside him.

  “We have tonight free, if you know of a place you’d like to take them.”

  Shaking his head, he sat up. His voice was raw. All of him was raw, she realized, down to the core.

  “I’ll do it after we’ve finished. And instead of making a promise to them, I can tell them it was done.”

  “Okay. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, princess. Just fine.”

  He wasn’t, but she let him have the lie. She touched his shoulder as she rose to her feet, and it was as if he broke. Turning toward her, he kneeled on the concrete and buried his face against her stomach, his arms wrapping around her waist. His body shuddered. She tried to sink to her knees, to hold him, but he didn’t let her come down to the floor. Her heart aching, she smoothed her hands over his hair, uncertain whether he wept from grief, relief, or a mixture of both.

  Irena’s gesture had torn him open, exposing a need for forgiveness he hadn’t admitted—one he probably had not admitted even to himsel
f. And Rosalia had never thought Irena, hard and unyielding, would give it. She’d never been more grateful to be wrong.

  She brushed the wetness from his cheeks when he raised his head, his gaze searching her face.

  “Two days,” he said hoarsely, then stood, sweeping Rosalia into the cradle of his arms. “Remind me why the hell we’re here instead of in your bed?”

  Then his mouth was devouring hers, and she couldn’t remember, either.

  CHAPTER 23

  Malkvial chose to use the catacombs beneath the church.

  For an instant, Deacon was certain that the demon had found out about Rosalia. Had known that she’d been beneath the church for eighteen months, and a hollow dread filled his chest, as he thought that everything had gone wrong, that both he and Rosalia were fucked now.

  But the demon didn’t look as smug as when he’d reminded Deacon of how he’d betrayed Irena in this same church. No. The bastard was wary, keeping a good span of aisle between him and Deacon. And Deacon realized the simple reason he’d chosen the catacombs: If Deacon didn’t have reason to leave, Malkvial could keep his eye on him throughout the night.

  So it was a damn good thing that Rosalia had anticipated the possibility that he wouldn’t shake Malkvial until dawn. They could carry this whole thing off without once contacting each other.

  Camille stood by in Paris with a chartered plane, the heads of twelve vampire communities, and a dozen bound-and-gagged human monsters. Deacon called her up and told her to haul ass to Rome.

  The demons began to gather before the vampires arrived. A little over a hundred, by Deacon’s count. Malkvial must have told them to keep their hands off of the vampires, but a few got it in their heads to fuck with Deacon, a couple of hours of trying to shred his soul apart, strip him down to nothing. Deacon shut his ears to their whispers, knowing that any fear or weakness on his part would be pounced on, and then it’d all go to fuck. Rosalia was watching from an apartment next door, and he didn’t doubt that if she saw one sign that the demons were thinking of betraying Deacon, then she’d charge through a hundred demons trying to rescue him.