Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

  Camille arrived thirty minutes before dawn, as arranged. Deacon met the vampires outside to prepare them, but even telling them how many demons waited inside couldn’t halt their shock and terror. The demons ate it up, and Deacon led the vampires and the struggling, whimpering, angry humans down to the ossuary. The chamber was empty of everything but bones and a few of the cameras Rosalia had installed for Deacon’s first meeting with Malkvial, each neatly hidden within a skull’s staring eye socket. They didn’t need the additional cameras that Camille had brought with her, but they quickly placed them, anyway.

  Deacon tied the humans to the thick stone columns supporting the ceiling, then removed their blindfolds. He couldn’t dredge up any sympathy for humans like these, but he offered them the tiny comfort of knowing they wouldn’t die.

  Some of them might wish for it afterward.

  He hardened his heart and ordered the vampires out of the catacombs, back upstairs. Tomás and Stefan led them; Camille and Deacon took the rear. The only words spoken on the way up came from Camille.

  “My friend’s brother has a house nearby that we can all use to sleep through the day.”

  So Rosalia was moving her stuff to Lorenzo’s place. That made a hell of a lot of sense. After the demons started breaking the Rules, then Deacon might be called along with them—and nothing in that little apartment next door would slow him down.

  Lorenzo’s dungeon might.

  They reached the main floor. The demons waited silently, each of them with glowing crimson eyes. All of them had taken on their real forms, red scales and leathery wings, horns curling back from their foreheads. At a word from Malkvial, they cleared a path in the aisle to let the vampires pass, and Deacon had to block his mind against the others’ terror, piercing his brains like a chorus of screams.

  Finally, they were outside. Deacon locked the church doors behind him.

  Lorenzo’s house wasn’t far. Rosalia was probably setting up the new feed in the basement dungeon. He ushered the vampires inside and directed them upstairs to the bedrooms—all of them were going to fall asleep in about three minutes. He got downstairs as quickly as possible, but slowed on the last step, managing his surprise.

  St. Croix, he expected—after all, they were using his dungeon, and Rosalia had agreed to let him watch. The human stood near the monitors, his hands tucked casually in his trouser pockets, his psychic scent emitting an almost revolting eagerness. Taylor waited near the steps, nodding at Deacon as he came in. As she’d be the one bringing Anaria into the catacombs and getting the humans out, he’d expected her, too.

  But not Irena and Alejandro. Rosalia wouldn’t have invited them here. Taylor must have made that call, and brought them. Or maybe Michael had.

  They stood together, watching Rosalia connect the monitors to the feed from the catacombs. Rosalia’s soft lips had flattened into a thin line; her body was stiff. And as she flipped the power on, he saw her bow her head, as if offering a prayer.

  Expecting to be rejected as soon as Irena and Alejandro saw what she’d done.

  Irena looked at the screens as they came online. Through the speakers, sobbing filled the dungeon, soft wails, cries for help.

  Aghast, Irena stepped back and turned to Rosalia. “Those are humans?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. Then, stronger, “You should go. This is not something a Guardian should stand by and watch.”

  “If a Guardian shouldn’t tolerate it, I will stop the demons, and then I will return for you.”

  Rosalia faced her. “I won’t let you stop me.”

  “Show them who the humans are,” Deacon told her quietly.

  Rosalia called in their profiles from her cache. She held out the stack, her hands shaking.

  Irena passed them to Alejandro, who opened the files. The crime photos were on the top page. The tall Guardian’s mouth tightened. He showed a picture to Irena.

  She turned sharply toward Rosalia. “All of them have done this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pig-fucking bastards,” Irena spat. “We should let them all be killed.”

  Rosalia smiled, very slightly. “But we are Guardians.”

  Irena snorted out a laugh. The two women looked at each other for a long moment, and when Rosalia glanced away, still smiling, Deacon thought they understood each other perfectly. Michael might not like what Rosalia had planned, but the four Guardians here stood in agreement—and they could live with their decision to put human monsters in the path of demonic ones.

  St. Croix had been silently following the back and forth. Now he spoke up. “So that is what you are: a Guardian.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means that we have died saving people from demons. And we live again, to save more.” She watched the screen. The demons were filing into the ossuary chamber, Malkvial speaking to them in the demon language.

  “Saving people from . . .” Sudden hope burst through St. Croix’s psychic scent. “You become a Guardian if you die while saving someone from a demon?”

  Rosalia was no longer listening, her attention completely focused on the monitors. Alejandro answered for her.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Fuck me.” St. Croix gave a strange, hoarse laugh. “Five years ago, there was a woman—Rachel Boyle. She became a Guardian?”

  Alejandro exchanged a glance with Irena. “No.”

  “But she saved me. Then she died in my arms, and she vanished. Her body vanished. She’s not a Guardian now?”

  “I’m sorry. None of the novice Guardians was transformed at that time. I am certain of it.”

  St. Croix ripped his hands through his hair, looking wildly at each of them. Then, like a pricked balloon, he suddenly deflated, his hands falling to his sides.

  “They are all in the ossuary,” Rosalia murmured. “Several are blocking the entrance. None are left in the corridor. What has Malkvial told them?”

  She looked to Taylor, who ticked off the demon’s instructions on her fingers. “Don’t let the nephilim escape. Don’t kill the humans. Don’t inflict permanent physical damage. Converge on the nephilim in groups of five.”

  “Don’t kill,” Rosalia repeated, and let out a breath. “At least he adheres to that.”

  “You have a few minutes,” Taylor added. “They are choosing which demon within each group will break the Rules.” She smiled thinly. “Apparently, they all want to.”

  Rosalia nodded, then looked to Deacon. Long lengths of chain appeared in her hands. “You are ready?”

  He backed up against the cell, pushing his arms between the iron bars and clasping his hands together. “I hope to God I am.”

  Rosalia wrapped his wrists in the chain, then wound the steel links around his arms and through the bars. She used another to secure him across the neck, chest, and stomach. A final chain bound his feet and legs.

  Irena watched her in astonishment. “What is this?”

  “He drank the nephil’s blood.” Rosalia tightened the chains and locked them. “A few days ago, a demon broke the Rules, and Deacon was called. He couldn’t resist it. If it happens again—if it happens every time a demon breaks the Rules—he’ll be called continually until this is over.”

  “And maybe I won’t,” he added. “But considering that the sun’s up and I’ll head straight for that church, I don’t want to take that chance.”

  Irena’s lips parted and she glanced at Taylor. “Khavi did not think Rosalia’s plan would succeed because the balance between action and consequence is never lost. Is it Deacon who maintains the balance? Is it he who will enforce the Rules in the nephilim’s stead?”

  “Khavi wasn’t sure,” Taylor said. “And we won’t know until all of the nephilim are dead.”

  “They are beginning,” Alejandro said.

  Rosalia wrapped her arms tight around Deacon and looked up at him. His heart pounded against her chest. From the speakers, she heard a smack of flesh against flesh. She felt Ire
na’s instinctive anger in response to the demon’s abuse. Deacon’s eyes emptied.

  He jerked toward her, straining against the chains. The bars groaned, but they held him for now.

  She turned her head to look just as the nephil teleported into the catacombs. One, she counted.

  Swords clashed. A demon was almost immediately killed—the one who had broken the Rules. Deacon went limp. Four demons came at the nephil, and the creature fell.

  Deacon looked down at her, his eyes dazed. “It’s over?”

  “Only one.”

  The demons jeered. Malkvial kicked the head of the fallen demon. He shouted, and the others shouted back.

  “The weak and the dead are unworthy to stand at Belial’s side,” Taylor translated in a harmonious voice.

  Rosalia glanced over and her blood chilled. Taylor’s face was pale, her eyes fully obsidian. Her hair had darkened to black.

  Just like Michael’s.

  A human shouted. Rosalia’s gaze snapped to the monitor. A demon approached a tethered man, shifting into the form of a little girl with sharp teeth.

  “Can I have a lollipop now?”

  “Stay away . . . Don’t touch me!” The human’s shout became a thin, terrified scream.

  “Goddamn son of a bitch,” Deacon growled. “You’ll get what you deserve.”

  Rosalia wasn’t sure if he meant the demon or the human. She wanted to turn away, but made herself watch. She had to count.

  The demon-child ripped the human’s trousers open and touched him.

  Deacon went rigid. On-screen the nephil teleported in, sword raised high.

  Two.

  The demon-child didn’t fall. Deacon didn’t stop straining. The demons killed the nephil, but they didn’t have time to torture another human. Another nephil teleported in.

  Three.

  Shouts of surprise came from the demons. Seven died before they overwhelmed the nephil.

  Four.

  Malkvial began shouting orders, and this time the demons were better prepared. The humans screamed as demons raced around them, swords flashing, blood spattering. The demons’ laughter was just as loud.

  Five.

  The chain around Deacon’s right arm snapped. Mindlessly, he flung her away from him. Rosalia flew back, almost smashing into St. Croix but hitting the solid wall instead. Instantly she was on her feet, racing to catch his wrist, trying to force it back against the bars.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—he was strong.

  Then Irena was there, born when a Caesar still ruled Rome, her strength many times greater than Rosalia’s. Together, they pinned his arm. Irena brought in a new chain and held Deacon while Rosalia secured it.

  She looked back at the screen. Bodies littered the catacomb floor, steeped in pools of blood. “How many?”

  “Twenty-three,” Alejandro said.

  Even as she watched, twenty-four. Twenty-five. Malkvial had the demons working in perfect order.

  And Taylor had said there were fifty-seven in total. Rosalia glanced over at her. “At fifty-three, go.”

  Four more nephilim fell in the few seconds it took Taylor to reply. “That doesn’t give me much time.”

  “She’s a mother,” Rosalia said. “She’ll come as fast as she can.”

  “And I’ll get the humans out.”

  “Yes,” Irena said. “But dump them in a sewer.”

  Rosalia glanced up at Deacon. The cords in his neck stood out sharply, veins popping out against the muscles in his forearms. The bars wouldn’t hold much longer, and he’d remain like this until the demon who’d broken the Rules was slain.

  She looked to the screen. It had been the demon who’d become a child—but it had already shape-shifted back to its original form. She didn’t even know which demon it was.

  “Forty-six.” Alejandro kept the count. “Forty-seven.”

  She glanced at Taylor. “Bring her into the corridor, so that none can escape.”

  “Fifty-two. Fifty—”

  Taylor vanished.

  “—three,” Alejandro finished.

  Rosalia held on to Deacon and prayed.

  Anaria stood in her mansion, sword in hand, looking desperately around with eyes that shone like halogen flashlights. Oh, Jesus. She’d probably watched each of her children disappear, one at a time—perhaps understanding what was happening and yet unable to do anything to stop it.

  She spotted Taylor, and before Taylor could get more than “Belial’s—” out, Anaria had sprinted to her side.

  “Take me.”

  Cold and dangerous. Taylor shivered, and then they leapt together.

  Fifty-seven.

  The last nephil fell. On the monitors, a breathless waiting seemed to take over the demons. All was silent, except for the sobbing and pitiful whimpers of the humans. Then Malkvial raised his sword, and a cheer overwhelmed the speakers.

  It abruptly died. As one, the demons turned toward the entrance of the ossuary. Not one looked at Taylor as she flashed in front of the humans, touched two, and was gone.

  Anaria didn’t show on any of the screens. The demons’ eyes were all turned to her, though, and their crimson skin seemed to pale.

  Not losing color, Rosalia realized. The shadows behind them darkened as a bright light filled the room. Brighter. A few demons narrowed their eyes and turned their heads away from the brilliant glow. Another stumbled back, as if trying to find a place to hide. His fear acted like an electric prod.

  All hell broke loose. Demons scrambled. Monitors darkened in splotches, blood splattering against the cameras. Demons screamed. The light that was Anaria whited out the screens for an instant, a radiant streak. Rosalia couldn’t track her.

  She strained to see past the light, past the blood and the running demons. She could tell only that there were far, far fewer of them. “Taylor?”

  Alejandro pointed to a different monitor. “Only two humans are left.”

  Almost done, then, and thank God. An instant later, she saw that no humans remained.

  Then no demons were alive, either. Emitting a bright light, Anaria stood, her sword bloodied, her white wings saturated with red.

  St. Croix’s mouth hung open, his face a picture of shock. “What happened? How—?”

  Only a few seconds had passed since Anaria’s arrival. The massacre must have been nothing but a blur to him.

  “Who is that?” He stared at Anaria.

  “The worst of them,” Irena said.

  Chains rattled behind her. Rosalia turned, and horror gripped her throat. Deacon hadn’t been freed. He threw his body forward, his lips peeled back from his fangs. Shouting in the demon language, he hurled himself against the chains.

  Rosalia whirled back around. “Have any escaped?”

  Frantically searching the screens, she spotted the monitor showing the main floor of the church. Sunlight flooded the interior through open doors.

  Deacon had locked the entrance when he’d led the vampires outside. Realizing he was the nephilim’s target, the demon must have fled before Anaria arrived.

  “Irena, hold him,” Rosalia said. “Don’t let him out.”

  The other Guardian didn’t question her. She took hold of Deacon. Rosalia looked up into his blank eyes.

  And let the darkness of her Gift take her.

  The sun hung low in the morning sky, and the shadows were long. Still, the pain of her Gift was a sharp, hungry bite as she gathered the shadows, wrapped herself in them, and stretched them toward the church.

  Stabbing outward with a hard psychic probe, she felt Anaria, huge and brilliant and bright, like the sun; Taylor, closed and dark; at a distance, Irena, Alejandro, the sleeping vampires, and Deacon’s possessed mind; and farther away, the snakelike touch of a demon’s psyche.

  Her focus narrowed on him. Below her, a thick swath of darkness crawled over the streets and buildings, a long shadow that rose upward in a black ribbon. She caught the shadow, whipped it forward, and rode along. Ahead, the demon’s wing
s beat frantically, terror spilling from his mind like bitter ash against her tongue.

  She pushed the shadows forward, surrounding him. He shrieked, whirling about, blindly slashing with his sword. She condensed the darkness into a cocoon, silencing his screams from human ears, and let the black carry her closer.

  He had no warning. She erupted out of the dark, her blades slicing through his chest, his neck. She vanished the pieces of him into her cache as they fell, then reached out with another psychic probe.

  Deacon’s mind was dazed, but it was his own.

  But she felt the touch of another mind, brilliant and light, seeking her out. Dismay spilled into her heart, but she’d known that using her Gift would come at this price. She stretched the shadows north again, carrying her back across the city. She couldn’t return to Lorenzo’s home—Anaria would find them all.

  Still enshrouded in darkness, she landed in front of the church. She passed through the doors, wondering if she’d already been noticed on the monitors in Lorenzo’s dungeon.

  She hoped Irena was still holding Deacon.

  On bare, silent feet, Anaria approached from the rear chambers and walked past the sanctuary. Though still soaked with the demon’s blood, she glowed. Her radiance ate away at Rosalia’s Gift, and the shredding pain was like the agony of Caelum’s sun.

  Anaria smiled gently. “Do not hide from me.”

  Oh, God. Rosalia had heard about the effect of that voice, melodic and sweet, difficult to resist. Rosalia proved not strong enough. Obeying, she let go of her shadows and stood trembling, cloaked only in her terror.

  She had to turn her face away from Anaria’s brilliance, and stared at the plastic-enshrouded pews to her left.

  “You have slain the one that fled?”

  Rosalia nodded, a sob working up through her chest. Never had she heard such kindness, such sweetness. Her yearning to reach out to Anaria was almost unbearable. She fought not to drop to her knees.

  But she wouldn’t. Not before Anaria. Her gaze sought the carved figure above the altar, and though it, too, was wrapped in plastic, Rosalia took the strength she needed there.