Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

  “You helped me,” Anaria said.

  No, she hadn’t. A terrible ache filled Rosalia’s heart. However terrible and frightening Anaria was, she’d acted out of love. It was so much easier to destroy a demon, who relished fear and hate.

  But Anaria was no less dangerous, and Rosalia dared not lie. Anaria could see the truth, and so her only chance to survive was to speak it. To always speak it.

  “No mother should lose her children in such a way,” Rosalia whispered.

  “No,” Anaria said sadly, and tears stung Rosalia’s eyes. She wanted to pull the ancient grigori to her breast, soothe the woman’s pain. “You are a mother?”

  Her teeth clenched, but the answer came anyway. “Yes.”

  She hated telling this woman about Vin. Hated giving her that.

  Anaria sensed it. “Do not fear me. I am not the Guardians’ enemy.”

  Rosalia said nothing.

  Anaria sighed, a sound of regret and hurt that almost ripped out Rosalia’s heart. She wanted to leap forward, to take the woman into her arms, to comfort her.

  She stayed where she was.

  “These demons who slaughtered my children, were they all my father’s? Did they all follow Belial?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are there others?”

  “Yes.” Malkvial had not brought every one of Belial’s demons. Only most of them. “A few are scattered throughout the other lands. We will hunt them down and slay them.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Taylor, arriving in the aisle beside Anaria. Rosalia glanced at the Guardian. Taylor was herself again, her sharp blue eyes taking in everything, her hair red.

  “Look at me,” Anaria commanded.

  Rosalia did. The grigori’s brilliance pulled tears from her eyes.

  “Do you swear to me, Guardian, that you would slay them? That you would avenge my children?”

  Not Anaria’s children. Rosalia would avenge her family. Deacon’s community and friends. Everyone else who had suffered at the hands of the demons. It did not matter if those demons were Belial’s or Lucifer’s.

  “They will be slain,” Rosalia said. “If not by me, then by the other Guardians.”

  “And in Hell? Will you slay those in Hell?”

  How could she? Rosalia opened her mouth, but knew not what to say. She could slay them, if Taylor teleported her to that realm.

  But Anaria answered for her. “No. You cannot prevail over his demons in Hell.” Determination set her beautiful face. “With my children slain, my father believes he will rise to the throne. But I say to you, the prophecy will not hold.”

  Rosalia shook her head. “I do not know.”

  “I do. And there will be no more waiting—only doing. I will see that he who is most to blame for the death of my children will pay the dearest.” She turned to Taylor. “You will take me.”

  Taylor’s eyes widened. “To Hell?”

  “I will form my army. I will take the throne.”

  As if asking for help, Taylor looked to Rosalia, who was dumbstruck. This was not what they wanted. No one was safe if Anaria took the throne. Not humans, not Guardians, or vampires. But if Anaria was also unable to return to Earth through the Gates . . . they would all be safer for now.

  The decision was taken from them. Taylor’s eyes turned black. As if shoved from behind, she lurched toward Anaria.

  The moment their skin touched, they vanished.

  Rosalia stood motionless in the sudden silence. Then her body gave out, and she fell to her knees. Her wings flopped against the floor. Throwing her head back, she gulped in a breath, then closed her eyes, letting the cool air slip in and out of her lungs.

  But she could not kneel there forever.

  She spoke aloud, knowing they would hear her through the speakers. “Irena, Alejandro—please come. Someone needs to be here when Taylor returns.”

  If Taylor returned here.

  When she arrived at Lorenzo’s house, Deacon was waiting at the entrance. He hauled her inside, pushed her back against the door. He crowded against her, his voice a thick growl.

  “I could kill you for risking yourself like that.”

  But an instant later he was kissing her instead, deep and relieved. She clung to him until he pulled away, his chest heaving.

  “You did it, Rosie. You amazing, incredible woman. You did it.”

  She shook her head. “Not just me. And I—”

  That was all she could do. Her voice broke, her knees gave out, and it suddenly crashed in on her, a rush of terror and emotion.

  Deacon caught her. Trust me, Rosie. Let go.

  She wasn’t sure if he said it, or if she just knew he would hold her. As he lifted her against him, she wrapped them in darkness and carried them home.

  CHAPTER 24

  Deacon held her through the morning. Hell—he held her, made love to her like a madman, fed from her throat as if starved. When mid-afternoon came and she sighed, the soft sound ripped his heart from his chest.

  They were done. He watched as she sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed, his gaze drinking in the beautiful curve of her back, the sway of her hair.

  She glanced over her shoulder with a wicked smile, her dark eyes lively. “I am supposed to meet Gemma at the florist’s, and then accompany her while she shops for wedding favors. But if you say the word, I will stay here.”

  He almost gave in to temptation. But dragging this out would just make it harder. Sitting up, he braced his shoulders against the headboard. “Go on and do your thing, princess.”

  A teasing grin widened her mouth. “Now that I can use my Gift again, you could come with us.”

  He shook his head. “I’m packing up.”

  Her grin vanished, and her brow puckered, as if she thought she’d misheard him. “What?”

  “Come sunset, I’m hauling off. There’s no reason to drag this out.”

  Her gaze searched his face. Suddenly she turned away from him, and he was staring at the back of her head. A fine tremor shook the hand that grasped at the sheet and pulled it up around her.

  His fists clenched. It was easier this way.

  But she didn’t get up and leave him, as he expected. In an even voice, she asked, “What if you’re called during the day?”

  If a demon broke the Rules? “It doesn’t happen often. And it’ll happen a lot less with most of Belial’s demons dead.”

  “But it will eventually happen. My Gift can protect you when it does.”

  So she was going to babysit him every day, hovering over him? Fuck that. And why the hell wasn’t she letting this go? Just a few minutes before, she’d been heading out, not giving a thought to any of this.

  “And you were going to protect me while you were shopping?”

  “I planned to monitor your psychic scent.” The words were stiff. “I wouldn’t have left without knowing you would be okay.”

  No. Of course she wouldn’t.

  The anger that had boiled up only moments before evaporated. She’d worry for him, because she was Rosalia. “I’ll figure out something for the days. A cloak, a hood, gloves—and if I’m pulled into the sun, I’m covered.”

  She shook her head, but didn’t say anything.

  “We’re done here, Rosie. So let’s just make it clean and quick.”

  “Clean and quick,” she echoed.

  “Yeah. You aren’t the type to wallow in bed like this with me. You’ve got Guardian stuff to do, a wedding in three days—and you don’t need me here. Do you have any more reasons for me to stay?”

  Christ. He shouldn’t have asked. Now he hoped she did. Anything. Any stupid little reason, and he knew he’d stay.

  Her sudden, hoarse laugh hit like a sucker punch to his heart. “I’ve already given you all my reasons, Deacon. I don’t have any more.”

  His throat closed up. All right, then. All right. Needing to move, he got up, hauled on his jeans. She had everything so nicely folded and stacked it took all of two seconds t
o throw all of his shit in his bag.

  He glanced over at her once. She watched him, her eyes dark and sad, and he couldn’t bear to look again.

  “Where will you go?”

  He grabbed Eva and Petra’s sculpted urn from the wardrobe. “Paris, first. Theriault wasn’t with the demons in the church.”

  “And then?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  “Yes.”

  With that simple reply, she clasped the sheet over her breasts and rose from the bed. He braced himself as she approached. She adjusted his collar and smoothed his sleeve before looking up at him. Her expression was serene, but he could have drowned in the darkness of her eyes.

  “So this is good-bye, then?”

  “Yeah,” he said gruffly.

  She nodded. With a final adjustment of his collar, she rose up on her toes, and he realized she was going to kiss him farewell. Going to break him with her soft lips. She’d given him no reason to stay, but he’d beg, because even trying to leave was killing him.

  But he didn’t resist it. The moment her mouth touched his, he caved, his hands cupping her face, holding her to him. God, he couldn’t let go. She had no use for him now, but she’d become as vital as his heartbeat, as necessary as the night. Her arms circled his shoulders and her mouth opened to his, and her Gift suddenly pressed against his shields, dark and oppressive. She wrapped shadows around them, and if she wanted, he would stay, even here in this darkness, forever.

  She kissed him deeper, until his head spun, until he felt pulled in ten directions at once, with Rosalia as the focus. His hands slid down to her waist.

  Her body slipped like mist through his fingers. Her lips had softened, the touch of her mouth no more substantial than a breath.

  No more substantial than a shadow.

  Dread wrapped his throat in a cold hand. His eyes popped open but she was already pulling away, and he was staring through a dark veil at a framed photograph of the Eiffel Tower. His hotel room in Paris. His bag lay at his feet. The urn sat on the bed.

  For an instant, the veil held her shape. Then it stretched into a thin string, and snapped.

  Clean and quick—and straight through his heart.

  He stared at the place she’d been, his gut scraped raw. “Rosie?”

  Only the noise from the other rooms answered him.

  Curled up on the bed in the hotel room across from Theriault’s apartment, Rosalia was crying her eyes out when she felt someone in the room with her. When she smelled the sulphur, the rot. She shot up to her knees, staring at Taylor, sprawled on the floor beside the bed. Red sand trickled from her bare feet onto the white carpet.

  The detective stared back, her blue eyes dazed. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought. Just a lot of sand. And a giant statue of a Guardian—Anaria started crying all over him. I think that’s the same place Khavi hid those two thousand years.” She rolled over to sitting, huffed out a breath. “Holy shit. It’s done.”

  “For now,” Rosalia said.

  “Good enough to catch our breath.” She looked at Rosalia for another second. “Are you okay?”

  Since the question and the genuine concern behind it almost started her sobbing again, Rosalia forced herself to just stop. Stop thinking of Deacon. Stop thinking of how much it hurt. “Yes,” she said, and because it didn’t come out with much conviction, went on with something that was genuine. “Thank you, Taylor. I honestly don’t know if I could have come up with another way out. And I know that I asked a lot of you—and of Michael.”

  “Well, considering that you gave me a pool to lounge in and a place to regain my sanity, even though I was trying to kill the guy you’re in love with, I think we can call it even.”

  “All right. And you’re always welcome to the pool, or a room.”

  “I might take you up on that.” Taylor stood, looked around the empty room. Rosalia had already removed the surveillance equipment. Finally, she glanced back at Rosalia. “He likes you, I think. Not in the same way as the others. Or, not quite the same way. Some Guardians he admires, and some are his friends. Some he just can’t figure out.”

  Rosalia had been lost for a moment. Now she guessed, “Michael?”

  Taylor nodded. “I think it’s because of Anaria. He sees in you what he wishes Anaria was. You’re both full of plans and good intentions. You just do ‘good’ the right way.”

  Tears starting to her eyes again, Rosalia shook her head. “What of the humans?”

  “I wasn’t the one teleporting them out of there, you know. I didn’t want to make a rookie mistake, so I let him take over. They didn’t end up in the sewer. I’m not sure where it was, but it was the middle of nowhere . . . and he scared the piss out them.”

  A laugh slipped from her. “That never works like it should.”

  “Maybe not. But even if he didn’t agree with the way you used them, I think he perfectly understood the reason you chose them. Your reason for all of it. Your reasons, actually. I noticed you never have just one.”

  “I don’t think any Guardian does.”

  Something in Taylor’s eyes flickered. “Even Michael?”

  “Especially Michael.”

  With the tips of her fingers, Taylor touched her lips and smiled faintly. “That’s good to know.” She focused on Rosalia again. “I’m going to head out. You sure you’re okay?”

  “No.” Not right now. Not this moment. But she had hope. “I eventually will be.”

  Sunset was only thirty minutes gone when some pissant vampire waylaid Deacon on his way to Theriault’s. One of those younger shits who wrote poetry to Mother Darkness and thought becoming a vampire would make him sparkle. Hot and hungry and aching through to his soul, Deacon was in no kind of mood to deal with him.

  The little pissant could see it on his face. Shifting uneasily in his Converse, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his skinny jeans. He said in a rush, “Yves and Camille request your presence at their home.”

  “What the hell for?”

  The kid hunched his shoulders a little. “It’s about feeding, monsieur.”

  Oh, Christ Jesus. Feeding. With a single word, he stared bleakly into his future. No Rosalia. And taking his blood from other women.

  “I’m sorry, monsieur,” the kid whispered, and Deacon realized the vampire had read the despair in his psychic scent.

  His anger was suddenly gone, leaving only that huge black hole in his chest. “Haul off, then,” Deacon said quietly. “Tell them I’ll come.”

  But not for feeding. Not tonight. Just to pay his respects like any vampire should when coming into a city. Then maybe he’d see how far he could get living off animal blood. It might leave him shaky, stupid, and with a limp dick—but Deacon didn’t want to fuck anyone, anyway.

  He made his way to Camille’s place, then almost stopped when he realized how many vampires were there, having a party of some sort. But it struck him that there was only one way that Camille could have known he’d returned to Paris—and on the slim chance that Rosalia might be somewhere around, too, he went through that door.

  Camille was the first to greet him. She bussed his cheeks, and shoved a flute of champagne into his hand. “We can’t become drunk, and we can’t taste it—but the bubbles are necessary to celebrate life. Now, come with me.”

  She led him through a room bursting with vampires, refusing to let a single one stop them. At the balcony overlooking a quiet, tree-lined street, she shooed a couple of vampires back inside.

  They wouldn’t have privacy, but they had the illusion of it.

  She turned to him. “When I woke up today, I found an insulated drink cooler in my home, packed with dry ice, units of blood, and a message to you in it.”

  Deacon didn’t dare hope. “What was the message?”

  She produced a folded note from inside her bra. His heart pounding, Deacon took it.

  The message wasn’t from Rosalia. In Irena’s clunky block letters, she offered to d
eliver demon blood for as long as he needed it, wherever he needed it.

  His throat closed up. Deacon stuffed the note into his pocket, feeling Camille’s gaze on his face.

  “I expected Rosalia here with you. Did you leave her in Rome to clean up after the mess?”

  He didn’t want to get into this with Camille. She knew him too well. To stall, he threw back a swallow of the champagne—tasteless, but fizzy. Hardly a celebration.

  But it gave him an idea of how to answer. “She’s busy planning a wedding for her son.”

  “Her son?” Camille’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, Rosa. Good for her.”

  Deacon frowned at her. That was a little more relief than the revelation seemed to call for.

  “It was the reason I left, ninety years ago. I didn’t want to be like her: three hundred years old, and never been loved. In any sense.” She paused. “Although I suppose now that you and she are—”

  “I’m not. We’re not.”

  “Oh.” Her brow pleated. “You smell like her perfume.”

  “It’s soap.” And hours and hours of Rosalia beside him, under him, over him. He hadn’t yet washed her off.

  “Ah,” she said, but her confusion seemed deeper than it should be.

  What was the mystery here? “Just have it out, Camille.”

  She took a few seconds, and he knew she was framing her words carefully when she began, “For two hundred years, she prevented Lorenzo from taking over every community in Europe and ruling us all.”

  “I know she did.”

  “And yet, here you are—and you’re now the de facto head of every European community.”

  He shook his head. “If that’s what everyone is thinking, just tell them I don’t want any of their positions.”

  “I won’t tell them. And we aren’t expecting you to rule; we’re expecting you to protect our communities. This is what you have brought upon yourself by saving us. Will you shun that responsibility?”

  His jaw clenched, and he realized this was the reason Camille had requested his presence. She could have delivered the blood. But she’d brought him here, showed him the vampires celebrating—and if he denied his responsibility, he’d have to look each one in the face and essentially tell them they didn’t matter.