Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

  He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. When a threat showed up, they’d look to him. He couldn’t turn his back on them.

  Finally, he said, “No. I won’t shun it.”

  Camille smiled as if she’d never had any doubt, and patted his hand. “You won’t be locked into a community. In fact, I think it’s best if you aren’t a part of one, so that you seem impartial. You’ll be the one we can all go to, if we need your help. And if ever again another Lorenzo comes to power, you can do what the Guardians—all of the Guardians—neglected to do, and slay him.”

  Shit. He didn’t want that responsibility—but he knew that if someone like Lorenzo took over a community, waged the same reign of terror over his people, Deacon would destroy him.

  As if Camille saw his acceptance, she gave a satisfied nod. Her tone altered, became pensive. “When I heard that Lorenzo had been killed, I called Rosalia up to congratulate her—or to console her. I didn’t know which it would be. But I thought, She’d finally done it—because no one knew about the nephilim yet.”

  Not for weeks after Lorenzo had died. And even then, no one knew how the hell an entire city had been massacred until the Guardians had told them.

  “So I called her,” Camille continued, “and I spoke with Svetlana, who told me that Rosalia wasn’t home. I thought nothing of it because she was so often gone. But later, I received a call from a young human woman asking if I’d seen her. And that they hadn’t seen Rosa for months, and she was looking for her.”

  That would have been Gemma. “Her vampires never asked you?”

  “Not once.” She lifted a shoulder as if it was nothing, but Deacon heard the note of sadness in her psyche. “Rosalia has always been about protecting her family. Her family has rarely offered the same to her.”

  Deacon would have torn Europe apart looking for her. To know, if nothing else. And he’d have given his life to protect her.

  “And I’ll tell you why Lorenzo didn’t just kill her: Without Rosalia standing in his way, he could have taken over all of Europe as he planned. But he hated her too much not to rub her failure in her face. So he’d wake her up and let her see what he’d done.” She looked down into her champagne. “That is the one and only thing I thank the nephilim for. If they hadn’t killed him when they did, we’d all be dead, and our communities under his rule.”

  “I don’t think anyone shed tears over him. Not even Rosie.”

  “Who would?” She expelled a disgusted breath. “As it was, even with Lorenzo dead I didn’t have much hope once I heard she was gone. Then when Rome was destroyed, followed by Berlin, I had none at all. She’s held the balance in Europe since she became a Guardian, and without her, the balance was gone. Everything was spinning out of control. I wasn’t even surprised when you turned on the Guardians for a demon.”

  “But then she came back.” If there was any reason to be thankful for Caym, that was the single one. If not for the demon, Rosalia might have still been in those catacombs.

  “Then she came back—and I should have known that she would. If there’s one thing about Rosa, it’s that she won’t quit. She won’t lose faith, even if she loses hope. And after she loses hope, she still fights on, she still endures.” Camille looked up at him with a smile. “And she can be insidiously clever and patient while she’s about it. I’ve learned to never underestimate her. If she told me that she’d planned this ninety years ago, intending to put you in this position as a way to pay you back, I’d have believed her.”

  Ninety years? “Pay me back for what?”

  “You have no idea?” When he shook his head, she said, “I didn’t either, not then. I thought it was all for me. She said, Here is a man who helped me out once. He’s a good man. He needs someone to make him laugh, and you need someone who will laugh at you. And I liked you. We had fun those early years, didn’t we?”

  “Yes.” But he still didn’t understand. “What was for you?”

  “Sending me to you. I simply thought it was her way of helping me. No, that’s not fair—it was her way of helping me. But Rosa, she never has just one reason. And if she can kill fifty birds with one stone . . .” Trailing off, she took a sip of her champagne. “Afterward, I looked back, and it was true that every single move she asked me to make helped me. But it helped you, too—and I realized, you had always been at the center of it.”

  Deacon’s mind reeled. He knew what this meant—but he couldn’t take any of it in. Couldn’t believe it. His heart pounded. He set the champagne flute aside, afraid he’d shatter the glass in his hand.

  She sighed. “But I suppose that is why you are not with her now. How could you be? She will never trust anyone so much that she will give them her heart. She wraps herself in reasons, and they are all true, but the one reason that makes her vulnerable, she never gives. After what her father was, and Lorenzo—how could she? But what is love without trust? And I know you, Deacon. You could not stay with a woman who has many reasons to be with you, but will never say she loves you.”

  The admission tore from him. “She did.”

  Camille stepped back, staring at him as if he’d struck her. “And you left?”

  She read the answer in his face. Her eyes filled.

  “Oh, Rosa,” she whispered. Camille averted her face, and when someone called her name, telling her to come for the phone, she went quickly inside.

  Deacon stared blindly out into the night. His fingers bit into the balcony railing. Rosalia had trusted him and given him her heart. And he’d thrown it back at her.

  What had he done ninety years ago? He couldn’t think of anything. Some small act of kindness that had meant so little to him.

  And he’d decided to leave, as if she meant so little to him. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

  Camille came back outside. “I have a message for you. It says: ‘Theriault is alone. His wife has left him.’ ”

  Rosie. He needed to talk to her now. “You have her number?”

  “It was given to me with the understanding that I would never share it.”

  “How do I get it?”

  She pursed her lips, as if indecisive. Camille was never indecisive—she was manipulating him.

  He didn’t even care. “How?”

  “Perhaps, as leader of the European community, you can apply for protection from the Guardians.” Her brows arched. “But do you really need a reason to see her?”

  No. But he might need to give Rosalia a reason to see him again.

  Though he’d hoped to find Rosalia at the hotel across from Theriault’s apartment, her surveillance equipment was missing, and humans occupied the room.

  All right. So she’d helped him out tonight by giving him that message, but she wasn’t hanging around, waiting for him, trying to make it all better between them.

  He’d have given anything to see her, but it was good that she was gone. He’d fucked up. He’d hurt her. But considering that she had a habit of overcompensating and trying to fix everything she’d felt she’d done wrong, this meant she wasn’t blaming herself for his mistakes. She knew exactly where to lay the blame: squarely on him.

  And that meant working his ass off proving to her that she’d never regret taking him back. He’d have to think it out, and plan—and by God, if he had to manage Rosalia a little bit to get her in a place to listen, he’d do it.

  But first things first. She’d given him info, and he needed to use it. He crossed the street and pulled his swords from beneath his jacket.

  Any demon living in this city was a threat to the vampire community here—and Deacon had a new job to do.

  Rosalia took the long route to Caelum, passing over three Gates before diving through a portal in South Africa. She dragged in a breath of warm, dry air.

  The city was still beautiful. Domes and towers of white marble reached up against a brilliant blue sky. Graceful arches and columns welcomed her into courtyards, into the temples. But it was just as sterile. No soil softened her steps; her heels clicked
against unyielding stone. Nothing grew here. Nothing fragranced the air: no perfume, no rot, so smell of life. And the sun was still too bright.

  Ten years ago, she’d stopped coming here, and she’d told herself that Pasquale had been the reason why. That she didn’t deserve to be here. Now she wondered if she’d just been searching for a reason not to return. As beautiful as this city was, she didn’t love it.

  And she loved it even less when it was all but empty.

  Mariko’s quarters lay at the edge of the city, overlooking the sea, but Rosalia found her friend more quickly than that. The clash of weapons and the pulse of a familiar Gift drew her to a building that speared into the sky. Beside it, at the center of a round courtyard, Mariko spun around, sending a flying kick toward her opponent, a small woman with long black hair, whose only covering were the red scarves binding her breasts and fluttering around her pelvis and backside, and the paint that dyed her skin blue. Radha possessed a Gift of forcing an illusion past the strongest mental shields, and Rosalia didn’t know what she’d made Mariko see and hear, but the Guardian’s kick missed Radha completely. Mariko slammed into the side of the building, and Radha burst into laughter.

  Her laughter abruptly died when she caught sight of Rosalia. Her eyes widened in disbelief. When she shrieked, Rosalia braced herself.

  Radha tackled her with a hug, a tiny blue dynamo who lifted Rosalia off her feet and swung her around like a sock monkey. Limping, Mariko joined them.

  With a huge grin, Radha set her down and stepped back, clapping her blue hands to a happy beat, quickly picked up by her dancing feet. “Mariko and I were just coming to see you—with this!”

  A white satin ribbon dangled from her grip. It held up a solid gold medal, its face inscribed with Rosalia’s name and engraved with a laurel.

  “It’s plastic and she found it in a discount bin,” Mariko said dryly.

  “It’s the thought that counts.” Hopping forward, Radha placed the ribbon over Rosalia’s head. For an instant, the Guardian’s dark eyes lost their sparkle, and her serious gaze met Rosalia’s. “It’s the intention, right?”

  Rosalia’s throat swelled. “Right.”

  “Just like Radha doesn’t intend to show everyone her tits. It”—Mariko made quote marks with her fingers—“ ‘just happens.’ ”

  “I’m doing my part to make the world a better place.” Radha stepped back. “But I’m going to have to run around naked all of the time if I want to catch up to Rosa. You’re our hero now.”

  “Stop that.” Laughing, Rosalia shook her head. She’d worried about their reaction. This might be worse than the cold shoulder she imagined. “There are still plenty of demons and nosferatu—”

  “Oh, God!” Mariko threw up her hands. “Shut up, Rosa. Tonight, we party.”

  “Actually, I have to—”

  “Don’t even argue,” Radha warned her.

  “—clean the abbey, and prepare for the wedding.”

  They gaped at her. Mariko croaked, “To Deacon?”

  Pain stabbed through her heart, but she swallowed back the tears. She’d shed enough for one day. “No. That’s over. It’s my son’s wedding, three days from now. That’s why I’m here—to invite you both.”

  “Oh, congratulations! Of course we’ll come,” Radha said sweetly, and immediately followed with—“What the hell do you mean, it’s over? Does that mean it started?”

  “And already ended?” Mariko stared at her.

  “Quick and clean,” she confirmed.

  Mariko shook her head. “That’s not your style.”

  “That’s how he wanted it.” Her chest was aching. It’d been aching since she’d left him in that hotel room. She didn’t know when it would stop—but it wouldn’t be tonight. Probably not for many, many nights.

  “Oh, my God,” Radha said in disbelief. “Is he stupid? Look at you!”

  Yes, look at her. Look at everything you are. Deacon’s outburst had echoed in her mind for days. It wasn’t that Deacon didn’t believe she loved him, but rather: He couldn’t believe that she loved him. He saw himself as too damaged, too ruined. She’d tried to tell him, to show him that he wasn’t—but there was nothing she could do unless he saw it, too. And knowing she couldn’t change that ripped her apart.

  “He’s not,” Rosalia said. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Mariko snapped her mouth shut. A second later she opened it again. “All right. I declare girls’ night at the abbey, then. We get naked, we swim, we eat until we shape-shift into pigs, and Radha will entertain us with oiled, dancing men. Then we clean up and help you get the place ready.”

  Rosalia couldn’t think of anything better—and she was grateful for any activity that might take her mind from Deacon and the enormous hole in her heart. “All right.”

  Radha grinned. “And should we spread the word?”

  Her abbey, full of laughter and voices again? And she had so much food that still needed to be eaten. “Definitely,” she said.

  CHAPTER 25

  The moment Taylor teleported into Hell, Michael tried to take over—tried to teleport her out. She fought him, stumbling across the frozen faces. Jesus God they were cold, burning her bare feet. Every breath seared her lungs, then billowed out in ragged clouds. Silence reigned. She couldn’t hear her footsteps or her heartbeat, but the screams filled her head, the familiar screams, so loud here.

  She hadn’t known how many of the damned were down here. The field stretched almost as far as she could see, faces packed together with no room between. And rising over them all, their eyes all frozen on its great height, Lucifer’s black tower speared against a crimson sky.

  And she found Michael, right where she’d known he’d be. His amber eyes were frozen open, staring at the tower, but she saw that he was in there, aware. Crouching beside him, her toes digging into an eye, her heel into a mouth, she blocked his view of the tower with her face.

  For an instant, the darkness within her stilled. Then he was pushing again, harder, trying to take her over and take her out of here. She put her hand against his cheek—an ice block, painfully cold. But if she could feel his cold, perhaps he could feel her warmth.

  “I figured it out,” she told him, but the words didn’t emerge, just silence. She thought he understood anyway. “I figured out what I should have told Anaria that day, when she said that vampires would overrun Earth and then demons would just kill them, destroying all of humanity. I should have said: That’s not going to happen, because there’s going to be whole lotta motherfucking Guardians standing in the way.”

  She thought his laughter sounded in the back of her head—she knew it came into his eyes. But there was fear, too, rising. A lot more fear than she’d expected. And she was holding, but she wouldn’t hold him back much longer.

  “So I just want to say, Thank you for watching my back and saving my ass. Multiple times. And as soon as I figure out how, I promise I’ll save yours.”

  Then the darkness almost overwhelmed her, pushing, pushing . . . and she felt the shiver under her feet. Even if you can’t see or hear them coming, you can feel them.

  Taylor whirled around, calling in Irena’s spear. Terror sucked her mouth dry, shriveled her heart. A hellhound. Oh, Jesus. So much bigger than any she’d seen, at least three times her height, each of his three heads the size of a SUV. She couldn’t hear his growls, but his lips peeled back over teeth as long as her arm.

  Not just any hellhound, she realized in horror. Lucifer’s hellhound, Cerberus. The master might not be far behind.

  The ground shivered again as Cerberus exploded into a run, circling around her, faster and faster, thrashing his heads, exposing his giant maw, as if sensing her fear and trying to twist it to unbearable heights before eating her.

  Oh, hell no. Anger burst through her, a rush of heat to her hands.

  The spear caught fire. Flames leapt along the steel length, roaring high from the tip. Cerberus cringed away from it, turning suddenly, slinking
back to watch her with wary, glowing eyes.

  Her astonishment forced out a shout, lost in the silence. Cerberus slowly rose to his feet again, his surprise fading. And from the tower, she felt something else—searching, focusing, a dark scream of a psyche that Michael suddenly rose up and blocked . . . pushing her again, his desperation clear.

  Taylor finally took Michael’s hint, and got the hell out of there. Not out of fear. Of course not. She was a motherfucking Guardian.

  And, anyway—she had a wedding to attend.

  Unconcerned with night and day and sleeping patterns, the girls’ night had spilled over into a second evening, then into the next morning, and by the time they began to ready the abbey for the reception, almost every female Guardian and several of their vampire friends had passed through Rosalia’s courtyard, danced and swam. Rosalia fastened Gemma into her wedding dress and straightened Vincente’s waistcoat, and although she’d been determined not to cry, she wept through the vows. The reception culminated with more dancing—though the only one to take off his clothes was a neighbor who’d had too much champagne—and had finally wound down in the wee morning.

  Now everyone was gone, and Rosalia sat on the bench near her fountain, feeling lighter than at any other moment in her life. For three days, she’d renewed both her friendships and her purpose as a mother, as a Guardian, as Rosalia. Her heart ached beyond bearing, true—but for the first time, she owed no one. All of her debts were gone, her obligations fulfilled.

  Perhaps this could be a new beginning for her, as well as her son.

  Smiling, she pulled her heel to the edge of the bench seat and rested her chin on her knee, watching the fall of sparkling water. The calla lilies’ perfume was strong and heady, the orange blossoms sweet. The house had never been so quiet, but it did not seem empty. After the past three days, the silence felt peaceful and soothing, instead. Not waiting to be filled, but complete.