Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

  “A nephil. One.” Deacon carried his swords and bag back to the bed. “Maybe if I’d known the Guardians had only stopped one of them, I wouldn’t have assumed you could take care of yourselves against a few demons, too.”

  “You thought that when you made the deal with Caym?” She stopped beside him, her gaze searching his face. “You thought we’d just be facing a few demons?”

  Damn his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say anything at all about Caym. Fucking over the Guardians hadn’t been Deacon’s choice, but he also hadn’t thought they’d be in real danger—especially not Irena. Hell, even the novices could handle themselves pretty well. He sure as fuck hadn’t known Irena and the others would be facing a posse of nephilim instead of a few of Caym’s friends.

  And now Rosalia was probably thinking that maybe if he had known, he’d have done things differently. Screw that. When Caym had put a knife to Eva’s throat, nothing else had mattered but trying to keep her, Petra, and the rest of his community alive.

  Without answering her, he shoved his extra clothes into the bag, stripped off his shorts. She sucked in a breath. When he glanced up, he saw a faint blush stained her cheeks. Her gaze didn’t lift to his.

  “Got a good look, sister?”

  She averted her eyes—and just in goddamn time, too. Knowing she looked was making him big, hard. Hunger stirred, a building ache in his fangs.

  “You still have that demon blood for me?”

  Deacon saw hope rise through her expression, a gentle lift at the corners of her eyes and her lips. She thought his asking for the blood meant that he was agreeing to her plan for tonight—whatever it was. Better to set that straight now.

  “That’s all I’m taking.” He hauled on his jeans, reached for a shirt. “Then I’m heading out after Theriault.”

  “We’re in Budapest.”

  He froze, the shirt bunched in his fist. One look at her face told him she was dead serious. She’d brought him to Hungary. “You’ll take me back to Paris. Now.”

  “There’s a demon here to kill. One of Belial’s.”

  “I don’t give a fu—”

  “He goes by the name Benedek Farkas. He’s made himself part of the vampire community, pretending to be one of you. Tomás hasn’t caught on. Soon, Farkas will slay him and take over the community to strengthen Theriault’s bid for leadership.”

  Goddammit. Deacon liked Tomás Lakatos. He led the vampires in Budapest well.

  “It’s a Guardian’s job to protect him.” Not Deacon’s.

  She offered a brittle smile. “And so a Guardian has brought you here.”

  Fuck. Now, that was a neat answer, wasn’t it? He pulled on his shirt, then slipped into the harness that held his swords against his back. “How do you know this?”

  “My surveillance on Theriault.” Rosalia moved closer, and while he buttoned up the front of his shirt, she began straightening the material that bunched around the harness straps. “I know Farkas will be at Tomás’s club with the rest of the community tonight. You won’t have to wait outside his apartment. You won’t have to hide from humans. You can just slay him.”

  He barely heard any of that. Just felt the warmth of her fingers through cotton. What the hell was this? She was smoothing out his wrinkles? Touching him, when he was pissed and hungry, and for six months had been wondering how she tasted.

  Touching him was the surest way of finding herself shoved up against a wall, his fangs in her throat, and fucked until his knees gave out.

  When she reached for his collar, he caught her wrists. Startled, her gaze met his.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  For an instant, her face became still, her eyes flat. Then she nodded and pulled her hands away, tucking them into her elbows and moving toward the corner of the room. Almost, Deacon thought, as if she was searching for somewhere to hide, which made him feel like the biggest asshole on Earth.

  Which was exactly what he needed to be: a bastard, so that she’d leave him the hell alone.

  He picked up his jacket and bag. “You’re looking at the wrong guy, sister, but you’ll find another easy enough. You’re gorgeous, desperate, and lonely. Some sap out there will be panting to kill demons with you.”

  She looked over her shoulder, her brows arched. And she said just dryly enough that he couldn’t help but like her for it, “Thanks.”

  He turned for the door before he ended up smiling or some shit. Christ.

  “By the time you reach Paris, you’ll have wasted the night,” she said after him. “At least here, you’ll accomplish something.”

  Another low fucking blow. Did she think he’d just take that? He dropped his bag and stalked toward her. To his gratification, she retreated until her back was up against the wall.

  He slapped his palms to the wall on either side of her head and got in her face. “So the fuck what? What happens if I don’t, sister? No skin off your nose.”

  The gentle brown of her eyes darkened, so goddamn sad. He hated that, wanted to make everything better for her. He hated wanting that more.

  “Then people die,” she said softly.

  Jesus. Trapping him with people’s lives—the same fucking thing that Caym had done to him.

  Anger exploded inside him. He pulled back and slammed his hands against the wall again. Plaster cracked. She flinched, and it felt good. He didn’t give two shits about her reasons for playing him. All that mattered was that she played like a demon, and he needed to make her pay.

  He pushed in closer, until he could feel the warmth coming off her. Her perfume smelled like flowers. He wanted to breathe in that scent while he drank her down.

  “Offer your neck,” he commanded.

  Her eyes widened. Her gaze flicked to his fangs before lifting to his again. “I have blood for you.”

  “But I want to get into your head. To know your reasons. And make sure you aren’t fucking with me the same way Caym did.”

  “I’ll tell you my reasons—”

  “That’s not good enough.” He didn’t care what they were anyway. He was just tired of being used.

  Her heart began racing. He could hear desperation in every wild beat. “What about your bloodlust?”

  His laugh was bitter. It wouldn’t matter. The bloodlust wouldn’t take over a vampire unless the women he drank from wanted him. And Rosalia was . . .

  Breathing hard. Her moistened lips had parted, as if expecting a kiss. Her nipples formed hard bumps beneath red silk. A slight tremor shook her hands before they fisted at her sides.

  She wanted him?

  Ravaging need tore through his blood. Rosalia, soft and sweet—so perfect a man would be glad to beg at her feet—wanted him?

  Yeah, right.

  More likely, she just got off on fear. Or on playing off his fear of losing control. Deacon imagined the bloodlust taking him over and forcing him on her.

  Like the nosferatu probably had.

  His stomach seemed to crawl up into his throat. He could still picture how Irena had found Rosalia in the catacombs, her body crusted with her own dried blood, her skull gaping open where the spike had been shoved through it. Rosalia’s brother and Belial’s lieutenant had made a bargain, and as a result, the nosferatu got their claws on Rosalia. They’d fed on her for over a year.

  And now she was trembling after he threatened to drink from her. Fuck.

  He ripped away. “Give me the blood.”

  She held out a plastic bag. After being close to her, hungry, his cock felt like heated stone. Dark and rich, the demon blood soothed some of that hunger. Rosalia waited by the window while he drank, looking out into the night, her arms around herself again.

  What was she holding in?

  Why the hell did he care? “So the demon is at Tomás’s club?”

  Her smile came out on a relieved breath. She could save it. This was a onetime thing, and only because he liked Tomás.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”

  No need for that. De
acon had been there several times. He’d find his way. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to know a Guardian was behind all of this.”

  “I’m going as a human. Vampires can’t get beneath my psychic shields to see the difference.”

  “The demon can.”

  Her smile widened. “But he’ll be dead.”

  He looked her over. That red dress skimmed her knees, and the sleeveless cut was relatively modest—except that it covered her incredible body. The fairy-tale princess with thick dark hair, perfect ripe tits, and lush crimson lips, which needed to be kissed. Any human man who looked at her would have but one thought in his head: getting Rosalia under him. Pampering her, taking care of her—but mostly just getting her in a bed with her legs wrapped around his hips and her nails digging into his back.

  But if she walked into a vampire club, they’d treat her like a whore. Simply for showing up on his arm.

  All right then.

  She’d see what it meant to accompany a vampire that everyone considered a traitor. She wouldn’t be a princess, then. And tomorrow, maybe she wouldn’t be so eager to stick her nose in his life.

  Deacon had agreed to come, but Rosalia knew she hadn’t won him over. She suspected he’d only capitulated because he thought that her plan would come back and kick her in the face.

  Did he mean to reveal her as a Guardian to the vampires?

  She squashed that uncertainty. No. Deacon was upset with her, but he wouldn’t do anything that might endanger the other vampires if demons discovered that a Guardian had been a part of this.

  But when he’d made his deal with Caym, Deacon had thought the Guardians could take care of themselves. That no matter what he did, the Guardians could handle it. He might assume she would handle herself now, too—even posing as a human. And although he might use the knowledge against her, she had to let him know she couldn’t.

  She waited until they crossed a street, still busy with evening traffic. Cooler than Paris, but still warm enough for short sleeves and sundresses, humans strolled along the sidewalks, looking into shop windows, stopping at cafés and restaurants.

  “I can’t protect myself.”

  Deacon threw a hard glance her way. They weren’t going to pass as the most loving couple, were they? It didn’t matter. The vampires would just assume he was using her as food.

  “I’m supposed to be human.” She wouldn’t have to worry about breaking the Rules with vampires if she was forced to defend herself, but if she wanted to maintain the appearance of a human, she couldn’t whip her crossbow out of her cache, either. In a club full of vampires hostile toward Deacon, Rosalia would be vulnerable.

  “I’m here for the demon, sister. Not saving your ass.” His voice was colder, harsher than usual, like the scrape of a blade over broken concrete. “And if you’re human, that means you can’t save my ass, either. So we’re even.”

  She would, though. If it came to that, she’d drop her human mask and save him. She’d risk ruining everything. But she couldn’t blame him for not doing the same. He didn’t owe her anything.

  Her chest tightened. “All right. That’s fair. You don’t have to help me. Just please don’t expose me.”

  Deacon glanced at her again, but whatever he saw he didn’t like. He swore under his breath and looked away.

  When he’d been an asshole at the chateau, Rosalia had hit back at him. Deacon kept expecting her to snap at him again. What had changed between now and then that she just took his shit?

  Maybe she felt like crap for forcing this on him. She didn’t strike him as the type to go against a Guardian’s principles, and pushing a man—even a vampire—into something against his will. So if she was still pushing the issue, whatever she was planning must mean a lot to her.

  Not that it mattered. Whatever her reasons, the fact remained that she was grabbing his strings and trying to play him.

  The club lay a few streets off from any main thoroughfares. Surrounded by buildings more run-down than the tourist-friendly parts of the city, the façade appeared flat, gray, and industrial. Nothing interesting to see there, except when someone was looking for it.

  Twenty years ago, after slaying the head of the community and stepping into his position, Tomás had taken care to give his people a place to run if threatened—by humans, by demons, even by Guardians. The back of the club hid a reinforced chamber that even a nephil would have difficulty breaking into.

  It also offered the vampires a place to gather. Tonight, if they’d heard about London, many of the city’s vampires would probably already be here.

  As they neared the entrance, Rosalia’s fingers slipped into the crook of his elbow. She looked up at him, and in her eyes Deacon could see the expectation that he’d shrug her off, combined with her silent request for him not to.

  All right. He’d play this her way. It didn’t hurt him to walk in with a gorgeous woman on his arm.

  He’d been right: The place was full. Even before they opened the doors, he could sense the number of vampires inside.

  “They’ve heard about London,” she said softly.

  “Yeah.” He could feel their panic and their helpless anger from here. They’d be looking for someone to take that out on. Deacon would be an obvious target, but Rosalia would be, too. This riled up, they might not just leer and give her a hard time. They might take it further. “So you wait here while I—”

  A male vampire with long dark hair and lined eyes swung the door open and held it while another passed through. He glanced at Deacon, then looked again before stopping his friend in the entrance. The friend caught sight of Deacon. His lips drew back over his fangs.

  No doubt they’d recognized him. So leaving Rosalia out here alone wasn’t an option anymore.

  “Just keep on walking, traitor.” The first vampire’s gaze ran over Rosalia. Snakelike, he slid his tongue between his fangs and licked his upper lip. “She can stay.”

  Any other time, that would have been enough for Deacon to take him down. But a demon waited inside, and Deacon didn’t want to reveal the one advantage he had—his speed—while teaching this pissant a lesson. And if he started a fight out here, he might not make it into the club.

  And these vampires might talk about fighting, but they wouldn’t make a move against him without Tomás’s permission. Gripping Rosalia’s hand, Deacon pushed past them and through the door.

  The two vampires followed, flanking them. Rosalia looked up at Deacon with a smile.

  Wouldn’t a human be showing a little more fear? But she was pretending that having him at her side filled her with confidence. Shit. Even knowing she was acting, that felt damn good.

  Inside, the setup was more like a gentleman’s club than the dance club preferred by a few other vampire communities. Amber pendant lights hung from a high ceiling, casting warm light on the paneled walls and wooden floors. Two billiard tables sat on the right side of the large, open room. Multiple groupings of velvet sofas and leather chairs encouraged pockets of conversation. The smaller tables ringing the floor held laptops or hosted several varieties of poker games.

  One by one, the vampires quieted and turned to look at them.

  From a table at the back of the room, Tomás frowned and rose to his feet, a big man with blond hair pulled back into a queue and a bushy yellow beard. Rosalia hadn’t given Deacon a description of Benedek Farkas, but the demon wasn’t hard to spot. Dark-haired and slick, he’d shape-shifted into a good-looking bastard, like they all did. Seated on a sofa in the middle of the club, he was the only one not giving Deacon the evil eye. He looked amused, even. And he was the only man who hadn’t looked Rosalia over twice.

  Maybe she had a good reason for wearing that dress and her current form, and it wasn’t just so Deacon would be thinking of sucking her dry. She could walk through the club naked, and a demon wouldn’t get hot. Couldn’t get hot. A demon only faked it.

  Farkas wasn’t even bothering to do that.

  Deacon led her to a small table o
n the left, a location that would offer him a direct line to Tomás, with Farkas in the middle. The click of her heels echoed in the silent room, and beneath it came the pounding of the vampires’ hearts. Almost fifty, by his count. He heard the rustle of clothes as vampires got to their feet. Oh, yeah, they wanted to fight. He felt their psychic probes, aimed at him, aimed at Rosalia.

  He got Rosalia into a seat. She smiled at him, a sweet curve of her lips that could have sent a man off to war with steel in his spine, not just heading out to slay one demon.

  Deacon turned. Vampires, male and female, faced him with fangs exposed. Farkas just seemed to be smiling. Deacon looked over the demon’s head at Tomás.

  “This isn’t much of a welcome, old friend.”

  “Just turn around, Deacon.” Tall, with a chest to match, Tomás’s deep voice carried easily across the club. “Take your human and get out.”

  Deacon lifted his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I just want to talk bloodsharing until my woman can—”

  “Get out.”

  Fuck. Tomás must be thinking that Deacon was here to kill him, was gunning for his position. So he probably wasn’t going to invite Deacon over to his table, fearing that once Deacon got in close he’d try to take Tomás out.

  All right. Deacon didn’t need to be invited over there. He could do this another way.

  One thing about vampire communities: no one interfered if a leader was challenged. Deacon reached back and drew his swords.

  Tomás quickly retrieved his own weapons. The vampire kicked aside his table, giving himself room to fight—but as Deacon anticipated, Tomás stayed where he was. A reinforced steel wall lay at Tomás’s back; he wouldn’t give that protection up.

  Deacon stalked closer, his gaze fixed on Tomás. His path took him behind Farkas’s sofa.

  The demon made it too easy, rising up in his seat so that he could watch the showdown. Obviously, he never once considered Deacon a threat. As Deacon passed him, Farkas turned his head to follow his progress, facing the opposite direction and leaving his neck exposed above the level of the sofa’s back.