Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

  She moved to another computer and clicked a few buttons. The screen filled with an infrared image of a man sleeping. Another screen lit up and revealed a thirtysomething man in a narrow space, sitting with his chair tilted back and his feet propped up. A soccer game played on a small monitor behind him.

  “That’s Vincente. Here’s the mic if something comes up and you need to be in contact with him.”

  Deacon couldn’t imagine a single reason why he would. “All right.”

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be with Taylor. The bedroom is sealed against light; even if I open the door, no sunlight will fall on the bed. You’ll be safe sleeping there.”

  She was worried about his safety? Jesus. “Michael’s dead. How in the hell can you trust me?”

  Her brows drew together, as if for a moment she didn’t know what to make of his question. “I have to,” she said finally. “I have to trust that you’re the man I think you are, rather than the one Caym forced you to be.”

  He wanted to be that, too. He didn’t know if he could.

  “Why didn’t you throw this at me?” When he saw her confusion, he clarified, “Michael’s death. You were after me to help. You didn’t bring this up?”

  “Why would I? You didn’t kill him.” Rosalia sighed and came closer, her eyes deep and unreadable. “Deacon, Belial’s lieutenant already had the information that Anaria used to make her portal to Chaos. He told you that. You were just someone to play with.”

  And Rosalia knew that because she’d been in Prague, concealed in her shadows. She’d seen that the demon’s idea of “playing” meant killing everyone—except for Deacon. The demon had hoped that Irena would be the one to slay him, so that Deacon would die at the hands of his friend.

  “He dragged you down and slaughtered everyone in your community because he could. Because that’s what demons do. He didn’t use you to help Anaria. He didn’t do it for any other reason than because it amused him, and because it was another blow to you.”

  Not just him. “And to Irena.”

  “Irena’s pain was a bonus. So was Michael. So if you’re looking for another reason why I want to kill all of Belial’s demons and take Anaria, too . . . Well, there it is. Michael is my reason. And so is everyone else who died in Anaria’s path, and in the path of Belial’s demons.”

  The Guardian healer who Anaria had killed. Vampires in San Francisco . . . and his entire community. Yeah, he could get behind that reason.

  “Maybe I’ll put that in my column, too.”

  “No.” She shook her head, smiling again and backing toward the door. “Don’t tell me now. You aren’t supposed to tell me until tomorrow.”

  Deacon watched her leave. Everything she’d said was true . . . but that still didn’t absolve him of his part in it. Grimly, he turned toward the computers.

  He’d thought he wasn’t fit to kiss her? Truth was, he wasn’t even fit to kiss her goddamn feet.

  Watching Theriault pretend to sleep from seven hundred miles away wasn’t any more interesting than standing outside the demon’s apartment and doing the same.

  Restless, Deacon left the War Room and stood overlooking the courtyard. Moonlight silvered the trees and left a sparkling trail across the surface of the pool. Both Rosalia and Taylor floated motionless beneath the water. Rosalia’s long hair billowed like a dark pillow, and she’d exchanged her robe for a pale, thin sheath, which clung to her luscious curves. When he found himself staring at the dark shape of her nipples, he went back in.

  The surveillance van’s monitor flipped on. “Mother, are you—” Vin broke off and peered at the screen. “Deacon?”

  “Yes.”

  The younger man laughed. “So she got her claws into you after all?”

  Deacon reminded himself that this was Rosalia’s son and that he couldn’t pound his fist through the screen. “Do you need her?”

  “Not if you’re there,” Vin said. “The garage watchman is heading into the john, so I’m off to tag our target’s car with a tracker. Can you keep an eye on his screen?”

  Deacon glanced at the blob of infrared color on the monitor. “I can.”

  So, now he watched two demons pretend to sleep. Rosalia had the right idea. Killing them was better.

  He flipped through the folder next to the computer, got this one’s name: Nicholas St. Croix. Yeah, that sounded like a name a demon might make up.

  Then the man got out of bed, and Deacon revised his opinion.

  After a few minutes, the van door opened and slammed again. Vin’s face appeared in the monitor. “So he’s awake?”

  “I don’t think he’s your guy. He took a piss.”

  “If he knows he’s being watched, that doesn’t mean anything.” Vin unwrapped plastic from a take-out plate and shoved it into a tiny microwave, then rolled his chair back in front of the screen. “Mother once told me that she used to find demons just by listening to servant gossip. They’re all rich, and a hundred years ago and more they had the servants, the chambermaids. And when a maid started talking about how she never had to empty a pot, Mama would go hunting. So the smart demons think about little things like that if they know there’s any possibility the Guardians might be looking at them. And they fake it.”

  “Fake pissing?” Deacon drank his meal every night and couldn’t shake out a drop if he tried.

  “They fake it with something else. Before toilets, they used to vanish waste into their cache, and fill up the pot to fool the maid—but that isn’t convincing when they’re under real-time observation. One demon used his blood and a bulb syringe. He filled it up, squeezed it out. The sound is right, and even the infrared is fooled. And while sitting, he’d cut his dick off—that one managed to stump Mama for weeks.”

  The microwave beeped. Vin pulled his plate out and dug in, his appetite apparently unaffected. Dinnertime conversation in this abbey must have been a far cry from Deacon’s home. Supper in the Knox home had been a serious affair, meat and potatoes and silence, with the Bible coming out afterward. He’d certainly never thought about whether any prophets or saints had taken a piss.

  And he’d get along just fine if he never thought about it again. “You can’t rely on the infrared?”

  “We can for vampires. But with demons, the core temperature isn’t so different from a human’s. Throw in variations like room temperature, and it’s easy for someone to read a few degrees hotter or cooler. On a cold night, with humans for comparison, we’d probably be able to pick a demon out. But basing it on a temperature determined through walls, when he’s alone? It’s best not to try.” Vin paused. “But I’m leaning toward human, too. Another day or two of observation won’t hurt, though, until we’re certain.”

  Deacon tilted his chair back, and was wondering if Rosalia’s son would be so open to sharing if the topic turned a little more personal when Vin said, “What happened to her in Athens tonight?”

  “What?”

  “She called around midnight. She didn’t look so good.”

  She hadn’t? A knot tightened in his stomach. But Deacon wasn’t going to answer to her son. Only to Rosalia.

  “We took out Valeotes and Sardis. The vampire gave her some trouble.”

  “Is she going in as a human?”

  “Yes.”

  Vin looked away from the monitor, his jaw hardening. “Sardis, Jesus. That fucking bastard.”

  “You know him?”

  “I know enough about him to imagine what happened. But I don’t know them all like Mother does.”

  Deacon frowned. “All?”

  “Every vampire in Europe. Their names, their history.”

  He could believe that. She’d known his history, though few others did. “Every one?”

  “Maybe she’s missed a dozen or two, but she can name every vampire in a community, tell you what he did as a human, all of the aliases he’s used and the partners he’s had.”

  “Jesus.” That was about a thousand vampires.

  Vin shrugged
. “She overcompensates for her brother.”

  “How’s that?”

  “She couldn’t save him. So she wants to save everyone else—and their information is her tool.”

  He looked at the cabinets behind him. “There’s a file somewhere?”

  “No. She’s got it all up there.” Vin tapped his forehead. “You could find some info on the community leaders and a list of vampires within the communities, but everything else about them, she keeps as stories in her head.” He stopped to take another bite and swallow. “She tells them now and then. I grew up hearing about you and Camille moving groups of refugees out of Nazi-occupied territory. Her favorite is the night you razed through a battalion of Nazi soldiers.”

  “She was there?”

  “You didn’t see her, did you?” Vin seemed to enjoy that. “She set it all up and ran the whole thing with Camille and a few others.”

  He struggled to keep his surprise from showing. He hadn’t known that. So even though Rosalia must already be acquainted with Camille—had run operations with her before—she’d asked Deacon to help her now. That couldn’t just be about Yves. What the hell could he do that Camille couldn’t?

  “She set all of that up?” It hadn’t been enough; it could never have been enough—but everything they’d managed to accomplish had pulled through, beautifully.

  Just like every demon kill she’d set up so far.

  “Yes. Why do you think you were never discovered during the daytime?”

  He’d always thought they’d just been lucky. He’d still been in his early years as a vampire—not even twenty years with fangs, and had only just begun to resent how Camille managed him. But now he saw how every person involved had always been in the perfect position, each according to his skill set. How everyone had the information they needed. And how they’d always had a backup plan, so that every human who’d come with them had made it through.

  Realizing that Vin waited for an answer, he said, “Camille chose secure locations.”

  The other man nodded. “Camille is good. Mother is better.”

  Deacon was beginning to believe that.

  The sun was rising when Taylor disappeared again. Hoping she’d found a little solace, Rosalia left the pool and flew upstairs. In her chambers, Deacon lay on the bed, a sheet draped over his hips, his bare chest unmoving. Even in sleep, his muscles retained their definition. The ridged plane of his abdomen seemed to call her fingers to explore.

  She resisted the impulse, marveling instead that he was here. God, she couldn’t believe he’d returned, willing to help. For some reason, between Athens and Rome, he’d decided that destroying the nephilim and Belial’s demons mattered to him. Considering that he’d left Rosalia on the side of a road, that reason probably hadn’t anything to do with her . . . but she didn’t care. She didn’t know what had brought him back, but she thanked God with all of her heart that he’d come.

  She watched him for a few moments before shaking herself and crossing into the War Room, where Vincente was still at it—and looking exhausted.

  She switched on the microphone. “Go home and sleep.”

  Vin yawned and stretched. “The tracker’s on his vehicle.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “How’s Gemma?”

  She’s fine. Rosalia almost gave that automatic answer, then realized it wasn’t her place to protect him from this. “She had a bad moment. She’s sleeping now, but it was a rough night.”

  His haunted expression tore at her heart. “I don’t know what to do. How to help her. I wish to God I’d been here with her that night.”

  As much as Rosalia wished that he’d never left, it wouldn’t have changed anything. The nephilim would still have come. “Just hold her when she needs it.”

  “I intend to—Father Wojcinski be damned. So don’t be surprised when I show up at the abbey in about thirty minutes.”

  She’d only have been surprised if he hadn’t come. “All right.”

  “Good night, Mama.” He flipped off the monitor.

  Rosalia smiled to herself and moved back into the bedroom. Resisting the temptation to spend a few minutes on the bed, simply soaking in Deacon’s presence, she crossed the room and vanished her clothes. Painfully aware that this marked the first time she’d been naked in the same room with a man—even a sleeping one—she showered to rinse off the scent of chlorine. As she dressed, her gaze fell on Deacon again. She could look upon him forever and never tire of the view.

  She couldn’t help herself. Climbing onto the bed, she curled around him and drew in his scent. She wouldn’t sleep. But every day, she took a few quiet minutes to think, to examine and re-examine her plan.

  For today, she wanted to do it here.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sunset brought Deacon hard out of dreams. He jacked up to sitting, facing unfamiliar walls, his mind still awash in pain and blood. He fought to orient himself.

  Rome. Rosalia’s abbey. Her bed.

  Jesus.

  He threw back sweat-dampened sheets and headed for the shower. Cranking the knob all the way left, Deacon stepped under scalding water. He gritted his teeth and bore it until the rage and pain faded.

  He’d be killing a demon tonight. That would help, too. But for the first time six months, it wasn’t his only reason for getting up.

  He hadn’t been going after Belial’s demons because it’d been the right thing to do—it’d been the only thing to do. It couldn’t bring him peace. It couldn’t bring his community back. It just made living with himself easier.

  But thanks to Rosalia, he had a new reason for taking down Belial’s demons and the nephilim. Pursuing Belial’s demons could be something useful, something for his community: a vow that they’d be the last. Never again would a city of vampires be slaughtered by demons or nephilim.

  He’d still take a hell of a lot of satisfaction by slaying them along the way.

  The water cooled, the heater tank running low. Deacon lathered up. The pink soap smelled like Rosalia, flowery and delicate. His bloodlust stirred, and he soothed his fangs with his tongue to stave off the insistent hunger. But even after rinsing, her scent remained all over his skin like she’d spent the day wrapped around him.

  He wouldn’t be kicking her out of bed if she did.

  And that was the goddamn understatement of the century. Christ. She hadn’t even pulled his strings and he’d come running after her—which just showed how much of a glutton he was for pain. Even if Rosalia was interested in burning up a few sheets, eventually she wouldn’t need his help, and he’d have to move on. And in less than a week, she already had a few hooks in him.

  He’d loved Eva and Petra, loved them deep—but the hooks they’d had felt different. From their first meeting, he’d liked the two women, and that had grown into affection and a sixty-year friendship. But something else was going on with Rosalia. Even resisting everything he liked about her, she hit him gut-level. She had from the day they’d met. And he wasn’t looking forward to knowing what her hooks would feel like if they went deep, because he’d be ripping them out when he left.

  Problem was, even knowing what he’d be in for, he’d take any opportunity she gave him. And, hell—maybe he deserved having his heart torn out.

  He grabbed a towel. His bag had been moved from where he’d dropped it beside the bed that morning. He glanced around, hoping he wouldn’t have to track down Rosalia in his shorts, asking where she’d put it. As hungry as he was, the bloodlust would grab hold of his cock the moment he saw her, and she’d get an eyeful in return.

  A second later, he found his clothes piled neatly on the bench at the end of the bed, cleaned and pressed—just as Eva and Petra once had done. Grief hit him out of nowhere. He sat, their absence a dark, yawning hole in his chest.

  God, he missed them.

  And they’d be so fucking pissed at him. Not for taking revenge, that selfish route—but for being a first-class asshole while going about it. A man could be hard, and he co
uld be ruthless. Leading a community of vampires sometimes called for both, and they’d accepted that in him. Then there was just being an out-and-out bastard. They wouldn’t have stood for that.

  He had to do better. He had to be better.

  Resolved, he stood and dressed. When he opened the bedroom door, the ringing clash of metal drew him to the walkway overlooking the courtyard.

  Wearing black shirt and trousers, with boots propped by high heels that shouldn’t have been anywhere near the soft earth in the garden, Rosalia crossed swords with a tall woman in white fencer’s regalia. Gemma, Deacon guessed, though he couldn’t see her face behind the mesh mask. Both women used the hedges and fountains as obstacles, leaping after each other, and exchanging a flurry of steel when cornered.

  He recognized Vin sitting at a small table near the courtyard’s edge, watching the women. Deacon moved down the stairs and joined him.

  When the man stuck out his hand, Deacon shook it. “She’s going to break her ankle.”

  Vin grinned. “Father Wojcinski used to caution her about vanity, until she told him how many demons’ throats she’s slashed open with those heels.”

  Deacon could believe it. Even holding back, Rosalia put his own bladework to shame. To his surprise, the human might have, too. “Gemma’s good.”

  “She’d have taken gold in Beijing, if she’d gone. But she doesn’t compete anymore.”

  If she’d gone?

  Ah. Because earlier that year, before the Summer Games had begun, the nephilim had killed everyone here, leaving her alone. Yeah, that could have thrown her off stride. Deacon wasn’t sure if he knew of anyone who could have bounced back from that in a few months.

  “Where were you?”

  Vin’s jaw tightened. “Not here.” He stood as the women finished—Gemma out of breath, and Rosalia with a brilliant smile.

  “Deacon.” Her gaze ran over him. “I see you found everything.”

  “Yes.” Since thinking back to how he’d found his clothes was bringing his grief up to the surface again, he moved on quick. “What’s on for tonight?”