Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

  The elevator held four other people. Rosalia barely saw them on the long ride down. Only felt Deacon beside her, his palm pressed into the small of her back to conceal the blood-stained cloth.

  Outside, an evening breeze carried the salty tang of the sea. When they’d flown in from Rome, Rosalia had chosen a secluded spot to land, but now she headed toward the still-crowded beach and its softly rolling surf that lay just outside the hotel. As her boots sank into the sand, she turned to Deacon.

  “Can you swim?” How strange that she’d watched him for ninety years and didn’t know.

  “I can.” The moonlight glinted against the white of his quick grin. “Is this how we’ll return to Rome?”

  “Only part of the way,” she said, already headed across the beach, where warm water and gentle waves foamed against the shore. “We just have to swim toward the moon.”

  She stripped off as she walked, letting her clothes lay where they fell. Within a few hours, they’d disappear—Guardian-created garments eventually vanished if they weren’t worn. Clad only in her panties and bra, both dark enough to pass for a bikini, she stepped into the water.

  “Rosie.”

  She turned, a small breaker crashing against her calves. Deacon stood on the wet sand, his boots in his hand—but still dressed.

  “Your swords?” she guessed. Removing his jacket would expose his weapons to the humans. “I need permission to vanish them. And the rest of your clothes, too.”

  “You have it.”

  Leaving the warm water for the cool sand, she returned to him. She watched his gaze slide from her eyes to tips of her breasts, hardened beneath silk. She stepped closer, until only a small space separated their bodies.

  “Bring your boots in between us, so that no one can see them disappear.”

  He did, and she vanished them along with his swords. His gaze focused on her lips. “My jacket?”

  “Shouldn’t just vanish,” she told him. Slipping her fingers beneath the collar, she pushed it back over his shoulders, down his arms, letting her palms linger over heavy muscles. She brought the jacket between them and vanished it into her cache, then reached for his shirt.

  Deacon caught her wrists before she touched a single button. He stared at her for a breathless moment, then slowly pushed her hands back down to rest at her thighs.

  She tried not to feel disappointment, and failed. “No swim?”

  “No taking anything else off, or this crowd will get an eyeful.”

  His hands slid around to cup her bottom, lifting her against him. Beneath his trousers, his erection rose like a thick steel pipe. Rosalia’s lips parted, her heart hammering.

  His voice deepened. “Wrap your legs around me, Rosie.”

  She did, her thighs ringing a muscled abdomen as hard as rock. Her arms circled his neck. He began to walk, his arousal nudging her core with every step. Seawater splashed around his feet, then his knees. When the swirling water swept around the underside of her thighs, tickling the edges of her panties, he dove and took them both under.

  The world filled in with a dark rush, stinging her eyes. His mouth found hers, a salty heaven. She tasted him, took him. Kissing him was a pleasure unlike any other she’d known, a twisting ecstasy within her that seemed to break for the surface and dive in deep. He kicked at the water, and then they were arrowing forward beneath the waves, following the path of the moonlight.

  His hand slipped between her thighs, where she was as wet as the ocean, and she wondered if he knew that the wetness was her and not the sea. Then his kiss deepened, as if he sought her flavor, and his fingers brushed and teased her sex before withdrawing and leaving her aching.

  After a few minutes, he stopped kicking, and they drifted. Rosalia pulled back. Deacon’s face was in shadow, his green eyes dark. His shirt collar floated up against his neck, the points touching his jaw. She smoothed it back down.

  His slow grin appeared. His eyes seemed to challenge her. Flipping his collar up again, he cocked a brow.

  Her laugh bubbled out on her last bit of air. She knew Deacon, but not like this. She enjoyed this side of him: hungry, playful.

  And it was difficult not to straighten that collar.

  Kicking away from him, she crossed her arms and tucked her hands into her elbows. She hoped her smile looked smug; it wasn’t an expression she had reason to use often. He began to circle her, swimming close, keeping her off balance and turning in the water, a shark after his prey.

  Two could play that game. With a back somersault to help her gain momentum, she kicked for the surface. She swept her arms down just before she broke through, a powerful stroke that brought her fully out of the water. Monte Carlo glittered in the distance; they’d come too far for anyone to see her. She formed her wings, flew high, and waited.

  Below, Deacon’s dark head broke the surface of the waves—looking up, but in the wrong direction. Rosalia tucked her wings against her back and dove.

  The wind twisted her hair into a wet whip. She timed her speed against the swell of a wave. It lifted just as he turned her direction. She swooped, sliding her hands beneath Deacon’s arms and scooping him up.

  He shouted a curse, shedding water. Rosalia couldn’t stop her wild laughter. She hauled him up, caught her arm beneath his legs, and brought him against her chest. There was no way to carry a man as large as Deacon that wasn’t awkward or that produced too much drag, but they’d managed the flight here with him cradled against her.

  When she banked southwest, he asked, “Back to Rome, then?”

  Eventually, yes. “We can go slowly.”

  She caught his smile from the corner of her eye, was aware of him watching her face. A strange anticipation filled her, her heart at once heavy and light—half dread, half hope. Dread that she’d fail at this, too. Hope that they could begin to build something.

  She vanished the water from his clothes. Her skin had dried, and she created new trousers, a shirt, and boots. Deacon made a disappointed sound.

  When her laughter ended, she searched for something to say. On the journey to Monaco, they’d discussed his upcoming fight and the personalities of the vampires within the community. Now . . . Lord, she’d imagined conversations with him so many times. Never had they been fraught with this nervousness. Every topic seemed too trivial and too important.

  Deacon had no such trouble. “Your son says you have a file—a story—on every vampire in Europe.”

  And she overcompensated. Lovely. “He said entirely too much.”

  “Is he usually that indiscreet?”

  “No. But he knows you’re different from other visitors.” Now she had said too much. She saw Deacon’s frown and hurried to add, “So you want to know what story I have for you?”

  “I know mine. I want to know yours.”

  That shook her. He was the only one who’d ever asked hers. She’d told it before. But no one else had ever cared to ask.

  “Wrong question?”

  Her reaction must have shown. She shook her head. “No. It’s just not a question I’m accustomed to hearing.” When his brows rose, as if he doubted that, she explained, “I’m not out much—not as myself. And I make a point of not drawing attention. So no one cares to ask.”

  “I’m asking. But you’re evading.”

  “I’m not evading.” He’d cared to ask. That hope in her heart grew steadily higher, lighter. “I’m formulating.”

  “A long version or a summary?”

  She laughed. “The summary is easy: The girl who believed that good always won learned differently.”

  Surprised by her own answer, she fell silent. That response had come out of nowhere.

  Deacon regarded her with a hint of a smile. “Considering this path we’re on, Rosie, one of us needs to be thinking that good will win out.”

  “It can’t be you?”

  “I got that beaten out of me,” he said. “But there must be some of that left in you, if you’re going this way.”

  She shoo
k her head. “I don’t just believe anymore that it’ll turn out right. The only way it will is if I do something. So I’m doing.”

  He stared at her. “It’s a shame you’ve been hiding so long, Rosie.”

  “Because everyone could have used me doing before, instead of just believing?” She glanced down, where the moonlight painted a bleak stripe on the dark water. “I know.”

  “And you’re still evading.”

  She tried to smile. “The long version?”

  “We have time?”

  She gauged her speed. Not enough time for all of it. “Probably not before we reach Rome.”

  “Do you have another demon lined up after that?”

  “I’ll remember that you want two a night,” she said dryly. “Tonight, though, I have to take over for Vin and Gemma.”

  Vincente was convinced that St. Croix was human. Rosalia needed to determine for certain whether he was Malkvial, so that they could either take the next step or move on to another possibility.

  And she needed to check in on them. “I’m bringing my phone out of my cache into your hand. Will you look for a message?”

  The white glow from the phone illuminated the sudden tension in his expression.

  “What is it?”

  Deacon read, “ ‘Target stopped at Lorenzo’s place.’ ”

  A chill rippled over her skin. That couldn’t be a coincidence. “When did he send that?”

  “Four minutes ago. Tell me what that means, Rosie.”

  She shook her head, trying to think. “I don’t know. I sold it a month ago—Lorenzo’s house, and everything inside. That monstrosity. It was just . . . I didn’t want to see it again, think of it again. And I couldn’t believe that anyone bought it. But they did.”

  “Who?”

  “A property developer.”

  “Not St. Croix?”

  Heaviness settled into her stomach. “Not him, personally. Perhaps one of his hold—” Another alert sounding on her phone interrupted her. “Did he text more?”

  Deacon’s face told her it was bad. “St. Croix has vampires with him.”

  “How many?”

  “At least two.” He read more from the screen. “And a human, restrained.”

  Had the vampires crossed the line and broken the Rules? If so, they might hurt her son. They might hurt Gemma. And she needed to be in Rome, now. “Tell him to retreat. We’ll arrive in a—”

  A small figure appeared in front of them. Steel glinted in her hands. A dark psychic scent swamped Rosalia’s mind. She barely had time to register the black feathered wings, the drawn face, and the empty obsidian eyes before Taylor swung at Deacon’s head.

  Rosalia rolled, folding her wings forward to conceal him. She caught Taylor’s strike through her back. Icy steel sliced between her ribs, through her lungs.

  Blood erupted into her mouth. Pain ripped through her chest in a hot wave. Rosalia fought past it. One strike couldn’t kill her. She just needed to slow Taylor down until the other Guardian regained control. Taylor drew her hand back for another swing.

  Still rolling forward, Rosalia slashed out with her foot. Her heel caught Taylor’s throat, ripping it wide in a spray of blood.

  Holding Deacon tight, she dove. She wrapped her Gift around them, a cocoon of shadow and silence. Gathering the night, Rosalia built it into a massive black wall, and hid within its depths.

  Taylor hovered in the sky, searching for them.

  Rosalia took a second to look at Deacon. His face was taut, his voice burning with frustration.

  “Drop me,” he growled.

  She shook her head.

  “Michael’s after me, Rosie. You get out of here.”

  Taylor moved closer to the deep wall of shadows. From outside, it would appear perfectly black and solid, but it was no more substantial than air. Even if she flew into its depths, however, she wouldn’t see them within it.

  “You can’t defend yourself if you’re holding me.” As Taylor moved closer, Deacon’s muscles tensed, rigid beneath her fingers. “And I can’t fight.”

  She knew. Oh, God, how she knew. She’d taken that ability from him by deciding to fly to Monaco. She’d rendered him helpless because she’d wanted to hold onto him.

  Taylor flew past them along the plane of the wall, less than ten feet away.

  Deacon stared after her in disbelief. “She can’t hear us? Our heartbeats?”

  Rosalia shook her head again.

  “She’ll smell your blood and come for you.”

  Maybe. She had Michael’s instincts but not his knowledge. Even now, she only searched with her eyes, not her other senses.

  Still, Rosalia wasn’t taking any chances. She vanished the blood as soon as it left her body—but she couldn’t stop the scent from surrounding them. A breeze the wrong way would reveal their position, and she had to wait until the wound sealed before using her Gift to take them away. She couldn’t now. Her blood would leave a physical trail behind them.

  Taylor passed into the shadow. Her confusion swirled against Rosalia’s mind, a dark miasma of uncontrolled emotion.

  Deacon’s anger and tension increased. Though he was shielded, she could almost feel how much he hated himself for being in this position, but it was her fault. She’d chosen to travel this way, for no reason other than having an opportunity to keep him close. She hadn’t needed the cover of his scent, and the expense of a chartered plane was nothing to her. Now he couldn’t defend himself.

  She’d been just as bad as a demon: arrogant and careless. She’d taken risks she shouldn’t have. She’d had to use her Gift . . . and it was just pure luck that they were over the sea when Taylor had hit them, and no one was nearby to sense it.

  Deacon’s hand sought her ribs. When he drew his palm back, his skin was red with her blood.

  “Is this why you’re so quiet?” The gravel in his voice had roughened.

  The blade had passed through her lungs. She wouldn’t be able to talk for several minutes. Not until she healed.

  Her nod made him swear. Helpless, she stared at Taylor. Then, recalling herself, she gestured for the phone.

  Awkwardly, she moved Deacon around, holding him against her side. With one hand, she texted Vin, telling him to retreat and wait. Soon, she’d use her Gift to arrive close to Rome, but she couldn’t push into the city. She couldn’t risk the vampires panicking and killing the human if they felt her coming.

  It wouldn’t be long. Her wound would seal in another minute or two, and they’d be able to go without leaving a blood trail. Her insides wouldn’t have healed—but she didn’t need to breathe, anyway.

  She put in another message, but not to send. She showed the screen to Deacon.

  I shouldn’t have chosen flying like this. Our movements are restricted. I knew better.

  “Then why take that chance, sister?”

  His anger felt like another slice through her chest. But she’d risked his life, and he deserved an explanation, one that didn’t use an excuse like needing his scent to fool the vampires. A true explanation, with a reason that came from the heart of her.

  I wanted to hold on to you. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.

  His jaw tightened. “Fuck.”

  Her vision blurred. But she couldn’t cry, not while watching Taylor. She vanished the moisture in her eyes.

  Taylor’s sword hadn’t touched her heart. Yet it still managed to ache worse than the injury.

  CHAPTER 13

  This was a first-class example of overcompensation. Here she was, beating up on herself, when he was the reason Michael was after them.

  Christ, she’d gotten a sword stabbed through her chest while protecting him. She shouldn’t be apologizing for anything.

  Rosalia looked at him. This whole time, she hadn’t opened her mouth, as if she was afraid of blood pouring out. Now she nodded, and he realized the scent of blood that had surrounded them had faded. Her wound had healed—at least on the surface.

  The shadowy ve
il around them thickened into an impenetrable darkness. He couldn’t see her—couldn’t see anything. Then it pulled out from around him, like coming out of a sticky vat of tar. His stomach dropped in a brief sensation of free fall, then her wings pumped and water rushed into the shoreline beneath him. Then they were over land—fields and groves and communities passing in a blur.

  Christ. He hadn’t known how fast she could fly when she put effort into it. Within minutes, Rome lay beneath them, and they were diving. His fingers clenched involuntarily on her arm, then she swooped and settled on the ground next to the van. She vanished her wings and set him down, but he still felt like he was dropping, his head spinning.

  And he’d kill himself before admitting that.

  The van’s side door slid opened to the sound of Gemma retching into a waste bin. Rosalia patted her shoulder as she stepped into the vehicle. She stopped by Vin’s chair and made a single gesture at her throat.

  “You can’t talk?” Vin turned to Deacon, standing in the open door. “What happened?”

  Rosalia cut him off with another gesture. She poked at the infrared screen, her expression fierce.

  Vin got the message. The human mattered now. “We tracked St. Croix here. He went in. A few minutes later, the Davanzatis show up.”

  “Davanzatis?”

  “Vampires,” Vin answered Deacon, then turned to Rosalia again. “They drive into the garage and wheel out the human, strapped to a gurney. He’s got an IV dripping blood.”

  “And it’s not someone just using it to heal?” Deacon asked. A transfusion of vampire blood could speed healing—or, in the case of terminal illness, strengthen the recipient.

  “This guy was struggling. Damn hard. He broke from the restraints once—just his arm—and St. Croix strapped him back in. They registered the same temp.”

  So that proved St. Croix wasn’t a demon. A demon couldn’t hold a human down, not without breaking the Rules and calling in one of the nephilim to slay him.

  “Now where are they?”

  “They’re too deep in the house, and the stone walls are too thick. I can’t get a reading.”

  Rosalia looked to Deacon. The question in her eyes was clear: Was he ready to go in?