“Are you still playing a human?”
She nodded.
No worries. Two vampires, he could handle. And a human St. Croix wouldn’t likely pose a threat. “Can you give me the layout? Your brother never invited me over for dinner.”
She smiled and pulled out a sheet of paper, quickly sketching the floors and rooms. The main floor included several parlors, a study, and a library. The three levels upstairs contained bedrooms and private parlors. Downstairs, her brother had kept a dungeon.
He read that label again. “You’re fucking with me. A dungeon?”
Vin shook his head. “She’s not. He even threatened to put me down there.”
Rosalia’s expression froze. She stared at her son before glancing at Gemma. The younger woman gave a weak smile.
Ah, so Vin wasn’t supposed to know that. Had this happened when he was a kid?
“How long ago?” Deacon asked.
Gemma sat next to Vin. “About a month before Lorenzo made his deal with the demon, and Rosa disappeared.”
Not when he was a kid, but less than two years ago. And after his threat, Acciaioli had gone after Rosalia instead of her son—either trying to get rid of her or make her pay. Deacon looked to Rosalia. “What did you do to him?”
Her lips pressed together and she shook her head.
“It must have been bad for him to retaliate like he did. He risked a bargain with a demon.” Deacon had to grin at that. “You must have scared the shit out of him.”
After a moment of surprise, her son began grinning, too, but Rosalia wasn’t looking. She finished the sketch, then wrote, “Reinforced doors and windows. We’ll make noise getting in.”
“Do we care if we make noise?”
She shook her head, and a long black cloak formed over her shoulders. She slung a crossbow across her back. A long, thin sword appeared in her head. All she needed was a mask, and she’d look like a female version of Zorro.
That sly fox had always been one of Deacon’s favorites.
Vin stood and retrieved a shoulder holster from a locked cabinet. Rosalia gave him another fierce look.
“The trouble is, Mama, you can’t stop me. And I know you’ll stop him from stopping me.” He jerked his head at Deacon.
Judging by her expression, Deacon wasn’t so sure that she’d prevent him from chaining her son to his seat. He raised a brow at her. She seemed to contemplate his offer for a moment before shaking her head.
Vin faced her again. “Your hands are tied if the humans in there do anything. And you need someone to watch your back. So does he.”
Wearing a headset and rolling her chair along the van’s floor, powering up various equipment, Gemma added, “And if something goes wrong between Deacon and St. Croix, the last thing you want is Guardians breathing down your neck, trying to get at the vampire who hurt a human. And they’d love to get at Deacon, wouldn’t they? But the Guardians can’t touch Vin.”
Deacon exchanged a look with Rosalia. The faith these two young people had in them was pitiful. Rosalia rolled her eyes before turning to the other woman and holding out her hand. Gemma gave her a small receiver designed to fit over the ear. She offered another to Deacon.
“If anyone else shows up, I’ll yell,” she said.
They headed out. A tall, wrought-iron fence surrounded the house. Rosalia had called it a monstrosity, and Deacon had to agree with that assessment. Of black stone, it rose in a solid nightmare of Gothic architecture. Towers stabbed the night sky, and the ornamentation around every narrow window and along the roof was so heavy that the building seemed to be folding in on itself. It was nothing like the open warmth of Rosalia’s abbey.
At the side of the property, Rosalia paused and searched the neighboring windows, as if making certain no one could see them. She wrapped her arm around Vin’s waist and they jumped over the high fence with an ease that spoke of practice.
That kid must have had an interesting childhood.
Deacon launched himself over and landed beside them. He took the lead, heading for the access point she’d marked above the front entrance. Columns supported the portico roof. He jumped up to the roof, landing heavily on the sloping surface. A moment later, Rosalia crouched beside him, her grip secure on Vin’s arm. Deacon found the small oval window tucked between two snarling gargoyles.
He glanced through into an empty bedroom. Dust sheets draped the furniture. Putting his ear to the glass, he listened, but couldn’t make out movement or voices from any of the nearby rooms.
Still, there was no reason to bring them running by shattering the window. He drew one of his swords. Irena had crafted the blade with her Gift, and after thirty years, the edge was still as sharp as a diamond-tipped razor. He etched a deep circle in the window near the frame, then thumped the heel of his hand near the cut. The circle popped out and he caught the glass before it fell.
He slipped inside, moved quickly to the door. Rosalia came through, looking around. Her expression was both sad and wary, as if this place didn’t bring back good memories.
It probably wouldn’t bring back good memories for anyone. Acciaioli had stuffed the rooms full of furniture, great looming pieces covered in sheets. All that white should have lightened the place, but it felt heavy and oppressive, as if one more piece would upset the balance and bury a man beneath the weight.
This second level was clear. Quietly, Deacon used the stairs to the main floor. Muffled voices were coming from somewhere, but he couldn’t pinpoint the direction.
A Guardian’s hearing was better than a vampire’s. Rosalia pulled up next to him, pointed at the floor. The dungeon, then. Probably constructed of thick stone, which usually conducted sound well—but if Lorenzo had used it as a real dungeon, he wouldn’t want the screaming and moaning in his living place all the time. Considering how indistinct the voices were, the stone must have been lined with insulation or wood.
She gestured to another room—the library, where they’d find the stairs to the dungeon. Bare shelves lined the walls. Either Rosalia had sold the collection of books, or Acciaioli hadn’t been much of a reader.
Someone had been using this room. The chair and desk had been uncovered, revealing ornate carvings in the dark wood, as overwrought as the rest of the house.
Rosalia moved quickly to the stairwell door, calling in a second sword. Deacon heard the footsteps a second later—someone climbing the stairs. One person. Gun drawn, Vin stopped next to Rosalia, just behind her shoulder. Deacon flanked the other side of the door. When it opened, Rosalia and Vin would be behind it. Deacon would be the first person he saw.
It was a human—St. Croix. The man’s baby blues had barely widened before Deacon’s hand closed around his throat, cutting off any call for help. Rosalia shut the door.
To his credit, the man didn’t struggle. Vin quickly moved to Deacon’s side and patted St. Croix down, coming away with two semiautomatic pistols. Tucking them behind his waistband, he returned to the door. Rosalia moved to the opposite side. If the vampires came through, she could deal with them.
Deacon tossed St. Croix into the chair by the desk. “You’ve got three words to explain why there’s a human tied up downstairs, and why I shouldn’t rip your throat out for it.”
St. Croix rubbed at his neck, where the marks from Deacon’s fingers were still vivid. His psychic scent radiated anger, but not a bit of it showed on his face. A cold bastard. “He’s not human.”
“Try again.”
“He killed vampires in London.”
“He killed vampires, but he can’t break out of restraints?”
“Apparently not. We’ve chained him, put him behind those thick bars. That’ll keep even one of them.” A London accent clipped St. Croix’s words. Not a lofty one, despite the self-satisfaction that bled through the anger. “And once he’s in a cage, we won’t have to keep pumping him full of the damned vampire blood.”
Deacon’s veins ran cold. He glanced back at Rosalia, at her wide eyes and suddenl
y pale face. She’d come to the same conclusion: St. Croix hadn’t caught a human. He had one of the nephilim.
Vampire blood weakened the creatures, made it revert to the human form it possessed. Though that form wasn’t as weak as a human, a vampire could defeat a nephil before it shape-shifted. But once it shifted into its demonic form, even a Guardian wasn’t as strong.
Icy sweat broke out over his skin. Jesus Christ, anyone in this house who wasn’t human was in serious trouble. “Are you still pumping the blood into him?”
If yes, they had a chance. Rosalia could get down there and kill the nephil before it shifted.
St. Croix shook his head. “Now that he’s in chains, they took the IV line out—”
Rosalia flung open the door. To save the vampires, Deacon guessed.
Too late. Before she could take another step, a scream ripped up the stairs and was cut short by the wet sound of tearing flesh.
Her swords at the ready, Rosalia backed away from the open door. She glanced over her shoulder at Deacon, then lifted her sword to point at the front of the house.
Her message was clear: Get the hell out of here.
Not a chance. Deacon knew she was staying on the thin possibility that the second vampire was still alive downstairs, and to slow the nephil down if it came up and went after him. Nephilim had a hard-on for killing vampires, but they’d also slay a Guardian to get to one. He wouldn’t let her stand in the way to save him. They were going to beat this fucker.
Her eyes turned pleading. She tilted her head toward Vin, standing at the edge of the open door, then pointed at the entrance again.
Not asking Deacon to save her son. A nephilim couldn’t hurt a human. She was begging him to take Vin outside so that her son wouldn’t see her die.
Goddammit. No one was dying here. He started for her, drawing his swords.
Before he could take two steps, the nephil filled the doorway. Huge, with red skin and feathered black wings that arched behind the height of the door frame, he held two swords, the blades already bloodied. His eyes glowed crimson.
Deacon saw Rosalia’s muscles tighten in preparation. An instant later, she was nothing but a dark blur of movement, so fast he couldn’t track her. They fought in a whirlwind of crimson and black at the head of the stairs. He heard the clash of metal. A broken sword flew across the room—Rosalia’s. Then everything seemed to slow as she skidded backward.
She’d slipped on her blood.
Her stomach lay open.
Deacon had barely been able to run two more steps in that time. She’d be dead before he could cross half the room.
Eight steps away.
She called in another sword. The nephil laughed—laughed, the fucking bastard, as if her determination amused him.
Good. The more the nephil dicked around, the more time he gave Deacon.
And enough time for Vin to register what was happening. Then her son was moving, too. Already standing next to the door, he only needed to take one step. One human step.
An eternity.
But Deacon was just six steps away.
The nephil played with Rosalia again. Their blades rang in a furious cacophony of steel. Blood spattered the walls—all hers. She lost another sword. The nephil caught her arm, wrenched it backward. Deacon heard her bones snap.
Just two more fucking steps.
The nephil saw Deacon was almost on him and slapped her away. Rosalia crashed into wall, her crossbow splintering. The nephilim turn to Deacon and grinned, exposing long fangs.
Deacon braced himself. The creature liked to toy with his prey. Fine.
Anything that gave them a little more time.
The nephil’s swords sliced the air. Deacon felt his skin open, the slide of his blood. The blades had been so sharp and quick he hadn’t felt any pain. Not yet.
Rosalia cried out. She’d staggered to her feet. The nephil drew his hand back—he wasn’t fucking around with Deacon anymore. Not with a Guardian headed his way. The nephil stabbed his blade toward Deacon’s heart.
At the last moment, Deacon pivoted to the side. The nephil’s sword sliced deeply across his chest.
Vin’s hand closed around the creature’s crimson wrist.
The nephil froze. They only had an instant. That was enough.
Deacon brought his sword around, up through the nephil’s heart. Rosalia leapt, striking the back of its neck. The nephil’s head flew. Rosalia whipped around. Her boot smashed into its chest, sending the body flying back to crack against the wall.
Deacon’s senses swam, the room spinning dizzily. His legs wouldn’t hold. He sat before he collapsed into a heap.
Rosalia dropped to her knees beside him. She held her arm at an awkward angle, her gut still bleeding.
Her face blurred in front of him. His head felt light, empty. He looked down. Oh, Christ. He’d been butchered. His blood was everywhere, pumping from gashes in his chest, his thighs. The nephil had sliced his arteries open—not in one place, but several. His blood pooled on the parquet floor, spreading slowly outward, almost touching Rosalia’s knees.
Bleeding out weakened a vampire, slowed the healing—and if Deacon lost all of his blood, it’d kill him. He needed to feed, and soon.
Vin crouched next to Rosalia, his hand gently cupping her face. “Mama?”
She held his palm to her cheek, then glanced over her shoulder. Deacon couldn’t read the look she gave her son, but Vin apparently did. He nodded and stood.
The softness left his face as he turned toward St. Croix. “Let’s check on your people.”
They’d heard only one scream. Maybe the other vampire had made it.
Deacon didn’t think there was much hope of that.
Rosalia watched Vin escort St. Croix to the stairs. As soon as her son was out of sight, she clenched her teeth and gripped the wrist of her twisted arm in her opposite hand. She yanked it straight, then curled over, as if stifling a scream. She sat motionless for a few moments, her good arm wrapped around herself, before looking up and meeting Deacon’s eyes.
Her gaze turned to worry. Reaching out to him, she touched his neck, where two more cuts spilled blood onto the floor. The slices had been long and deep, and he wasn’t healing fast enough.
A plastic bag appeared in her hand—empty. She wouldn’t receive more blood until tomorrow, he remembered. The scent rose all around them, dark and luscious. He stopped breathing.
Determination set her face. She pointed to her neck.
Deacon laughed, though he could barely manage it. His vow not to drink from her wasn’t so easy to keep now. “No chance, sister.”
His voice sounded wet. He felt blood dripping down the back of his throat and coughed it up.
Her expression turned fierce. Grabbing his shirt, she hauled him closer.
He pulled back. Drinking from her was a risk he wouldn’t take. When he was this hungry, when he needed to feed this badly, the bloodlust would roar. One taste, and he’d lose control, fucking her in a lake of their blood. She’d have to fight him off with a broken arm and her gut split open.
He didn’t need living blood for strength. Any blood would do. So he had two choices: lick it up from the floor, or drink from the dead nephil.
At least the nephil was still warm.
“Not from you,” he told her.
Her hand dropped away. Her expression registered disbelief as he turned toward the nephil. A worried noise sounded from high in her throat.
He paused. A vampire’s blood weakened a nephil. Would a nephil’s blood harm a vampire? “Will it kill me?”
She lifted her hand, a clear gesture saying she didn’t know, before pointing at her neck again. Her eyes pled with him.
He’d had nosferatu blood before, and he’d taken demon blood. Neither had hurt. One had made him stronger. And even if the nephil blood did kill him, the alternative was unthinkable. Just the image of an injured Rosalia struggling under him while he was an animal at her throat, forcing her thighs open and
stabbing into her . . .
He shook the image away, feeling sick. No question. He’d risk death.
He lifted the nephil’s wrist to his fangs. He pierced the skin and sucked until the lifeless blood flowed over his tongue. Tasteless, just like dead blood, but strong—stronger than a demon’s. Already, the lightness in his head began to clear.
Rosalia’s face became an unreadable mask, her eyes devoid of emotion. The blood pooled around them vanished. A clean change of clothes dropped to the floor beside him.
She struggled to her feet, looking away from him as if she couldn’t bear to watch, and limped toward the stairs.
The bowels of Lorenzo’s home were fashioned of crudely worked iron and dark wood. Centuries of blood had soaked the dirt floor, drying as hard as concrete. The air still smelled faintly of rot.
Rosalia had known both vampires. Sally Barrows and Gerald Winn had once been part of the London community, but they’d gone off her radar about three years before, only showing up as blips here and there. Strong and clever vampires, passionate about protecting each other and enforcing the community rules, she’d pegged them as future heads of their own group of vampires. That wouldn’t happen now.
After the nephil had broken free, he’d released his anger here. Sally had been slammed into the cell bars with such force that the iron had cut her into narrow strips. Gerald’s neck was a ragged stump, his limbs ripped off.
Vin and St. Croix were laying Sally next to Gerald when Rosalia came downstairs. St. Croix crouched beside the ravaged bodies, his face without expression. His psychic scent, anger layered over grief, gave him away. He felt these murders deeply. So deeply that although his mental shields were strong, he couldn’t conceal his emotions.
Hopefully, his lies would be just as easy to read when she questioned him.
Though her lungs had pieced back together and filled with air, they still felt too tender to speak. She should wait another five or ten minutes. She could let Vin handle it. He knew everything she’d want to ask, and was capable of handling an interrogation.
But she needed it to distract her from the pain in her arm, her stomach—and her heart. Deacon had risked the nephil’s blood rather than drink from her. She should have stopped him, but his decision had felt like another blow from the nephil’s fist, and she’d been too stunned to react. Then it had been too late. He’d taken the blood—and now, only her relief that she could hear him moving upstairs, putting on his clothes, was stronger than the ache of his rejection.
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