Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

  “Perhaps I protected you from this part of my life too well.”

  With a hollow laugh, he turned to face her. “Do you think so? Instead of the Guardian fairy tale, you should have given us the version where you have a spike shoved through your brain while nosferatu feed from your neck. The version where a nephil butchers you until you’re sitting in a pool of your own blood.”

  She couldn’t argue. She’d hoped that he would never see it, that the violence in her life wouldn’t touch him—but by protecting him from that, she’d left him vulnerable. “I should have prepared you.”

  That is, if anything in the world could prepare a son to see his mother broken and bleeding. She didn’t know if it was possible. Nothing could prepare her if she ever saw Vincente that way.

  He looked ready to contradict her before closing his mouth. He pushed his hand through his hair again. “Pasquale wouldn’t have been so quick to throw himself on a murderer’s knife if he’d known what being a Guardian really was.”

  Sweet, dreamy Pasquale. “Perhaps. But he was a brave boy, Vincente. He might have tried to save that woman’s life even if he’d never heard of the Guardians.”

  Grief tightened his face, closed his eyes. She wanted to reach out to him, but he held himself so far away, she knew he wouldn’t welcome it. That he’d step back from her. For all of his emotional strength, grief knocked his legs from under him—and she didn’t know how to make that easier.

  And she didn’t know if making it easier for him merely made his inability to handle it worse. She could only try to reassure him as best she could.

  “You probably imagine that this happens to me often—but it does not. In all my three hundred years, last night was the worst it has ever been. And even though I wish that you hadn’t seen it, I thank God you were there, and that you knew how to stop him.” She sighed. “But I am also sorry, because it means that I have failed you, and turned around what should be: A child should never have to protect his parent.”

  “Mama . . .” He shook his head. “You’re a Guardian. ‘Should be’ has been flipped around from the day I was brought here. Nothing is as it should be. And it will always be turned around.” He looked at her, and the pain in his eyes was so similar to when he had looked at her ten years ago, just before he’d left. “When I came back I found Gemma, and now the baby—and I thank God every day for that. But Mama, you and me . . . Sometimes I think it would be easier for both of us if I’d stayed away.”

  The knife in her heart twisted. “I do not think it would be easier. And I know it would not be better.”

  As if he had nothing left to say, Vin only shook his head again and turned away. She watched him climb the stairs to Gemma’s room. When the door closed behind him, she looked at the sunlight sparkling in the fountain, and tried to lift her head.

  Deacon could feel her out there. Desperation had been weighing on her—now there was just pain. Like a dirge, howling through her soul.

  He was going to kill that thoughtless fuck she called a son. Force the selfish little bastard to have it out with her, whatever his problem was, not flay her like this, piece by piece.

  But he was trapped in here. His blood pumping rage and frustration, Deacon stalked between the War Room and the bedchamber. He couldn’t go to her. He would have, not caring if the sun blinded and burned him, but that would only add to the weight she bore. God, he wanted to bear it for her. He needed to bear it for her.

  But he couldn’t bear this, waiting and listening as she drowned in hurt. He stopped in the door to the bedchamber.

  “Rosie,” he said.

  She came. He felt her shields thicken, muffling the howling pain, burying it under layers of mental steel. By the time she appeared in the doorway, he only sensed the concern that softened her gorgeous brown eyes.

  “Deacon? Is everything all—”

  She broke off as his hands came up, cradling her jaw. She stared up at him, and he tried to remember what he’d intended to say. But now he touched her, and he could only think that her bones felt so fragile . . . her lips so soft. His thumbs swept across her cheekbones, searching the beautiful shape of her face.

  “I need this,” he realized.

  Her brow pleated, her concern deepening. “Tell me.”

  Show her.

  He claimed her mouth. His tongue thrust past her lips, seeking her response. She stiffened in surprise before her hands clutched at his shoulders. He shut the door and steered her back against it, lifted her, ripping her panties away. Unzipping, he lodged the head of his cock against her moist entrance. He waited for a protest. When it didn’t come, he pushed into her tight channel.

  She wasn’t ready. Tension gripped her, and when she began to lift away he remembered what he’d meant to say.

  “I’ve got you, Rosie. Just let me catch you. Let me take it all.”

  Her head dropped back and she gasped, breathed deep like a swimmer coming up for air. Then she was snug and slick around him, sheathing his length with the wetness he loved, the smoldering heat.

  “Wrap your legs around me—Fuck yes, just like that.” He almost lost his mind when her thighs tightened around him, drew him farther inside. Shaking, he dropped his forehead against hers. “Hold on, princess.”

  It had to be hard. He drove deep so that she could feel his strength. He kept his fangs from her throat only to keep his promise. Her body bucked against his, riding him. Tears rolled over her cheeks, wet her lips. Then she was trembling in his hands, her thighs squeezing his sides, her pussy clenching around his cock, so tight. She buried her face in his neck, crying out in agonized pleasure.

  He’d helped her take the edge off—but it wasn’t enough for either of them.

  Her soft lips searched his jaw. Still buried deep inside her lush warmth, he carried her to the open shower in the far corner of the chamber.

  “Vanish our clothes, Rosie.”

  The fabric separating them disappeared. He stepped beneath the hot spray, feeling the burn that drew his skin tight.

  She lifted her head, met his gaze. “Is this what it will be, then? I did not follow your orders when I left this morning. But you know that when you have me here, naked, I will do as you say.” Her fingers pushed the wet hair out of her eyes. “When I haven’t obeyed your directions, will you always have me against the wall when I return, with commands to follow?”

  Don’t touch me. God, how that had shaken him—more than the crossbow she’d aimed at his heart. After the sweetness of her bed, the control and trust she’d offered him, her rejection had been a punch to his gut. Now he was shaken again, realizing what she’d meant: She had difficulty saying no to him when he touched her.

  Did she hate that?

  He couldn’t. And he realized that he’d done exactly as she’d said: He’d pushed her against the door and asked for control again. Taken control—because it came with her trust. And he’d needed that as badly as he needed to ease her burden.

  But although the answer might frighten her, he couldn’t lie. “Yes,” he said. “It will always be this way.”

  She smiled. “Good.”

  Astonished by her response, he didn’t stop her from sliding off. With her hands on his shoulders she turned him about, so that the scalding spray hit her back instead of his. Her fingers traced his biceps, and her gaze drifted over his stomach, lingering on his thick arousal.

  She looked up. “You’ve had me kiss you. But you’ve never told me to put my mouth anywhere else.”

  Need surged through him. His cock throbbed painfully at the thought of her mouth, her lips . . . Jesus Christ. No, he’d never asked. He’d been thinking of her pleasure, not his. But the look in her eyes said the pleasure would be hers. That she wanted it as badly as he did.

  Hunger roughened his voice. “On your knees, Rosie.”

  She sank down on the marble tile. The shower spray cascaded over her head, leaving her hair slick as sable. Water rushed over her face, dripped from her erect nipples. She stared at h
is arousal, as if imagining what came next. She circled her lips with a luscious stroke of her tongue.

  God. Anticipation gripped him hard, like a fist around his shaft. If he’d been human, he’d have come. The sight of her tongue sent shudders through him. He braced his hands against the shower wall, palms flat against cream tile. His cock had never felt so heavy.

  “Taste me.”

  Opening her mouth, she stretched forward. Her tongue found and circled the thick head of his shaft. So hot. Deacon gritted his teeth, his stomach flexing as he fought not to thrust. His cock bobbed against her mouth. As if to steady it, she sucked the tip between her lush lips. His eyes rolled back.

  Christ help him. He was supposed to hold on to his control through this?

  Her tongue circled and stroked, a lick of flame against his skin. Fire swept through him, burning away his mind. He groaned another command—Deeper—and her hands came up, her nails sinking into his flanks, pulling him toward her. Heat slid down his cock. He looked at her and almost lost it.

  She was staring straight up at his face, thick lashes spiked around eyes glowing like the sun—watching his reaction as her mouth slowly destroyed him. Her hair lay in a wet curtain over her breasts, with beaded nipples peeking through. Water streamed over her belly, running in rivulets to the slit between her thighs. Her arousal melted against his psychic shields like hot syrup.

  Fisting his hands against the tile, he battled for control, his labored breaths sounding like a choked-up steam engine. Control. Jesus, who was he kidding? She might be following his lead, taking direction—but there was no question who had more power here.

  Did she even know the hold she had over him?

  She took him deeper, her fingers digging into his ass, her eyes slowly closing as she drew harder on the length of his shaft. The suction seared up his spine. Need pounded through his cock. His fangs ached for the taste of blood, with the need to come. He needed to be inside her.

  “No more, Rosie.”

  He groaned as her mouth released him. The shower’s hot spray battered his stomach, his cock, painful against his sensitized shaft. She looked up, her eyelids heavy and irises glowing with her arousal, her lips swollen. He had to take her. Now.

  Catching her around the waist, he hauled her up, slammed his back against the tile, and shoved her over him. Her sex closed around him like a silken fist. Her nails clawed his shoulders. The scent of his blood exploded through his senses, making his head swim. God, she was losing her control. Knowing that almost destroyed his. He hefted her knees higher, forcing himself deeper. She clutched at his arms for balance.

  Her spine abruptly straightened. Her eyes widened with horror, trained on the marks of her nails.

  He palmed the back of her head, brought her lips to his. “I love being inside you. So rip me up, Rosie. Let me know you love it, too.”

  The way she kissed him, her mouth open and hungry, said that she did. He pumped deep, holding her still for each of his thrusts, until she was writhing and crying against his chest, her hips working in ragged circles. When she stiffened, began to come, he buried his face in her neck, stabbed his tongue against his fangs. Blood flooded his mouth, shot through him like an electric shock. He surged up, shook through his release.

  Slowly, he came back down. His legs wouldn’t hold. He slid to the wet marble floor, Rosalia limp against him. Her eyes were glazed, their glow fading. The water ran cold. Neither made a move to turn it off.

  “Christ, Rosie. What you did to me.”

  “Just following orders,” she mumbled against his shoulder.

  Though completely wrung, he managed to laugh. “You took revenge for this morning.”

  “Not revenge. Therapy. Really good therapy.”

  For him or for her? He didn’t ask. Lifting her up, he headed for the bed.

  Now it was time to savor her.

  She felt wonderful.

  Rosalia didn’t know how. Deacon was the source of so much turmoil within her. But the simple truth was . . . she loved being with him. Loved lying against his shoulder as she lazily explored the ridges of his muscles with her fingertips. Loved the deep sound of his heartbeat when she pressed her ear to his chest. Loved that the heat of her body and his sweat had strengthened his scent, until hers was a faint undertone.

  He lay at ease beside her, his thumb traveling up and down the length of her spine. His eyes were closed, as if he was resting, and a faint smile softened the corners of his mouth.

  She wouldn’t let herself hope this would last. But for now, for this moment, everything was perfect. It was everything she’d imagined.

  Her fingers passed over a long, thin scar above his pectoral. Oh, how she remembered that fight. Another boxer had taken a grudge into the ring. Only a few seconds after the opening bell, the boxer had pulled out a razor hidden in his boot. Horrified, Rosalia had jumped to her feet, yelling out a warning that was lost amid the shouts of the crowd, and the man had lunged forward and slashed Deacon open. Deacon had simply looked down at his bleeding chest, then hammered a knockout blow to the bastard’s jaw.

  Though no one would have blamed him if he’d taken it further, he’d stopped after that one hit. She’d admired him for that—his control, his restraint. He’d done what he’d needed to do, and left it there.

  A sigh escaped her. She had things that needed to be done, too.

  His eyes opened. “Does that sigh mean you’re getting up?”

  “Yes.” She sat up, letting the sheet fall to her waist. When Deacon’s gaze fell, too, she smiled and brushed her hair back over her shoulders, giving him a better view. “How long has Taylor been here?”

  “About three hours.”

  “Did you have any problems?”

  “No. I didn’t see her. I only felt her.”

  “Felt her? Can you now?”

  “Yes. Though she’s quieter now than when she showed up.”

  Quieter? Without reaching out, Rosalia couldn’t sense the new Doyen at all. Either Deacon had been performing strong psychic sweeps—a dangerous move, as it might alert anyone to his presence—or he’d become more sensitive. “Are your psychic senses stronger?”

  “It’s different.” His came up on his elbows, his gaze still leveled on her chest. “There’s noise mixed in.”

  How strange. Most of the time, emotions manifested as a taste, a smell, or a physical sensation. Rosalia only knew of a few Guardians and vampires who’d ever registered emotions as sound.

  “Does it interfere with your hearing?”

  He tapped his temple. “It’s all inside, just like before: You feel it, but you know what you’re feeling isn’t yours—that it’s just in your head. Same with this. I’m hearing the sound, but I’m not hearing it. And I’ve still got what I had before, backing it up.”

  Relief slipped through her. He wouldn’t have to adjust to a completely new way of using his psychic senses when he fought the demons. “Are you disoriented?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll be faster, stronger,” she mused. “But we’ll need to practice before we head out tonight, so that you can test how much stronger and faster.”

  “And we need to slay more nephilim and feed them to vampires. Demons wouldn’t be so quick to try taking over communities, then.”

  Maybe vampires could be strengthened that way, though it might not be so simple—Deacon had been changed by nosferatu blood before he’d taken the nephil’s. Yet it was possible that they could all become as strong as Guardians . . . perhaps stronger.

  Uncertainty pinched her mouth.

  “No?” He was watching her face now.

  “Not every vampire is like you.” And unlike Guardians, vampires didn’t have to follow the Rules. “It would be difficult to hand them that much power.”

  His eyes narrowed. Yes, she recognized how unfair that was. But power often changed men—and vampires, too. If they were stronger than Guardians, if they didn’t fear the consequences of breaking the Rules, some vampires wou
ld begin taking advantage of humans, simply because they were weaker.

  For all their strength, Guardians didn’t truly have much power. There was so much they couldn’t do. Vampires wouldn’t have those limitations—only what the sun denied them.

  Deacon repeated flatly, “Not like me?”

  “Trustworthy,” she said, but still felt uncomfortable. From a Guardian perspective, her answer was about protecting humans. But Guardians weren’t prevented from denying a vampire’s free will, or even from slaying them. So from Deacon’s perspective, Guardians possessed all of the power that she said vampires shouldn’t have over humans.

  “That’s bullshit. We could kill people now if we wanted to. You Guardians would just have a harder time policing us if we were stronger, because we could defend ourselves better.”

  She nodded. He was right. She knew he was right. And she knew most of the vampires in Europe, yet could only think of a few she would fear giving the blood to.

  She knew all of that. She still felt sick at the thought of passing out nephil blood.

  “We wouldn’t all be your brother, Rosie.”

  “No. No, I know that. But it would be . . . unfair. No matter how we distributed the blood, it would create too much conflict within the communities. There is not an unlimited supply of nephil blood.” Though if she and Deacon were successful, she would soon spill all of the nephilim’s blood—but even that amount would not be enough for every vampire in the world. “And who would choose who received it? The Guardians? The community elders? What would it mean if some got it and others didn’t? What kind of division would that make?”

  “Would it matter so much if it meant the vampires didn’t have to get on their knees for demons? If they weren’t scared shitless that the nephilim were finally coming to their city?”

  “It’d matter to you if you were the vampire who didn’t get any.” She sighed. “At most, it could be a onetime distribution, and there’s not enough for everyone. What if I wanted to hold some back? What if Vin and Gemma decided to become vampires? Wouldn’t I want to keep some for them so that they wouldn’t be . . .”