Demon Blood

by Meljean Brook

  “Consider it done.” Air-conditioning wouldn’t do much now with a giant hole exposing the garage to the sun-warmed chamber on the opposite side of the wall, but what the hell. He’d burned enough for one day.

  Smiling, Rosalia looked to Taylor. “Will you stay? If St. Croix bumbled around at Legion and revealed his interest in Malkvial, he might have brought thirty demons along without knowing it. If I need help, a teleporter would be a big one.”

  Taylor’s eyes brightened. “Listening in on wire surveillance? Just like old times.”

  “If you enjoy that, you should come around more often,” Rosalia said dryly, and turned to go. She paused when Taylor spoke up again.

  “Rosalia? I can do this thing. I’ll bring Anaria in.”

  Her eyes shining with sudden tears, Rosalia’s face collapsed in that devastating way women had. Relief, pain, dread, joy—Deacon wasn’t sure what lay behind it. But a man would have to be stronger than he was not to take that step toward her.

  “Rosie.”

  She waited while he crossed the garage. When he lifted his hands to cup her face, brushed away the tears with his thumbs, she gave him a watery smile. “It looks like we’re almost there, preacher.”

  Almost finished, and it felt like a hole in his chest. God, what he wouldn’t give to ride along this way for a few more weeks. Hell, a few more years. But he’d be damned before he screwed this up, so that everything she’d done was for nothing.

  “Then go get that demon bastard’s name,” he told her.

  Once again, Rosalia took the roundabout route to the church, using the opportunity to contact the Guardians in San Francisco. Someone would be sent to investigate why the demon had been in the desert when he’d killed the human—although, with the nephil and demon already slain, it was unlikely that much would be discovered. And from what she’d glimpsed of the scene before the nephil had arrived, she suspected the human’s death had been an accident. The demon had been desperately trying to revive the man, his shock palpable.

  She didn’t mention to anyone at Special Investigations how Deacon had been called to the scene. The horror she’d felt when his eyes had emptied and the demon language spilled from his tongue hadn’t completely abated. And she didn’t know what it meant for him now. Would he be called every time a demon broke the Rules? She feared he would be. With so few demons on Earth, it wouldn’t happen often—and the chances would be less after Belial’s demons were gone—but even a small chance was too much.

  He hadn’t been released from that call until the nephil had slain the demon. Perhaps with time, he might gain control over his response—but he could only learn that control with experience. He couldn’t afford to gain that experience during the daylight hours.

  And he couldn’t afford to run into one of the nephilim again. That creature had too easily recognized the blood in Deacon’s veins. Deacon had become stronger through it, but that blood had come with dangerous strings.

  Rosalia hadn’t needed yet another reason to carry this plan through, but now she had one, as vital as the beat of her heart: Slaying the nephilim would cut those strings. After that, only Anaria would be left, and as long as she couldn’t connect the slaughter of her children to the Guardians or vampires, she’d have no reason to retaliate.

  Praying that Anaria wouldn’t find out gave Rosalia another excellent reason to visit the church.

  She arrived almost an hour after St. Croix’s call—primarily to prevent him from pinpointing how far she’d had to travel, but also so that she did not seem in a rush to come at his bidding. She was certain that if he knew exactly how important the information he had was, St. Croix would try to claim power over her. And it was strange, but although he was providing her with something she needed, Rosalia didn’t feel as though she owed him. Perhaps, after three hundred years, she’d overcome her tendency to overcompensate and bury herself in obligations.

  Perhaps it was because St. Croix only served himself. She didn’t like the idea of helping a man such as him—the type of man who, she suspected, would have kept on walking if he’d come across a woman being accosted in an alley. Unlike Deacon, who had helped—and who expected nothing in return.

  And who now thought he deserved nothing.

  She would fight until he saw differently. But no managing him. No manipulating him. Simply letting him see that he was worthy of her heart. That she couldn’t love a man who didn’t deserve her admiration, her respect, and her trust. He might reject them all. But in her life, she’d never taken any risks. She should with him.

  Oh, God, if he felt anything in return, if there was any hope . . . it would be well worth the risk. So she just needed to open herself to him—and pray he would take her as she was.

  St. Croix was a patient man. He waited in the back pew, tapping the screen of his multifunction phone. He put it away when she approached.

  He didn’t bother to greet her. Without a word, he produced a folder from the satchel by his feet. Rosalia flipped through the pages, each complete with a name, financial and vital data, and a photograph.

  He’d included Theriault. Good. He couldn’t have known that she’d already ruled out that demon, but it said that St. Croix knew what to look for. She flipped to another page— Baumhauer, a demon who she knew was loyal to Malkvial. The next one made her pause. Karl Geier, a marketing VP in the Munich office. She’d passed over him when his name had come up in Gemma’s search. His unspectacular appearance and modest lifestyle hadn’t fit the usual demon template.

  Hiding in plain sight?

  Of course. Of course. Oh, Lord but she was the blindest fool who’d ever walked the earth.

  St. Croix said, “For Geier, I had to dig deeper. Baumhauer placed your boy Conley in the Prague offices, but it’s rumored that Geier’s the one who made the decision.”

  “That’s not a marketing decision.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  She closed the folder, feeling hopeful. She’d look deeper, set up surveillance . . . but from the right angle, Geier fit.

  “Thank you,” she told him.

  His sharp smile said that he didn’t want her gratitude—he wanted something else. “Tell me what you plan to do with those names.”

  “That isn’t possible, Mr. St. Croix.”

  “No? I could make a single call to any one of those demons and expose you.”

  And she could point out that if he told them that he’d spoken to a woman in a church who’d claimed that her father was a demon, or that he and two vampires had trapped a nephil, they’d probably laugh at him. But she suspected that any type of challenge would force St. Croix to follow through on his threat. He wouldn’t be able to help himself—he needed the upper hand.

  If she let him have it, Rosalia could keep him where she needed him: out of her way. With St. Croix, that meant keeping him close.

  “And if I said that I intended to destroy them all, would you be so determined to expose me? Though I am convinced your mother was one of Lucifer’s demons, I cannot be certain. She might be with those I intend to have slain. Do you want to stop me?”

  His reply was exactly what she’d expected. “I want to watch it.”

  “I can arrange that.” Deliberately she looked him over, as if calculating his worth. “If you have any interest in moving up through Legion’s ranks, there will be several positions opening soon. But you might want to dump them from your stock portfolio for the time being. Consumer confidence is going to take a dive.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Then I’ll have people ready to move in and take over.”

  “Don’t tip your hand.”

  He placed his palm over his heart and smiled, but his gaze was deadly cold. “Never.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Taylor teleported them high above Amsterdam before disappearing again. Rosalia’s wings caught air, her psychic scent spinning a little, and Deacon realized that he hadn’t felt the disorientation that came with jumping from one location to another since he’d taken th
e nephil’s blood.

  He also realized that teleporting around like this was going to fuck Rosalia’s plan up. “I’m getting around too easily. Warsaw last night. Sarajevo before that. Now Amsterdam. Vampires don’t get around like this. Any demon with sense will know I have help.”

  She shook her head, her gaze searching the ground for their target’s home. From this height, the canals running in concentric half circles around the city center looked like dark ribbons against the sparkling city lights.

  “I’ve been purchasing tickets that are easily traceable back to you. If they’re looking, they’ll think you traveled by rail from Rotterdam in a shipping container today, and that you reached Rotterdam by plane from Warsaw last night.”

  Jesus Christ. “Have you had a trip planned out every night?”

  “Of course.”

  Of course? He could hardly imagine creating a scheme as complex as the one she had going, and now he learned that she probably had more layers to it than he’d realized. How long had she been planning this?

  It couldn’t have been too long. She’d only discovered that her family had been slaughtered six months ago. How long had she grieved before deciding to act? Deacon’s plan for revenge had been simple: tracking down Legion’s executives and figuring out whether they were demons, then killing them. Yet he’d still had to spend three months selling everything off and practicing with his swords so that he could take on the demons. How much time had she put into hers? And how long had he been part of that plan?

  But she must have been thinking of using him from the first, incorporating his strengths. Even now, he was realizing that she’d only sent him to communities where he was fluent in the local language.

  He couldn’t decide what astounded him more—that she’d considered that detail, or that she’d known exactly which languages he spoke.

  “I’m heading down,” she warned him an instant before her wings folded behind her back.

  Her dive didn’t seem so fast now with the nephil blood in him, his stomach no longer swooping up through the top of his head. He watched Rosalia, instead, the dark hair streaming out behind her, the narrowing of her eyes against the wind, the minute adjustments of her wings. She smiled as they landed in a narrow deserted alley, changing from her Zorro getup into a black dress that hugged her curves and skimmed her knees. Her shoes were just sparkly straps, with heels as high and as ridiculous as her boots. At some point in the past few days, she’d painted her toenails a soft pink.

  He’d never been a toenail-painting kind of guy, but God help him, he could imagine spending plenty of time at Rosalia’s pretty feet.

  As if noticing him staring at her shoes, she said, “We have a bit of a walk.”

  They always did, though Deacon had his doubts whether landing here or just outside the demon’s door made any difference. “Does coming at a demon from a few miles away really mean he’s less likely to pay attention?”

  “No. It’s for me.” Her eyes warm and soft with quiet laughter, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, her fingers wrapping around his biceps. “I’ve always enjoyed walking through different cities.”

  Hell. He should have realized that was her reason. Even the past couple of days, when they’d passed through the cities with barely a word between them, he’d seen how she’d looked at every building, watched every person, took in everything there was to see and smell and hear—especially any kind of plant or flower, as if she was considering whether to add them to her courtyard.

  He enjoyed walking with her, too—but this wasn’t exactly helping to keep distance between them, and making that break easier.

  But, fuck it. Not that much time was left. He’d take what he could get, and having her holding on to him like this, her fingers gently squeezing his biceps like she appreciated his strength made him feel protective, maybe even necessary. It wasn’t much of a purpose, watching over a woman who could wipe the floor with anyone in this city, but it felt damn good.

  And for the past six months, every time he’d met anyone’s eyes, every time someone had given him a second look, his impulse had been to tell them to fuck off. Now he was watching to see who looked at Rosalia—and judging by the way people’s gazes skittered away and their shoulders hunched when they stopped staring at her and took a look at his face, his expression clearly told them to back off, instead.

  With effort, he resisted baring his fangs at every man who glanced at her twice. He hadn’t ever been possessive, but now he wanted to push Rosalia up against a building and fuck her, just so that anyone looking would know she was his.

  So that Rosalia would know.

  Christ. He had to stop this shit, and focus on why they were here—and how they’d gotten here. “How long did it take you to put this whole thing together?”

  She paused for a moment to examine one of the trees shading the edge of the canal. He half expected songbirds to fly out and land on her shoulders, warbling a sweet little tune while they braided her hair, but she only touched a green leaf, rubbing it lightly between her fingers before answering him.

  “I first thought of it the morning after the gala at the chateau. So, ten days ago.”

  And she’d come to him only three days later, with a good portion of her plan completely worked out. Which meant she hadn’t had to take the time to research, to practice, to study personalities in order to place everyone where she wanted them. She’d already been carrying all of that around in her head.

  Not just carrying it around—she’d known exactly how to use that information.

  “Jesus Christ, Rosie.” The whole freaking world should be thanking God that she was one of the good guys.

  She misunderstood his response. The look she shot him was almost apologetic. “I know I should have taken a few more days, but I had to rush.”

  “Because of London.”

  “Yes. And I hope I didn’t make any mistakes—any more than I already have. It helps that I’ve included as few people as possible, and that we have to carry it out on a short timeline. There are fewer variables, and less chance of something unexpected cropping up.”

  “Like Taylor?”

  “And Anaria and St. Croix,” she added. “I’d rather have proceeded without them.”

  He had to ask, “And without me?”

  “Yes,” she said baldly. “You’re taking on such an enormous risk. I would rather have the risk be all mine.” She stopped and faced him. “But you are the key. In no conceivable scenario could a Guardian do this. We could bring together the vampires, perhaps. But the rest? Impossible.”

  Because he’d been ruined. He’d rather not go over that again, though. Nodding, he took her hand and wrapped her fingers around his arm before starting out again.

  The demon was already dead. The body lay near a white sofa, and the head had been propped up on the oversized television. Blood trailed down the flat screen and dripped to the zebra-skin rug. “The Blue Danube” played on the sound system, a surreal accompaniment to the scene.

  Deacon crossed the room, crouching beside the body. He couldn’t smell anything but demon blood. Guardians wouldn’t have left an odor, but they wouldn’t have come here—not without first telling Rosalia. A vampire’s lingering scent would be detectable this close to the time of death. The body was still warm. Almost hot.

  So the demons who’d done this probably hadn’t gotten far. Maybe they hadn’t left at all, but had been waiting for Deacon to head inside, leaving Rosalia alone.

  Deacon hauled ass back outside, breathed his relief when he saw her standing in the shadows beneath a tree. Were they being watched? He pushed out with a strong psychic sweep, hard enough that Rosalia’s eyes widened. Her mind felt human, with strong shields. He pushed harder, a hell of a lot harder, until he broke through and sensed the Guardian beneath. That was what he’d need to find a demon. He swept that out wider, searching over thousands of human minds.

  A second later, he felt the dark, scaly slide of a demon’s psyche.
It answered with a psychic probe that tried to pierce Deacon’s shields. A slight taunt echoed beneath it, the message clear. Come find me.

  It wasn’t hard to guess where to go. That taunt originated in the same direction as the vampire community’s club.

  He told Rosie what’d been left in the demon’s home. “Someone knew I was coming,” he finished.

  She frowned. “I didn’t expect him to make this move.”

  “Malkvial?” he guessed. And killing one of Theriault’s demons was a bonus.

  Her brow creased, and she stared up into his eyes, but not looking at him. He could almost feel her mind working as she tried to fathom a demon’s.

  “If he just wanted to kill you, he could have waited here. Is he trying to make a bigger statement by doing it in front of vampires?” She shook her head, talking her way through it. “No. No, that would make a statement to the vampires, but it says to other demons, ‘Deacon’s dangerous and he’s stepping on my toes.’ You’re not, though. You’re doing him a favor. All of Theriault’s demons look like fools now. For God’s sake, they’ve been slain by a vampire.”

  Deacon grinned. She’d said that like a demon might, as if a vampire was a piece of shit that a demon had to scrape off his heel.

  “Maybe he’s delivering a message?” Putting the vampire back in his place. “Though he could have done that here, too.”

  Her eyes cleared, hardened. “That’s it. He’s testing your resolve. You’re killing demons, but you’re taking them by surprise. Now he’ll see if you run—because if you do, he’ll paint you as a coward and a failure, and drive that home with another message.”

  “By killing the vampires here?”

  “That would be perfect, wouldn’t it? ‘Deacon’s arrogance destroyed another community.’ So if you confront the demon waiting for you, he delivers his message—probably by slaying you and making you pay for your arrogance. But if you run, he delivers another message to his demons and to every vampire community: Deacon is a coward. Either way, he wins.”