Demon Blood (41 page)

Rosalia paled, her hand clutching over her heart. “Vincente and Gemma.”

Her son and daughter-in-law-to-be. Oh, damn. He was human, but the Rules wouldn’t stop Anaria.

Deacon moved to Rosalia’s side. She turned her face into his chest. “One other person knew,” he said to Taylor. “But he’s not talking. He has his own agenda.”

Taylor nodded. The big take-away here obviously was: don’t go anywhere near Anaria for a while, if she could help it. If Taylor couldn’t lie, Rosalia, Deacon, and quite a few humans would be in some serious shit.

From somewhere outside the room, a bell rang. Rosalia looked up, seemed to steady herself. “That’s your blood being delivered. I’ll return in a moment.”

Taylor watched her go, then turned back to Deacon, who was still looking toward the door with his concern hanging all over his face.

She had a sudden flash of a different expression: his surprise. Of Rosalia, bleeding. Of pain through her throat, and a long, dark shadow. She shook her head, trying to clear the dim memory. “I seem to remember . . . Did I attack you last night?”

He stared at her for a long second, then broke into a sudden laugh. “You sure as hell did.”

God
damn
Michael. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“For me? No. Rosalia got tore up some, though.”

She felt sick, almost seeing it now—her sword, striking the other woman’s back. The give of flesh as the blade slid through. “I’ll try to make it up to her. Somehow.”

Deacon nodded, then Rosalia was back, handing a glass of blood over to the vampire and turning to Taylor with a warm, gorgeous smile.

Holy hell. Taylor could have described Rosalia’s every feature a few seconds after seeing the Guardian for the first time, but it just now hit her how freaking
beautiful
she was. Not a fragile beauty, like Anaria had. And not like a supermodel, but closer to one of those Waterhouse paintings, where ladies gave favors to knights and lay amid flowery fields. Just all over soft and welcoming, but solid—like this was a woman who could shoulder anything, even when she’d been torn down and her heart completely vulnerable.

Taylor glanced at the vampire, who couldn’t quite hide the admiration and longing in his eyes. All tangled up. Taylor wasn’t much of a romantic, but she hoped like hell they pulled it off.

“I actually can think of a way for you to pay me back—and practice cleaning yourself up at the same time,” Rosalia said. “Are you busy this afternoon?”

When Deacon emerged from the Lisbon apartment carrying the demon’s head in a black leakproof bag, Rosalia finally let herself take pleasure in how smoothly the evening had gone. She and Taylor had cleaned the garage until Gemma had woken from her nap, and Rosalia spent an hour with the young woman, first persuading her that she wouldn’t be lonely and then helping Gemma gather her things. When the sun set, she and Deacon still had to wait a little more than an hour before it set in Lisbon; they spent it in the courtyard, testing the range of his new speed and strength. More skilled, Rosalia could still defeat him with weapons and hand-to-hand combat, but he was stronger and faster than her—and in the first fifteen minutes of practice, he’d been clumsy with surprise at
how
fast and strong.

That had worried her. From the moment Taylor had teleported them to Lisbon and left Rosalia and Deacon alone, her heart had been pounding and her lungs tight with fear. But the practice had served him well, and within a second of Deacon entering the demon’s apartment, the fight had been over.

His grin flashed when he saw her waiting beneath one of the palms that lined the quiet street. Crimson darkened his black shirt, and the Atlantic breeze that had cooled the city brought her the scent of the demon’s blood . . . and Deacon’s.

“Were you hit?”

Stopping beside her, Deacon showed her his hand. A faint pink line crossed the center of his palm. Even as she watched, the scar faded. “I slung some of my blood around. If the demons come across that, they’ll know it was a vampire that killed him.”

It was better than that. “They’ll know it was
you
.”

“And that’s just the way I want it.” He hefted the bag containing the demon’s head. “So do we go bowling?”

Oh, he made her laugh. When she finally managed to shake the ridiculous image from her mind, she said, “We walk. José Carvalho’s home isn’t far.”

They started out—two miles through the city, on a warm and quiet night. It was inevitable that her memory would recall Brussels and their first walk. She could barely recognize herself—the dame in distress, curious about the man who’d rescued her. Yet here she was, ninety years later, needing his help and still wondering about his every thought, fascinated by everything that drove him.

So much the same . . . and yet completely changed. Compared to now, ninety years ago her feelings toward him had been like a puddle to an ocean—and she’d only begun to fathom the depths.

And ninety years ago, she hadn’t feared that she’d drown.

She glanced over at him, and a cold hand seemed to squeeze at her chest. She’d been quiet as they walked, and so she hadn’t thought much of his silence—but now she saw that his silence was a hard thing, like the stone set of his jaw.

As if noticing her sudden attention, he stopped and seemed to brace himself. “The demon is dead. So tell me why we’re headed to Carvalho’s.”

To gain the vampire communities’ respect and confidence. He knew that; she’d told him. But she hadn’t had time to tell him the rest. Taylor had teleported into the War Room, and Rosalia had been thankful for the respite.

But she’d already delayed so long. Once, she could have called the delay prudent. Now it was just cowardice.

Knowing that didn’t make telling him any easier. She met his eyes, and wished the pounding of her heart wasn’t so loud. “To slay the nephilim, we need demons to break the Rules.”

“So a nephil teleports wherever the demon is.”

“Yes. If it’s just one demon, however, the nephil will probably kill it. But if Malkvial gathers
all
of his demons together and they bring in the nephilim one at a time . . .”

Something like amazement softened his features as he looked at her. The frigid hand around Rosalia’s lungs squeezed tighter. He hadn’t heard the rest yet.

“A slaughter,” he realized. “And so fucking simple.”

Only simple when all of the pieces were in place. “But they’ve never thought of it. Perhaps they
can’t
think of it; they’re all too entrenched in thousands and thousands of years of being the same. And a Guardian can’t propose it to Malkvial.”

“But a vampire can?”

She nodded, and Deacon’s eyes went cold and hard. Rosalia had to do the same, or break down. Calling upon three centuries of hiding, she wrapped herself in her reasons, until they were all she saw.

“Not just any vampire,” she said. “A ruined one, who’d already made a deal with a demon and betrayed the Guardians. Vampires and Guardians were once human, so they can forgive—and they can understand the choices you made, even if they don’t agree with them. A demon can’t imagine forgiveness and understanding. So when you approach him, he’ll be suspicious, but he won’t truly think that you’re with a Guardian.”

“With you?” His laugh was bitter. “And look where I am now. After what Caym did, you want me to make another bargain with a demon?”

“Yes. He’s trying to win their support and the lieutenant’s position. Arranging for the slaughter of their enemy and fulfilling part of Belial’s prophecy will secure it for him.”

“The appearance of a bargain. In reality, this will destroy them. And you’ll have your revenge.”

That didn’t move him. He stared at her, his jaw clenching. “Jesus fucking Christ, princess. You don’t ask much, do you?”

“I know how much I ask.” If they lost, if this went wrong . . . they would both be destroyed, too. Perhaps they wouldn’t be dead, but to every other Guardian and vampire, they might as well be. And even if they succeeded, Rosalia still might lose everything. “The demons need humans to break the Rules, Deacon. I’m already arranging who it’ll be . . . and they won’t be coming of their free will.”

He turned his face away from her, staring blindly down the street. The gravel in his voice sharpened. “Another reason you need a vampire?”

“Not just one. They’re all going to get behind you and help.”

Another bitter laugh escaped him. He shook his head, and looked down at the bag in his hand as if a poisonous snake lay curled inside instead of a demon’s head. “So it’s not just me, Rosie, is it? You’re playing everyone.”

The disgust in his voice tore away the layers she’d wrapped herself in, speared straight into her heart. She struggled against anger, against tears—and above all, to make him understand. “I’m
not
playing. I’m trying to save them. And I don’t think it’s too much to ask for them to put a hand in.”

“You’re asking them to
help
?” He lifted the bag, and for an awful moment, she thought he would hurl it down the street. But he only looked at her again, face unreadable, his gaze flat. “Then why this? Why not just ask them?”

“Because I need
you
to lead this and to bargain with Malkvial, and they won’t help
you
without it. They need something to hold on to, something tangible, because they can’t just
believe
. They don’t know you like I do.”

Her impassioned response only made him withdraw further. “You don’t know shit, Rosie.”

The words pierced like arrows.
You don’t know shit.
He’d said that to Belial’s lieutenant, at the end. Trying to save his people, Deacon had almost nothing left in him. He’d still been fighting, but he’d been scraping the bottom, and that reply was all that remained.

This time, she’d brought him there—right back to Caym and Belial’s lieutenant, and Eva and Petra poured out in ashes onto the floor. A bargain with a demon was a nightmare for Deacon.

She understood that. And she knew that her understanding didn’t help; if anything, it must seem worse to him, that she’d
seen
what he’d gone through . . . and yet asked him to do it again.

“So this is what you’ve been leading up to all this time,” he said softly. “You find Malkvial, and then send me his way.”

“Yes.” Her throat worked, but she couldn’t get any more out.

“Jesus, Rosie.”

It was barely a whisper under his breath. She waited for more—anything—but he only looked down the palm-lined street again, and began walking. Uncertain, she watched him go, and with his every step, her vision blurred.

After a few seconds, he said without stopping or turning around, “Come on, princess. We’ve got a head to deliver.”

His statement didn’t bring any relief. Even if she’d heard humor in his voice instead of flat resignation, she couldn’t have laughed. Her chest ached. He hadn’t left, but she’d gotten a taste of what his leaving might be like.

What it
would
be like, after he discovered how she’d influenced his life. She hadn’t been playing him, but he’d surely see it that way. And after the demons were slain and his revenge complete, he wouldn’t have any reason to stay.

She took her time catching up to him—long enough that her tears had dried and she’d been able to tuck her despair beneath her emotional shields.

As soon as she fell into step beside him, he said, “When we arrive, how should I explain you?”

“I’ll be Anna Vanek’s sister, Eliska.” She named one of his community members in Prague. If anyone had a reason to help Deacon take his revenge, it would be one of the vampire’s relations. “My general description matches Eliska’s records.”

“Anna didn’t have a sister.”

Not anymore. Rosalia wouldn’t paint a target on a living human. “Eliska had childhood leukemia. Anna was twelve when she passed.”

He glanced at her in surprise, his face tightening with emotion. “Anna was one of our youngest.”

“Well. She began seeking immortality a little earlier than most people do.”

“And thanks to Belial’s demons, only got five years of it.” The grief in his voice hardened, his mouth flattening. “So, your plan: The demons are all together, knocking off the nephilim one at a time. What happens to the demons when they’re done?”

“They die.” Just as she’d promised him.

“Goddammit, Rosie.
How?
”

“I don’t know yet. But I’ll figure out a way.” Hopefully a way that didn’t kill anyone but the demons.

Deacon’s jaw clenched, as if he barely held back his response. When he finally spoke, it was only, “Fuck.”