Demon Blood (36 page)

She didn’t want to try handling more than she already was.

The church was rarely empty or silent, and this day was no exception. Two women spoke together in a center pew. A man knelt, praying. From the confessional, she heard soft weeping, and Father Wojcinski’s compassionate response. Their quiet voices filled Rosalia’s mind with warmth, and she let herself take comfort in them.

In a gray-haired, petite form and swathed in a black dress, Rosalia genuflected and made her way to the back pew, where she waited. She didn’t wait long.

“He’s here,” she murmured to Gemma, monitoring the conversation from the War Room with Vin and Deacon. The church’s proximity to the abbey meant they had no need for the van today. Even the infrared would be of little use if St. Croix had arranged for any demons to arrive first—the day was already too hot for an accurate reading.

Standing at the chamber entrance, St. Croix observed the room, his gaze skimming over Rosalia and moving on. Though she knew he hadn’t yet slept, he didn’t appear tired. His handsome face displayed no emotion, and his blue eyes were distant and icy as he regarded each person, but she sensed uncertainty in his psychic scent. She guessed that he didn’t know what to do here; a church was out of his element. Finally, he chose a seat on the back pew across the aisle from her, tapping his fingers together between his knees.

Not as cool as he appeared. Good.

She rose and walked toward him. He glanced at her, and she watched a polite mask fall over his features. Preparing to gently tell the old lady that he preferred to be alone, Rosalia guessed. Before he could speak, she sat next to him—and since no one was looking their way, she shifted into her natural form.

St. Croix’s eyes narrowed. The curve of his lips suggested amusement, but it was a thin, cold smile, with an undercurrent of anger.

She began, “Tell me, Mr. St. Croix, what have you discovered about me?”

She knew he’d found nothing—there was nothing about her to find.

He was careful not to admit that. “Less than you have about me, I’d wager.”

“Yes.” And she didn’t yet know what she most needed to. “And I’ll give you more, but how much more depends on the answer to one question: Did you kill Rachel Boyle, or did your mother?”

It was as if she’d stabbed him. Pain slashed across his face before his expression hardened into a smooth mask. “I think we are done here.”

He stood and began to walk away. And because that young woman’s death had hurt him, she said, “My mother poisoned my father. She cut his throat in their bed. She paid assassins. She tried everything, and when everything failed, she poisoned herself. I should hate her for leaving us alone with him. A mother should protect her children, don’t you agree?”

He stopped. He didn’t turn, but he stopped—and so he must be listening.

“A father should protect his children, too,” Rosalia continued. “Mine made certain that I found my mother’s body. He told me that she was burning in Hell for her suicide. I believed him, because of all people, he would know who burned in Hell. Only later did I realize that they are also liars, and bargainers . . . and it’s entirely possible that she killed herself only after making a deal that protected us from him. And so I cannot hate her. I do hate
him
, however—and if he wasn’t dead, I’d hunt my father down and kill him.”

He finally turned. “So what are you—a support group for demon children?”

Though his tone mocked, he took a step toward her. Good enough, she thought.

“I’m something better, Mr. St. Croix. I’m someone with information. You are looking for your mother?”

“Don’t call her that.” His mouth twisted. “You know where she is?
Who
she is?”

“No.”

“Then you’re of no use to me.”

But he didn’t go. No, he wanted to see what she offered him. Because he
did
lack information, and he knew it.

“Sit down,” she said.

After an internal struggle, he did.

“You’ve gone to Legion. You’re looking for her in the wrong place. Legion was created for Belial’s demons, but what your mother did—” She broke off when the mask shifted, revealing the ice and hatred beneath. “What would you have me call her?”

“A sopping, murderous cunt.”

“Here?” Pointedly, she looked to the altar. “I think not.”

Through her earpiece, she heard the muffled hoot of Gemma’s laughter and the rumble of Deacon’s beneath it. For the first time, she saw humor in St. Croix’s expression.

“Perhaps not,” he agreed. “Madelyn will do.”

His mother’s Christian name, but not the name he’d probably called his real mother. At the age he’d lost her, she would have still been his mum.

“What Madelyn did to your family better fits the style of Lucifer’s demons,” Rosalia told him. “You won’t find her at Legion.”

She saw the speculation in his eyes, and her pulse jumped when she realized where his thoughts were turning.

“No, Mr. St. Croix. Lucifer’s and Belial’s demons are enemies, but that does not mean Belial’s demons will help you. If you go to them, they will do everything possible to break you, simply because it will entertain them. A demon is a demon, no matter his allegiance.”

He nodded. Perhaps he’d seen enough of Belial’s demons to believe it. “Where would I find her, then?”

“The Gates to Hell are closed. If she is among those Below, it will be five hundred years before the Gates open again.”

“I’ll wait.”

He probably could. “As a vampire?”

“If hate alone can’t keep me going.”

“It can’t,” she assured him, though the hatred seething within him could certainly drive a man for a lifetime. “If Madelyn isn’t in Hell, you will probably find her in one of two ways. The first, it’s likely she will be doing to another family what she has done to yours.”

When he glanced at her, frowning, she said, “Demons are creatures of habit. Rarely do they think or act in an original way. If something succeeds once, they will do it again.”

“So I’d look for a family that resembles mine, with a suicide as a red flag.”

“Yes. Though it is still a daunting task. Thousands of families might fit the criteria in Europe alone. I can help you there.”

Though his sudden suspicion didn’t show on his face, she felt it in his psychic scent. He didn’t trust anyone who offered him something for free. That was fine. This wasn’t an offer, but an exchange.

“How?”

“There are others like me. We search for demons, to slay them—and that is all we do. We’re familiar with their patterns, their scents, even the human forms they take. If we come across a woman who fits Madelyn’s pattern, I will tell you.”

He regarded her without expression for a long moment, but she could sense the wariness and temptation behind it. “And what do you get?”

Smart man. “I need to know who is directing the demons at Legion. Who stepped up after Belial’s lieutenant left?”

“The new executive director—”

“No.” She’d already looked at that demon, an American, and discarded the possibility. “It’d be someone who isn’t as visible. Someone who, for the past six months, has been moving people around and pulling strings. He’d be based in a European office, high-ranking, with a solid foundation of supporters, but not at the top. Not yet.”

He frowned. “I can make enquiries—”

“And reveal your interest? No. It has to be done quietly.”

His gaze sharpened. He apparently enjoyed a challenge. “I’ll get names for you, then, if you do the same for me.”

“Mine won’t come as quickly, but they’ll come,” she promised.

“And if Madelyn takes the second route? You said she would likely try one of two things.”

Rosalia suspected that he would prefer the second. “She spent twenty years building your father’s small firm into a financial powerhouse. When you took it over, you tore her work apart.”

“She’ll come after me,” he realized, and dark pleasure swept through him, so reminiscent of a demon’s.

Rosalia battled her revulsion. “Yes.”

“If she comes after me, I won’t need a name. What could you offer?”

“Knowledge, Mr. St. Croix. To start, how to better guard your emotions.” She smiled as surprise and unease suddenly radiated from him. “Like those I’m feeling now. The shields Gerald and Sally taught you to create might have been sufficient to block a vampire. They won’t a demon.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you?”

She deflected that with a deliberate misunderstanding. “And I’ll teach you how to recognize Madelyn if she comes for you. To begin with, she’ll have hot skin.”

“Hot—” He broke off, his face paling. Repugnance and horror crawled through his psychic scent before hatred surrounded it with ice. “And they can change their human shape, too?”

Oh, dear God. Rosalia stared at him. Her father had been cruel. But he’d never done what she suddenly suspected Madelyn had to St. Croix.

“Yes,” she finally said. “And there is more. I will tell you all—but I have something I must finish first.”

“And that ‘something’ is why you need me.”

“Yes.”

He nodded and stuck out his hand. When she took it, her warm skin the same temperature as his, relief moved through him. “You’re not one of them.”

“No. As I said before—I’m something better.” She left her card in his palm, the paper blank except for a phone number. “I look forward to your call.”

She watched him leave, shaken by the depth of Madelyn’s depravity. Nothing a demon did surprised Rosalia anymore, but she was still sickened by it.

And St. Croix . . . She could pity him, but she could not like him. Where another man—like Deacon—might be angry and withdrawn, and just as determined to have his revenge, he didn’t resemble the demons he wanted to destroy. Deacon had suffered, but he was still a good man, and a generous one. He didn’t look at others simply to see how they could be used.

Perhaps when St. Croix found Madelyn and took his revenge, he would change—but Rosalia feared the damage had been done. Not everyone could be repaired.

Lorenzo hadn’t been.

“Rosa?”

She looked toward the aisle, where Father Wojcinski stood, wearing his short-sleeved clericals. Smiling, she rose to her feet and joined him.

“When I saw your companion leave, you were looking very much as you did in my kitchen three nights ago.” He studied her face, as if trying to read behind the smile. “Are you still conflicted about using the man in this quest you spoke of, or have you convinced him to help you?”

Her heart seemed to drop into her stomach. Keeping her dismay from her expression, she murmured,
“Piccola bambina,”
before vanishing the audio receiver, to let Gemma know she hadn’t been cut off.

“I have convinced him.” Though she couldn’t forget how he’d withdrawn that morning—or how the worst was yet to come. Deacon must have noticed how she was positioning him at the head of so many communities. Focused on his revenge, he hadn’t yet asked why, but eventually he would. “Partially.”

The priest sighed. “You cover it well, but I suspect I have just revealed something I shouldn’t have. Will this jeopardize what you’ve done?”

She shook her head. “He will not leave before we’ve finished.”

Of that, she was certain. But that didn’t mean Deacon wouldn’t be angry—and wonder if he’d been manipulated. That would not rest easy with him.

“But now he will think you’ve misled him.”

“And I will tell him I have not—and that is truth, Father. So do not fret. You have jeopardized nothing.”

He regarded her closely, and he had known her too long and read her too clearly. Leading her to a pew, he sat. “Nothing, Rosa?”

“Nothing that was not already in jeopardy.” Like her heart. She knew her smile was brittle. “A demon destroyed everyone he cared about. He’s a good man, and a brave one—but I don’t know if he will risk happiness again, Father, or even if he feels that he deserves it. How can I be with a man who will not let himself love me without hating himself for it?
I
deserve more.”

“If he’s as good a man as you say, Rosa, then so does he.”

They were in agreement about that. Deacon deserved more, even if he didn’t believe it. But what could she do if he would not take what she had to give him?

She would not quit yet, though.

“Ah, I see your determination. I know now that all will be well.” Smiling, he squeezed her hand. “And as we are discussing matters of the heart, it would not be amiss to mention that I am meeting with Vincente and Gemma tomorrow to discuss the wedding ceremony. I assume the reception will be held at the abbey?”

She had just assumed, too, but now she realized that neither Gemma nor Vincente had said a word about it. “I’ll ask them.”

If Father Wojcinski thought it strange that she didn’t know, she couldn’t read it in his expression. He appeared tired, she realized—probably still losing sleep over an abuse and depravity that was almost worse for having been committed by a human . . . someone a child should have been able to trust. She would take care of that, soon.