Demon Blood (37 page)

And perhaps it would be tomorrow’s item on the list of things a Guardian shouldn’t do.

Rosalia took the long way back to the abbey, winding through the streets, shifting into several different forms. She walked through her front door as a young boy, spooning the last of a pistachio gelato into her mouth.

She could hear Deacon in the War Room. He’d likely been there all day, listening to surveillance from Theriault and St. Croix—the inactivity must be wearing on him. As amazing as his walking around during the day was, it wouldn’t take long before he felt trapped by the sun, limited to moving between two rooms.

In any case, surveillance was her responsibility, not his. She’d have to find something else for him, something he’d enjoy and that would keep both his hands and his mind occupied.

Gemma’s soft snores were audible through her bedroom door. Relief lightened Rosalia’s heart. The young woman hadn’t slept after the nephil’s attack last night. Perhaps a nap would erase the tiredness from her eyes. Vincente’s, too. Although, judging by the sound of pacing coming from Gemma’s room, Vincente wasn’t sleeping with her.

Rosalia sighed, stopping by the kitchen to toss the gelato cup. Never had she imagined having to ask her son whether his wedding dinner would be here. And never had she imagined the possibility that the answer would be no.

But it needed to be asked, and so there was no use delaying. She started across the courtyard, her footsteps over the grass like a scrape in her ears. And a heartbeat, strangely muffled.

No . . . that
was
a heartbeat.

Whirling around, Rosalia called in her sword. Her gaze searched the empty gardens. If the person had a scent, it was covered by chlorine and roses, lavender and the lemon tree. A soft ripple drew her to the swimming pool.

Taylor floated beneath the water. She’d removed her shoes, but still wore a jacket and trousers. Her eyes were closed. Meditating—or trying to.

When had she come? Rosalia’s heart pounded, and she listened again to the sounds from the War Room. She hadn’t been mistaken. Deacon was up there, alive.

Vanishing her sword, Rosalia retraced her steps through the courtyard, but didn’t head upstairs to Gemma’s room. Stopping at the fountain, she sank onto her favorite bench, cradling her head in her hands.

Last night’s encounter with the nephil, St. Croix, even Taylor . . . So much had begun to spin out of control, and Rosalia felt as if she was holding it all together with her fingernails. What would be next? And what would she do if it was
worse
?

The sun shone hot and bright overhead. In Caelum, the sun was the same—always the same. It never moved from its position, never clouded, never darkened with the night.

Her first years there had been like a dream. Everything had been so clean, so bright. And there’d been so much to learn . . . Guardians from parts of the world she’d never heard of or imagined.

She’d been so filled with hope, and she’d let herself forget her life before Caelum, to forget everything but Lorenzo. And so she’d never thought about how her father had railed at her nurse because Rosalia hadn’t been clean enough, and had ordered the woman to hold her face in a basin. She’d let herself forget how the woman had cried, but complied. The nurse had left afterward, and Rosalia had been the one who’d made certain Lorenzo never had a speck of dirt on him, never a hair or a collar out of place—always remembering her desperation, the nurse’s hand on the back of her neck, the dark blooming spots in front of her eyes . . . and the relief, the dizzying, overwhelming relief when she’d been able to breathe again.

Those years in Caelum had been like that: Gasping for air, so dizzying and so full of hope that she’d felt faint. Now she sat, feeling as if her face was back in that basin, desperately trying to lift her head, blinded and unable to breathe.

But she didn’t know if the hand on the back of her neck was the nephilim’s, the demons’, or her own.

She heard a door open upstairs, but didn’t look up until Vin’s shadow crossed her face. Heavens, he was a mess, as if he’d slept in his clothes—even though, like everyone else in this household, he hadn’t slept at all. She suspected, however, that he wouldn’t welcome her straightening him up. She tucked her hands into her elbows, and remembered the advice that Father Wojcinski had given her three nights before. For now, she would only listen.

“Gemma needs to leave the abbey,” he said.

Rosalia frowned, but didn’t reply. With a tilt of her head, she invited him to sit next to her.

Vin shook his head and remained standing. “Her nightmares are worse when she’s here. They always have been. But she stayed, even after everyone was killed, because she felt obligated to keep up the abbey after you disappeared. And she hasn’t told you, but she can’t walk through these rooms at night without seeing them drenched in blood.”

Rosalia closed her eyes. Oh, God. How it hurt that the woman she considered her daughter was going through this. It hurt that Gemma hadn’t said something. And it hurt because Rosalia couldn’t make it better for her.

But Vin had known. No wonder he’d been so adamant about not living here. But he hadn’t told her about Gemma then, either. Why was he now?

“I need you to convince her, Mama. It has to be you, or she won’t leave.”

“Okay.” If he said so, she believed that. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” With a short nod, he turned away.

“Vin.” When he looked back, she said, “It would help if I knew why you can’t convince her, and I must.”

Suddenly agitated, he pushed stiff fingers through his rumpled hair, as if this was more difficult for him than anything he’d said earlier.

“All right.” His hand dropped to his side and he seemed to brace himself. “She’s staying for you. So you won’t be alone.”

She stared at him. “Why does she think I shouldn’t be alone?”

“Because you never have been, Mama.
Ever.
When you were human, you had Lorenzo, and then the nuns. After that, you had the Guardians and the vampires here, your family. Even when you came back from beneath the catacombs, most of our family was dead . . . but Gemma and I were here. She’s worried about you. About whether you can handle it if there’s no one here.”

Not just Gemma, she realized. Vincente thought this, too.

Astonished, Rosalia could only shake her head. She’d never imagined that they had this view of her. Since returning from Caelum two hundred years ago, Rosalia had been alone—almost
always
alone. Hiding, listening, managing . . . but rarely participating in the lives of those she watched and watched over. Her friends and her family had been bright spots . . . deep breaths, in all of the darkness. It had made them all the more precious.

Deacon barely knew her, yet he had seen it. Lonely and desperate, he’d called her. He hadn’t been wrong, but she’d made it through centuries of
alone
rather well, all things considered.

“I’ll convince her,” she said.

Vincente nodded again, but this time he didn’t turn to go. “What did you do to Lorenzo?”

Oh, no. “Vin—”

“He threatened me, but went after you. What did you do?”

Rosalia’s jaw clenched. He was obviously determined to hear this. She couldn’t imagine why, unless he wanted to pick apart another failure. A Guardian should have slain Lorenzo after the threat. But she hadn’t been able to kill her brother in cold blood.

“I woke him up with my Gift,” she said. “I took him outside, and kept him awake while he burned. I fried him almost completely through, and told him that the next time he dared to
think
of my son, I would bring all of his community out to watch while I burned him to ashes, then take his place and lead them.”

Vin stared at her, mouth parted in shock. No, that was not the mama he knew. She’d never let him see the darker side of living with a Guardian.

But the shock quickly faded, his eyes narrowing. Rosalia braced herself. She’d taught him to look not only at actions, but at the reasons behind them. And Vin knew her too well—she never had just one reason for anything.

“You threatened his position. You
knew
he would retaliate. You couldn’t bring yourself to outright kill him, so you forced his hand—made him come after you—because you could slay him if you had to defend yourself.”

“Yes. I just didn’t expect that he would make a deal with Belial’s lieutenant, and that I’d be facing seven demons instead of my brother,” she said wryly.

Unamused, Vin shook his head. “You should have just killed him, Mama.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Then you should have left it alone.”

After Lorenzo had threatened her son’s life? “I couldn’t do that, either.”

“God!” Vin spun away from her, throwing up his hands. “What
can
you do? Are you a Guardian or a sister?”

That knifed deep into her heart. “I am a mother, too. I couldn’t take the chance that he’d follow through on his threat.”

“He wouldn’t have touched me. He wouldn’t have risked breaking the Rules.”

Rosalia hadn’t been so certain. Lorenzo had wanted to hurt her enough to make the threat. He might have hated her enough to take that risk. And she had no doubt he’d have been arrogant enough to think he might get away with it.

Studying Vin’s rigid back, she sighed. Her son shielded his mind too well for her to detect his emotions, but it wasn’t difficult to read through his anger and frustration to the fear and concern beneath. When she’d chosen to make Lorenzo come after her, she’d made a decision that had almost cost her life. Combined with last night’s attack from the nephil, her mortality had been thrust into her son’s face—after decades of never letting him see her bloodied by so much as a scratch.

“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.