Demon Blood (40 page)

His chest lifted on a heavy breath. “Would it do any good to tell you that you’ve gone overboard punishing yourself?”

“No. Some burdens cannot be taken away with words.”

Deacon gave a short laugh. “Don’t I know it.”

He would. No words could take away what he bore, thanks to the demons and the decisions he made.

Smiling, she returned to her chair. “But I cannot regret for a moment that he is mine. Even when he is a . . . whatever you would have said he is.”

His laugh became a grin, and her heart turned over. She could regret nothing here, either. And no matter his reaction when he learned her part in his past, she would live with the decisions she’d made.

“Did you want children?” she wondered.

“You don’t keep that in your story file?”

“No.” And she loved that there was so much still to learn about him. “Did you?”

“Yeah. I wanted kids.”

“You did?” Anxiety rushed through her; she hadn’t really expected that answer. “Did you know that choice would be gone? Did Camille tell you?”

“Yes. She laid it all out. Everything.”

“Oh.” It came out on a breathy laugh. “Good.”

Leaning forward against the back of the chair, he put his hands on her knees, squeezed gently. “That’s a lot of relief. You didn’t make that choice?”

“I did before taking my vows. But vampires . . . so many are disappointed later. It’s best that they know before they transform.”

Wicked humor lit his gaze. “Maybe the nephil blood changed that. We should test whether I’m fertile now. Test hard, and test often.”

Her laugh came out in a rush, and she thought:
This
was when lovers touched, and showed affection for the person with them. Her stomach in knots, she leaned forward, brushed her mouth over his.

He palmed the back of her head before she could pull away. “You want me to try now, just give the word.”

Oh, how she did. She wanted him inside her all the time, her body against his, overwhelmed by emotion and release. She wanted to lie against him afterward, stroking his skin.

But she thought of those vampires, in their little world for thirty years. And sighed.

“I’m beginning to hate that sound,” he said, kissing her briefly and letting her go. He sat back. “You did good with St. Croix.”

And so, back to work. “I hope so.”

“He could have been a wild card.”

“He still is.” But hopefully he’d wait to play until they’d finished.

“You reeled him in with that story about your mother.” When she looked at him, he asked quietly, “You think that’s true—that killing herself was part of a bargain?”

“No,” she said, and could see his surprise. “But it’s possible that’s what
his
father did.”

His green eyes pierced her, as if trying to see into her. He thought she was deflecting again, she realized. He didn’t want to hear about St. Croix’s father—he wanted to know about her.

“My mother was a strong woman,” Rosalia explained. “But he beat her down, and she gave up.”

He nodded, as if she’d just confirmed something he’d thought. “And now you
can’t
give up. And it’s why you can’t get back into bed when you have work to do.”

He thought he’d pinned her with that one thing? “It’s not that simple.”

“No? Don’t tell me you haven’t thought how different your and your brother’s life would be if she had stuck in there and protected you, or gotten you out of there.”

Rosalia
had
thought about it. A thousand times. And just as often, she’d ruminated on how evil a demon must be, that he could take a strong-willed human and break her down so that death seemed a better option than living and protecting her children. Rosalia had her own child now. She couldn’t fathom the depth of evil that would lead her to leave him unprotected.

Her mother had faced that evil and lost; Rosalia would fight until her last breath to destroy it. But she wasn’t stronger than her mother. She just had more knowledge . . . and a better plan.

“My life would have been different, but it could have been better or worse. I only know what
is
—and now I’m a Guardian. Perhaps my mother’s suicide shaped me, but my mother is not the only reason I cannot give up. Vin, Gemma, you . . . my Guardian friends, the vampires I’ve watched and known for centuries. You are all reasons. And, if Anaria has her way, every human’s free will is in danger—perhaps their lives. I have many reasons not to quit. It’s not as simple as my mother.”

“So you’re a woman with a mission.” His expression remained serious, his gaze still penetrating. “A mission you meant to convince me to join. London forced you into doing it faster.”

Her stomach sank. He
had
heard Father Wojcinski. “Yes.”

“You didn’t like the idea of using me, so you convinced me instead. And I’m here, willingly, so you must have. Hell, I came running back after you. What did you do?”

“Deacon—”

“What string in me did you pull?”

“That you’re a good man. That you’ve
always
been a good man, and a strong one.”

He shot to his feet. “Cut the bullshit, Rosie. Specifically.”

It wasn’t bullshit, but the truth. Because if it hadn’t been, nothing she’d done would have made a difference to him.

“I made myself a person to you, because you can’t ignore a person in need. And instead of asking you to do it for humans or vampires . . . I gave you me.”

Deacon stared at her, as if he didn’t recognize the woman before him. “So when I woke up in that plane, you weren’t exposing yourself to me. You weren’t confessing your guts. It was calculated, designed to get me to go along with you.”

“Yes.” Though it made her more vulnerable to him. Though it meant he could tear her apart.

Her heart ached. She tried to brace herself. He could tear her apart now, with a few words. He looked angry enough to do it.

He shook his head, looked away from her. “At least you didn’t know I was awake.”

That cut deep. He would have believed that she’d gotten into bed with him just to keep him here? Her chest hurt too much to speak, but she managed, “No. I didn’t.”

“And it’s the only thing that’s keeping me from walking out that door right now.” He strode toward her instead. With two fingers, he lifted her chin until she met his unyielding gaze. “Don’t fuck with me like that, Rosie. Not again. Caym used me, manipulated me, and he got the response he wanted. But I never liked it even when Camille was doing it. So don’t play me again.”

She nodded. She wouldn’t need to. He was here now.

“That includes those sad eyes.”

She frowned up at him, confused. “I don’t know what—”

“I know you don’t.” Deacon sighed, then leaned over and kissed her hard. “Now, what’s going on for tonight?”

Deacon couldn’t get a bead on her. Just a few minutes ago, she’d been sitting in her chair, looking like she was facing a firing squad. Now she was all business, outlining that evening’s schedule.

He couldn’t make perfect sense of that, either. Her plan was simple enough—have Taylor teleport them to Lisbon, he’d slay one of Theriault’s demons, then pay a visit to the vampire community’s leader—but it didn’t fit the same pattern. They weren’t targeting a demon who’d taken over a community, but one who lived in the same city. The demon had put some minor pressure on the community leader to come under his protection, but the community had seen what had happened to Deacon after falling in with a demon, and declined his offer. That had been the end of it. No threats, no immediate danger. So why this one?

By the time Rosalia finished up, Deacon still didn’t know where she was going with it. “How is this going to establish me as head?”

She glanced away from her computer, brows lifted. “It’s not.”

“No? I’m not blind, Rosie. You’ve brought in three large communities under me in as many days. Why is this one different?”

“You’re not taking over the communities. Unless you want to?” When he shook his head, she smiled, just a slight curve of her gorgeous lips. “Why did I ask? In any case, there’s no reason to displace José Carvalho. He’s a good leader, just as Tomás is.”

“Then what have I been doing, aside from killing demons?”

Deacon didn’t believe for a second that she wasn’t working up to something else. They’d been hopping all over Europe, and when they’d been heading for communities in trouble, that had made sense. Lisbon seemed random—and he had a feeling that nothing Rosalia did was random.

And he sure as hell didn’t think the sudden nervousness he detected in the pale set of her mouth was leading up to anything good. She was worried about this next part, but she didn’t back away from it, or try to deflect.

Looking him square on, she said, “You’ve been regaining their respect and confidence, so that when we find Malkvial, you’ve got them all behind you.”

What did respect and confidence have to do with Malkvial? But he didn’t get a chance to ask. From behind him, a ragged breath sounded, followed by splashing water and the sharp scent of chlorine.

Taylor.

Rosalia leapt to her feet, calling in her swords. She tried to block him from Taylor’s sight; Deacon didn’t let her push him back. He turned around and got right in front of her again. He didn’t have shirt or weapons, but he’d be damned if Rosalia ever took another hit for him.

But the Taylor who’d teleported into the War Room wasn’t the empty, possessed woman who’d attacked them the night before. Though her clothes were soaked and her red hair plastered to her skull, her blue eyes were sharp and clear. This woman, Deacon recognized from when he’d first met her—this was the detective.

A dismayed detective. She looked down at her dripping clothes, the puddles on the slate tile. “Sorry about the floor. I can’t get my head around the water to vanish it. And . . . I’m a mess.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Rosalia spoke in English, her accent matching Taylor’s American one. The water vanished from around the other woman’s bare feet, from her clothes. “We’re informal here.”

Taylor glanced up, focused on Deacon’s naked chest. “I see.”

Rosalia laughed softly, but Deacon was grateful when she handed him a white T-shirt. He liked Rosalia looking at him. And maybe it was just his 120-year-old Victorian sensibilities kicking in, but he preferred that
only
Rosalia did the looking.

He dragged the shirt over his head. “Are you all right, then?”

“I’m better than usual.” She looked to Deacon, then back to Rosalia. “First, I apologize for eavesdropping on your conversation. You said my name, and after that I couldn’t
not
hear it.”

“Understood.” Rosalia vanished her swords.

So Taylor could listen in on their Italian, but she only spoke English? Deacon said in Czech, “Something you heard here brought you?”

Taylor caught on quick. “It’s Michael,” she explained. “What you just said sounded like nonsense to me, but once it’s in my head, I know what it means. It freaks me out.”

Then Deacon would switch to English, too. “So what brought you up here?”

“Hearing that you’ve all but taken over a couple of communities, which means you’re painting a target on your back for the nephilim. And that’s just bad juju.”

Rosalia shook her head. “No. Deacon isn’t actually leading any communities. I wouldn’t take that risk.”

“And if that was how it worked, you’d be okay. But it’s not, and neither Anaria nor the nephilim will stop to consider whether he’s
actually
leading the communities. If they hear he’s bringing several cities under him, they’ll think: Here’s our chance to kill a bunch of vampires in one go. They’ll end up disappointed when his blood doesn’t have all of the resonances they’re looking for . . . but by then it’ll be too late.”

Deacon looked to Rosalia, saw the same confusion on her face—and a lot of worry. He turned back to Taylor. “You’ve got to explain this.”

Taylor told them how Khavi explained the blood and the resonance to her, and she couldn’t decide what horrified Rosalia more: that her plan painted a target on Deacon’s back, or that Taylor had been visiting with Anaria.

When Taylor finished, she looked at Deacon. “I couldn’t figure out was wrong. You’re awake.”

He wasn’t the only vampire that Taylor knew who could resist the daysleep, but the other one had been infected with dragon blood through Michael’s sword. Only Anaria and Irena had weapons of similar power now.

Deacon glanced at Rosalia. He waited until she nodded before saying, “We killed a nephil last night. I drank its blood.”

Darkness flashed through her mind. Taylor rocked back, fighting it. When Rosalia took a step toward her, her face lined with concern, she held up her hand. “I’m okay. He’s just . . . worried. That’s really bad news. If she finds out, she’ll gun hard for you. And for you”—she glanced at Rosalia—“for protecting him. And anyone else who was with you, or in her way.”