Demon Blood (42 page)

Rosalia would have preferred to remain outside in the dark when they arrived at the vampire’s house. The front walk led through a walled garden, designed with both day- and night-dwellers in mind. Palms and eucalyptus trees sheltered camellias and rhododendrons. Beside the verandah, water bubbled over Moorish tiles and splashed into a small pond stocked with fat gold and white koi.

Deacon rang the bell and announced his name through the speaker. A few seconds later, she caught his fleeting surprise when they heard the locks disengage. He hadn’t expected that the vampire would open the door to him.

Tall and dark, José Carvalho wore buff trousers and a loose white linen shirt. Gray peppered his hair, and faint lines fanned around his eyes and bracketed his mouth. Behind him waited his wife, Maria, her blond hair loosely gathered at her nape, looking cool and elegant in a vintage sleeveless dress.

They’d been middle-aged when they’d transformed, with two grown children. One had become a vampire. The other was now a grandparent.

She didn’t want to be here. In this house, she couldn’t escape what it meant to be an immortal with children who weren’t—and it hurt her heart.

José smiled. “Come in, my friends, before the heat does.”

The couple led them to a comfortable room, lined with books and a large- screen television. Games were tucked away in a shelf. A small stuffed animal was caught between the cushions of a sofa. Not just a room—a
family
room. Too easily, Rosalia could imagine gatherings in this room, of humans and vampires.

Focusing on Deacon instead, she watched him set the bag on a low table and open it. José took a look. Satisfaction flashed over his expression. He didn’t show his fear, but Rosalia sensed it.

“The demons won’t retaliate? The other communities are worried.”

Deacon shook his head. “They won’t stoop to retaliation. Any demon who admits that a vampire could do this would seem weak.”

Nodding, José looked to Rosalia, and she felt his gentle probe against her psychic shields, followed by Maria’s. Rosalia pretended not to notice.

After a moment, Maria smiled at her. “Would you like coffee?”

Rosalia glanced at Deacon, her brows lifting. The less she participated in the conversation, the better. It would be simpler all around if she just didn’t speak, but knowing that neither José nor Maria understood Czech was the next best thing.
“Nerozumím.”

Rosalia turned to Maria, shaking her head.
“Neděkuji.”

“No, thank you. We won’t be here long,” Deacon explained, and when their curiosity didn’t lessen, he added, “Her sister, Anna, was a young member of my community.”

“I see.” Nodding, José returned his attention to Deacon. “We’d heard that a human was with you, though no one knew who she was. But yes, that makes perfect sense. Do you plan to turn her?”

Deacon laughed. “No. She’s far too good for the likes of me.”

José smiled before turning serious again. “What are you intending to do? Kill them all?”

“What do you think my chances of that are?” Deacon smiled faintly when José didn’t answer. “I’ll find some other way of making certain we’re safe from them.”

With an elegant wave, Maria gestured toward the bag. “We’re already safer than we were.”

“It’s never enough,” Deacon said, then looked to Rosalia. “And we have more to do. We should go.”

José extended his hand. “Thank you. If you need a community, Deacon, you will always have a place here.”

Deacon stared at the other vampire for a moment before slowly taking his hand. His voice had roughened. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

At the door, Rosalia managed to butcher a simple
adeus
and left, satisfied. Almost satisfied.

She frowned at him as soon as they reached the street. “
I’m
too good for you? What were Eva and Petra—dog meat?”

“I sure as hell didn’t mean that.” Deacon’s mouth flattened. “They were too good for me, too. They deserved a lot better than they got.”

Better than a man who destroyed himself trying to save them? But no argument would matter, she knew. This was his burden.

As if he read her thoughts, he said quietly, “It doesn’t matter how hard I tried, Rosie. I failed.”

Yes. She understood that, too well. It wouldn’t matter how hard she worked to destroy the nephilim and Belial’s demons, or how well parts of her plan succeeded. If she failed . . . all of the good intentions in the world would not make up for it.

And as many reasons as she had for doing this, she had just as many ways to fail.

A chartered flight waited to take them from Lisbon to Paris. If the demons had begun to track Deacon’s movements, Rosalia didn’t want to point them to Rome. At the Paris hotel, she checked on her surveillance equipment before taking a train to the edge of the city. From there, Rosalia formed her wings and carried him.

She flew too fast to talk. They were vulnerable in this position—and they’d lost an hour returning east. If she didn’t reach home before dawn, Deacon would be making the end of this trip covered by a body bag.

When they arrived, the abbey was empty. Rosalia wanted nothing more than to fly straight to her bedchamber with Deacon, but the ringing of a telephone in the War Room called her there instead. She landed on the second-level walkway, vanishing her wings.

“St. Croix?” Deacon asked.

Rosalia shook her head. The number she’d given St. Croix had a different ring. This was the number she’d given only the vampires within her community.

For a brief moment, she let herself hope that it was someone she hadn’t accounted for—a vampire who’d managed to escape the nephilim. But even before she looked at the display, she knew who it must be: Camille, and with Deacon standing by to hear every word.

Her heart thundering, she answered. “Camille.”

A brief silence was followed by the sound of someone rushing across the room. She must have been letting it ring over speakerphone for some time. Yes, Camille was tenacious.

“
Bonjour
, Eliska. Yves sends his love.”

Rosalia had never officially met Yves, and so Camille was simply telling her that Yves was in the same room—which meant that Camille would be careful how she spoke, as well.

Rosalia couldn’t relax, though. Deacon was looking at her, and the thunderclouds on his face weren’t promising. Rosalia sank into her chair and turned away from him. She couldn’t manage both. Not now.

And she’d promised not to manage him, anyway.

She kept her voice cool. “Deacon might want to pass on such sentiments to Yves, but I won’t. I thought your hospitality was lacking when you last met with him.”

“At the hotel restaurant? I didn’t see you.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

There was a smile in Camille’s reply. “But I recognized your touch in recent events.”

“I haven’t touched anything. Deacon has. He’s much stronger than a human, after all.”

“I see.” Camille digested that quickly. Rosalia wouldn’t need to make it any clearer: She didn’t want anyone to know that a Guardian was involved. “But tell me, Eliska, what have you planned? He’s taken Budapest, Athens, Monaco . . . and now José Carvalho is ready to lay down his life for him. You must appreciate that we need to know whether Paris is next.”

Rosalia sighed as she heard a burst of French from Yves in the background. Camille was trying to understand what Rosalia’s endgame was. Yves just wondered if his position was being threatened. “No. But I do expect you to welcome him with the respect he deserves.”

“If I’d known—”

“You’re too clever for that, Camille.” Complimenting the other woman always helped smooth over bad news. Rosalia didn’t intend to involve her yet—not until all of the other community elders were involved, too. “You don’t start moving a queen around the board on the opening gambit. We’ll need you, in time. But for now, Deacon has the maneuverability and the strength to set up the game.”

Camille made a noncommittal noise—then sighed as, in the background, Yves asked about London and the nephilim.

At his bidding, Camille asked, “Will you take care of that community, as well?”

Not Rosalia.
Another
queen.

Rosalia sat up straight, her mind racing.

Anaria.
Michael was gone. But Anaria had just as much power. Possibly more—and if the demons slaughtered the nephilim, no one would have more reason to kill them than the nephilim’s mother.

But Rosalia would have to bring in Taylor, too. Oh, Lord. It would be so dangerous for them all.

Failure would be worse.

“Mother? Have you a solution for London?”

“Let us pray so.” She heard Camille’s delicate snort of laughter, and then another sigh when Yves launched into an invective against the nephilim, opining that the British vampires deserved it, and expressing his anger that the nephilim had only targeted Europe and America. “Good night, Camille.”

She hung up, and braced herself before looking up into Deacon’s face. His expression was rigid with controlled anger.

“
Camille
is the vampire who left before the others were slaughtered?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago did she work with you?”

“The three decades preceding the First World War.”

That was earlier than he’d expected, but the surprise didn’t abate his anger. He stalked to the wall, and back. “Let me guess: She learned everything from you.”

Not everything. Camille had a natural ability with men that Rosalia could never claim. Camille could be funny and lighthearted, with a quick smile and a quicker comeback—talents which had won Deacon over, those many years ago. Talents that Rosalia did not possess.

“She learned many things here, yes. But not everything.”

“And there’s no question how you knew so much about me. She fed you—”

“No,” Rosalia cut him off, and rose to her feet. “She didn’t want to work for the Church. But there were other things that needed to be done in those years.” And Camille needed her own purpose. In truth, Rosalia had manipulated Camille’s life as much as she had Deacon’s. Ninety years ago, his need and Camille’s had dovetailed, and Rosalia had used that knowledge to bring them together—though doing so had killed her. “But she did not feed me information on you. Everything I know, I saw myself.”

“Bullshit. She has your direct number.”

“To reach me if she ever needs help. Or if she knows someone else who does.”

He didn’t believe her. She could feel his distrust, see it in the rigid stance of his body, as if he expected her to drop something else on him. First Malkvial, now Camille.

And perhaps she deserved that distrust. She
should
have told him how well she knew Camille, but revealing their connection had felt too close to losing him altogether. The timing had just always been so wrong.

It still was. Sighing, she glanced at the clock. “It’s almost dawn. You don’t want to be locked in here all day.”

The tightening of his jaw said it best.
Not in here with her. Not now.

And she had to live with the decisions she made—even when it hurt. “Come on, then.”

The garage had been built onto the back of the abbey about forty or fifty years ago, Deacon guessed. The only access was from the outside, though the eastern door. The place hadn’t been used often. Some oil scent still lingered, but not much. A man could have eaten off the concrete floors. The glass in the big bay door had recently been painted over to block the light. The tools laid out on the worktable sparkled, unmarred by even a fingerprint. She’d even set up a computer and phone so that he could research parts and order them. The whole setup was like a cleaner, sparser version of what he’d had in Prague.

Rosalia watched him look around, the sadness in her eyes fading and taking on life. She was excited about this.