Demon Blood (43 page)

He was wary. She’d put a hell of a lot of effort and money into this. And he couldn’t fault her choice of car currently sitting in the bay. He’d wanted to get his hands on a Ferrari 250 GTL for years—but then, Rosalia knew a lot about what he’d like. Knew that he’d used to do restore and resell cars like this for a living. And he’d made money from it, but he’d loved it, too. His garage and vehicles had been the last things he’d sold before leaving Prague.

But it felt too much like how Camille used to give him gifts to help soften the blow of something she’d done, or something she wanted. She’d hand the gift over, talking about how much she’d appreciated him . . . and then drop a bomb on him a few days later.

He slid his palm over the dull red fender. Solid. Not rusted out, just banged up a little. Tires rotted, upholstery a mess. Overall, not bad shape, but it’d take a lot of work. He lifted the hood and grimaced. She’d been stripped for parts, and what was left had corroded. He’d have to rebuild the engine.

He was already itching to get in there.

“It’s the best I could get on short notice.” Rosalia came up next to him, her hands tucked in her elbows. “If you’d prefer another vehicle, I can find it for you.”

On short notice, because she and Taylor had thrown this together yesterday afternoon . . . just after Taylor had shown up and put a halt to Rosalia telling him about Malkvial. But she must have known that revelation was coming. The timing of this whole damn thing couldn’t have been better, could it?

When he didn’t answer, she sighed and pointed to the back wall of the garage. “The sparring chamber is on the other side. After I sunproof that room, I can open this wall up. The War Room is right above it. It shouldn’t be difficult to construct an access stair through the floor—and then you could move around between here and the second-level chambers during the day.”

Wasn’t that convenient? “That seems like a lot of work, when your plan should be all finished up within a week and a half. I’ll be out of here then.”

The excitement in her eyes dimmed. He watched her back-pedal as if she realized the big prize she’d dangled wasn’t as tempting as she’d hoped. “Well. It’s best that you’re comfortable while you’re here.”

“Comfortable will win you points, sure. But if you want to give me something to do and keep me comfortable while I’m at it, just put me in your bed and fuck me.”

He’d discovered how calculating she could be—but she didn’t run cold. Never cold. Her eyes began to glow, a fierce yellow light.

“Yes, you’re right. This isn’t about giving you something to keep you occupied for the day. It’s not about knowing how you enjoy restoring vehicles, and that you sold yours to pay for revenge. It’s not about any of that. It’s about scoring points, and managing you.”

Her anger burned against his shields. The hurt that sounded beneath made him want to reach out.

But maybe that was what she wanted. Maybe she counted on him taking that step toward her. Now she stared at him, as if waiting—for what? An apology? Fuck that. It wasn’t like Camille had been a passing acquaintance.
He’d lived with her for twenty-five years
. Longer than many human marriages. That wasn’t something a person failed to mention unless there was a reason to hide it. And the only reason for Rosalia to conceal her history with Camille was that she’d gotten something out of it, and didn’t want him to know.

Had Camille told her every string in him to pull? God knew, Rosalia’s fingers were right in there, right around his heart. He couldn’t take a fucking breath without feeling her and the hold she had on him.

Rosalia decided not to wait anymore. Throwing up her hands, she spun away from him. “All right. You think fucking earns points? Then go fuck yourself, Deacon. You’re guaranteed to win.”

Faint sunlight stung his eyes as she slammed through the door and into the dawn. Deacon turned, resting his palms on the hood, resisting the urge to pound his fist through steel.

Twenty-four hours ago, she’d come into his bed. In less than a day, it’d all fallen apart—and he couldn’t even dredge up surprise. He’d never deserved anything she’d offered. And even though he was good and fucked now, he hadn’t won.

He’d lost something, instead.

Her leaving set a pattern for the next several days. Dawn found Deacon in the garage, where he’d work until the sun set. Then he’d snag a unit of blood from the kitchen and join her in the War Room. She’d lay out the plans for the evening, and they’d be off. Deacon would slay another demon in another city. Then she crammed yet another city into their nightly schedule, and barely got him back to the abbey before the sun rose again.

During the day, she swam. He heard her as she swam. And gardened. Her hair smelled like chlorine and her hands like earth. He imagined her out in the sunshine, with the War Room doors open and listening to the surveillance on St. Croix and Theriault the same way another woman might listen to the radio.

And she didn’t touch him. The first night, he saw the way her fingers clenched when he’d emerged from her bedchamber, showered and dressed for the evening. But she didn’t straighten him up.

The next night, he’d deliberately left himself a mess. She’d crossed her arms over her chest and tucked her hands in tight, and he remembered where he’d seen her do that before: with Vin, as if she’d been afraid her son might slap her hands away.

Since then, he hadn’t had a hair out of place or a collar bent wrong.

And once he got over being pissed, not a minute passed that he didn’t think of taking that step toward her. After Malkvial and Camille, she couldn’t possibly have anything else to drop on him. And though she was only a few rooms away, he missed her like hell. Warm and sweet and clever, yet so vulnerable. She looked at him like he was worth something. She truly believed he could pull her plan off. She’d trusted him. And he knew the pleasure they’d found in bed had just been them—no plan, no calculation there. They’d fit together well.

But he didn’t go to her, and didn’t call her in. It was better this way. Once they’d finished, she wouldn’t have a use for him, and he’d be gone. Far easier to make the break now.

And so he stayed in the garage, and the few words that passed between them were about the demons he’d be killing. She put the blood in the refrigerator and told him to help himself when he needed it. She asked him daily if he’d seen Taylor and to send the Guardian to her if he did.

But they spoke only after sunset. During the day, she left him alone. She never came into the garage. He shut off the air-conditioning and let in the heat, stripping to the waist while he worked beneath the car. By afternoon, the garage sweltered. Sweat rolled into his eyes.

He didn’t sleep, and no longer had nightmares, but the days were still his own personal hell. A hell of his making, and one he deserved. The small heaven of her, he didn’t.

And when Taylor teleported in, both her eyes and her mind dark, empty voids, he realized that he was finally going to pay.

Rosalia’s hands were deep in the soil when the psychic darkness rolled into her—the same she’d felt while flying over the Mediterranean.

Taylor.
Oh, God.

She leapt to her feet and ran. The sparring chamber passed in a blur. Lowering her right shoulder, she rammed into the wall shared by the garage. Stone and plaster exploded around her.

Rosalia stumbled through, her right arm shattered with pain, sword in her left hand. She froze.

Deacon lay on the concrete, Taylor’s blade at his throat. She stood over him, her eyes empty, but she was struggling against Michael’s hold. Her hand trembled. A line of blood ran down the side of Deacon’s neck.

“Taylor.” She tried to keep her voice calm. Agony engulfed the arm that she lifted toward the other woman. “Bring your sword here. You don’t want to do this.”

The other Guardian made a soft sound, a whimper that wasn’t just her. Michael’s harmonic voice deepened it almost to a growl. Her shaking increased.

Deacon’s gaze never left Taylor’s face. “Maybe she does, Rosie. Maybe he’s just giving her what she wants.”

Taylor’s life had been taken away. Her will, possessed. They were both reasons to seek revenge . . . if Taylor had been another woman.

But Taylor wasn’t seeking revenge. Michael was seeking it
for
her. And Rosalia had been appealing to the wrong Guardian.

“Michael,” Rosalia said, and hoped to God that he could hear her. Hoping the tortures of the frozen field hadn’t just reduced him to base impulse, but that some semblance of reason was left. “If you make her do this, she’ll carry that forever. If you want this, wait until you come back and do it yourself. Don’t lay this burden on her.”

Taylor gasped and began breathing again, air sawing past clenched teeth. Some of the darkness receded. Either he’d let go a little, or she was taking control. Rosalia pushed harder, striking Michael where it would matter most. No Guardian cared more about honoring free will—not just in humans, but in everyone.

“Michael, she’s fighting you. You’ve taken her free will. Don’t use her for this. She’s not like us. She doesn’t kill for revenge—only for defense or to protect. Don’t make her into something else against her will.”

Michael’s hold on her broke. Taylor’s sword vanished. She fell to her knees, retching and coughing.

Rosalia rushed to Deacon. “Are you all right?” She could see he was, but she needed to touch him. His blood slid beneath her fingers when she checked the wound on his neck, but the puncture had already healed. Sweat bathed his skin. “Why is it so hot in here?”

He didn’t respond. She looked up at him. His eyes were fixed and staring, like the daysleep . . . or death.

Ice crept up her spine. “Deacon?”

His psychic scent suddenly battered against her shields. Deacon’s . . . but not just a vampire’s. Dark and strong, it slid over her mind like the scales of a snake. A nephil’s psychic scent.

Deacon sat up.

“Deacon?”

He faced her, spoke. His empty eyes sparked terror in her heart, but the words he spoke were worse.

The demon language.

She grabbed his hand as he stood. With frightening ease, he flung her away. Rosalia smashed against the side of the car. Pain ripped though her arm. Glass shattered and rained down. Fighting against tears, Rosalia struggled to her knees. She watched him turn and head for the door.

For the sun.

She caught him halfway across the garage, tried to tackle him to the ground. It was like wrestling with a mountain. Wrapping her good arm around his waist, she tried to dig her heels in.

“Taylor, help me!”

Deacon spoke again, still in that unintelligible language, his voice frighteningly even. He trudged forward, dragging her along, Rosalia’s weight nothing to his strength.

Taylor appeared beside them. “He’s being called.”

Horror gripped her.
“What?”

But Rosalia understood, too well. Like the nephil whose blood he’d taken, now Deacon was being called to enforce the Rules. He couldn’t resist the call—but he couldn’t teleport; he couldn’t fly. He could only walk out into the sun.

“A demon has broken the Rules,” Taylor said, her voice harmonic and her eyes black, and Rosalia didn’t know if she was translating the words Deacon was shouting, or if Michael was speaking now. “The demon must be slain.”

Taylor reached out, touched them both. And teleported.

Darkness surrounded him. Pain screamed through his mind. But the pain wasn’t his. It was
hers
.

The darkness suddenly receded, though the world remained dim, as if viewed through smoked glass. Deacon recognized Rosalia’s shadowy veil, her Gift enveloping him in darkness. He saw her, standing in front of him, a sword in her right hand, her left arm hanging limply at her side. The shadows beneath her boots stretched toward Deacon, bleeding into the veil around him. Beyond her, a nephil with giant black wings held a demon’s head. The scent of the demon’s blood pierced the veil, sparked Deacon’s hunger.