Demon Blood (7 page)

Rosalia didn’t want to wait. She wanted to strike before Anaria did, though she didn’t know what form that strike would take, and she suspected that no one but Michael would be powerful enough to bring it about. She couldn’t compose Anaria’s ending yet.

The nephilim’s end, however—Rosalia imagined that often. And although those scenarios took many forms, the result was always bloody.

How to do it, though? She had nothing but time to contemplate a solution as she flew west, her wings beating a steady course above the Atlantic. Methodically, she reviewed everything she knew about Anaria and her children, went over the grigori’s story again and again, but she came up with few ideas.

The nephilim were too powerful. Anaria was too powerful. If the Guardians faced off against them, singly or together, Rosalia saw only disaster.

Halfway across the ocean, Rosalia caught up to the sun, slipped past another dawn and into the night. The moon had already set, deepening the darkness and making the shadows easier to gather. With her Gift, Rosalia congealed the darkness like glue. She wrapped it around her body and stretched the shadows, forcing them to carry her along. The wind roared in her ears; she thickened the shadows into a cocoon of silence. In the quiet, she raced through the dark, across a continent, faster than she could fly. Within ten minutes, she reached the bay east of San Francisco. Though in the early hours of the morning, the city shone brightly, busy with life.

She pulled out of the shadows and spread her wings. Cool air sifted through her white feathers. Not far from the shoreline, a dilapidated warehouse sat inside a large fenced lot—Special Investigations’ headquarters.

The exterior of the building had surprised Rosalia the first time she’d seen it. After Deacon had led Irena to the catacombs and Irena had destroyed the nosferatu feeding from Rosalia, they’d brought her here. She’d woken up inside the warehouse, where everything was modern and new. She hadn’t expected the disrepair on the outside, but she
should
have. It was the first lesson Michael taught each of them: Appearances were almost always deceiving. It didn’t require full-blown cynicism, but a healthy dose of suspicion never hurt.

Or it ended up hurting
less
. Rosalia could’ve probably exercised her cynicism a little more often.

The warehouse door opened into an empty white corridor. At the end, a novice disguised as an older gentleman in a butler’s uniform waited behind thick glass. With her Gift, Rosalia could have slipped into the building without using the entrance or bothering with security, but doing so felt rude. Though every Guardian was welcome at the warehouse, this facility and Special Investigations wasn’t
hers
. She presented her identification, instead, and submitted to the retinal scans designed to verify the identity of shape-shifters. Once admitted, she passed into a hallway, walked past offices and conferences rooms. They were mostly quiet now, though a few Guardians and vampires sat at desks, typing on their computers and speaking various languages into their phones.

She reached the warehouse’s hub, where corridors headed in four directions and stairs led to the second floor. From the passageway across the hub, the psychic hum of a Gate reverberated through her mind, warm and gentle. With a few steps, she could cross into Caelum, a city of marble shining beneath a never-setting sun. She turned left, instead, seeking either Jake or Selah, two Guardians with the ability to teleport. Rosalia’s Gift could carry her through the dark, but she couldn’t go to a specific person unless she already knew where they were.

She found Jake in the tech room. The young Guardian stood in front of one of the computers, his hands clasped behind his shaved head, staring at the machine like he wanted to shove his boot through the screen. The scent of fried circuitry hung in the air.

She’d heard he’d picked up another Gift after he’d been transformed a second time. Apparently he was still working through the kinks.

Jake glanced at Rosalia when she said his name, then did a double- take.

She wasn’t surprised by his reaction. She hadn’t been in contact with any other Guardian since taking Deacon from Prague to her home. She was, however, surprised that he managed to keep his eyes on her face. Whenever she’d seen him before, his gaze had always been glued to her chest.

God had been generous when He’d created her—and He was either kind to the men who looked at her, or cruel enough to test their character every time they did.

“Hello. Jake.” She waved her hand, hoping to snap him out of the surprised expression that was rapidly turning into uncertainty. “Ciao
.
I know I have dropped in on you, but I need to speak with Michael. Will you take me to him?”

His eyes widened. His gaze hadn’t dropped yet. Impressive. “Uh, yeah. But I don’t know if I can—”

“Will you try? It’s important.”

“But, you can’t—Shit. I need to tell you . . .” Doubt flooded his psychic scent. He ran his hands over his head, obviously flustered. “Hold on, okay?”

He vanished.

Rosalia smiled and closed her eyes. In the darkness, she listened. Upstairs, the novices chatted and played the card games that doubled as practice. Most of the rooms on the second floor were empty. Six months ago, she’d tried to seduce Deacon in one of those rooms, hoping he’d warm to her. It hadn’t worked, and she’d left—disappointed, frustrated, angry. She’d thought he’d been beaten by another vampire, rejected by his women, and tossed out of the community he’d once led. She hadn’t known his partners Eva and Petra had a demon’s knife to their throats.

Now knowing the true circumstances, she respected that he hadn’t accepted what she’d offered. Not that she’d been very good at seduction. She’d never included it in her repertoire of talents.

Perhaps she should have. She wasn’t likely to get the chance again, and she’d have liked to know what it was to be with him, even once.

She also liked to console herself by imagining that he’d turn in a terrible performance. A suck and a thrust and a
haul off
.

Heartbeats and a rustle of clothing told Rosalia that Jake had returned—but not with Michael. Irena and Alejandro accompanied him, still unsteady on their feet from the teleportation. Rosalia lifted her brows at Jake. Maybe he’d thought she just needed assistance slaying a demon. Alejandro and Irena were undeniably perfect for that. But they weren’t who she needed now.

Jake shifted his feet, looked both apologetic and uneasy, so she turned to Alejandro.

“Thank you for coming, but—”

“We aren’t Michael,” Irena said.

Rosalia glanced at the other woman. She didn’t know Irena well—had avoided her, in fact. Though small and compact, Irena’s loud laugh, brassy hair, and the serpent tattoos winding her arms drew attention, and Rosalia felt exposed just by proximity. She preferred to wait quietly and watch, unnoticed. She could not do so next to a woman who wore leather longstockings and a white fur mantle. Alejandro, however, was more like Rosalia, and the resemblance went deeper than their height and the darkness of their hair. Though Alejandro hadn’t been raised by a demon, he’d been a noble during the Spanish Inquisition, and it had taught him subtlety and how to maneuver gracefully around his opponents—in both his speech and his use of the sword. He and Irena were two of the oldest, most respected Guardians, but Irena was right: They were not Michael.

Rosalia tried to frame a response that wouldn’t be taken as an insult—then decided Irena probably wouldn’t care. “No. You aren’t.”

Alejandro signaled for Jake to leave them. The young Guardian vanished again, and dread began to rise through Rosalia’s heart. Despite her response, Alejandro hadn’t asked him to find Michael. Why?

Irena said, “Michael is dead.”

Michael was
dead
? Rosalia shook her head. She couldn’t have heard that right. What could have killed him? “I do not—No. I don’t understand. Where is he?”

Alejandro stepped forward. Rosalia wondered if he thought he’d have to catch her, but his hands remained at his sides. “We couldn’t find you to tell you.”

A question lay in that statement—
Where have you been?
—but Rosalia couldn’t answer. The joy of that morning had turned into the heavy weight of despair. She had to know. “How?”

Irena’s eyes flared a venomous green. “Anaria.”

That seemed to be enough explanation for Irena. Rosalia looked at her helplessly, hoping for more.

Alejandro elaborated, “Anaria weakened the barrier between Hell and Chaos. If she took the throne, her nephilim would return to Earth and rule over mankind. And if Lucifer broke through to Chaos—”

“He’d bring another dragon,” Rosalia whispered. Dragons, demons, hellhounds—the Lord knew what other terrors.

“Yes,” Alejandro said. “Michael sacrificed himself to strengthen the barrier. He’s in the frozen field now.”

In Hell.
Tortured, with the dragons eating his body in Chaos, his face frozen into the floor of the territory that surrounded Lucifer’s throne. Oh, God.

Rosalia’s knees wouldn’t hold her. She staggered back. In a blur of movement, Alejandro raced forward and slid a chair behind her. She sat heavily, her elbows on her knees, trying to breathe despite the drowning weight that seemed to be filling her chest.

“We’ll get him back,” Irena said, and again, Rosalia was at a loss. Get him back? From
death
?

“How?” she repeated, feeling stupid. She didn’t like asking questions unless she already knew the answers.

“Khavi.”

Khavi, the one powerful grigori the Guardians had left on their side. But was she powerful enough—knowledgeable enough—to pull Michael out of the frozen field? Could it possibly be done?

Once again, Alejandro filled in what Irena had left unexplained. “As we speak, she is searching for a spell that will keep the barrier strong, and to return Michael’s spirit to his body.” He hesitated before adding, “It may take some time.”

Rosalia’s every thought seemed sluggish. She forced her mind to work. “She has the Gift of foresight. Has she
seen
his return?”

“Yes. But she does not yet know when or how it is done.”

It was a relief, but not a significant one. In the meantime, one grigori and fifty Guardians stood against all of the demons, the nephilim, and the nosferatu. Only the Doyen, Michael, could transform more humans to Guardians. Unless Khavi could do that as well . . .

“Can she make more of us? Can we increase our numbers?”

“Khavi cannot.” Irena’s sigh seemed to soften her, and was filled with worry. “Michael bound himself to a new Guardian: Detective Taylor. You have met her.”

Rosalia had a brief memory of a fragile woman with red hair. Tired, pale. “Yes.”

“She can make new Guardians, but no humans are dying.”

They were, but not in the manner that called for transformation: self-sacrifice while saving the life or soul of another from a vampire, demon, or nosferatu. With the Gates closed, there were fewer demons now, and Belial’s demons weren’t focused on tempting humans. Lucifer’s demons concentrated on their individual ambitions rather than collecting souls to fuel Hell’s throne. And they were all careful around humans, so that they didn’t risk breaking the Rules—and calling a nephil, who would slay them.

She felt lost, again. This wasn’t what she’d expected to hear when she’d come. Not at all.

Alejandro crouched beside her. “Has something happened, Rosalia? We have not heard from you since you took the vampire.”

Although that was Alejandro’s subtle way of asking about Deacon, he wasn’t why she’d come. Belial’s demons were.

Belatedly, she also realized why Jake had brought Irena and Alejandro to her. With Michael gone, Irena—the oldest Guardian and the fiercest warrior—must be leading them. And so Irena and Alejandro were who she needed to speak with after all. “I’ve come to discover if you know anything about Malkvial.”

He nodded. “We have heard some.”

“Do you know his human identity?”

“No. Do you?”

She shook her head. “Tell me what you know.”

Alejandro rose to his feet again. “We’ve intercepted communications between other demons. They all play against each other for position, but Malkvial has taken a platform: He wants to slaughter the vampire communities and harvest the blood.”

Rosalia couldn’t hide her surprise. The prophecy stated that vampire blood would kill the nephilim, which in turn would put Belial on the throne. Unsure how that blood was supposed to be used, Belial’s demons had been courting many vampire communities. But just to kill the vampires and store the blood for their use?

Oh, the demons would like that, wouldn’t they? Killing instead of courting. Grimly, she asked, “Is there any news from the demon Sammael?”

One of Belial’s demons was bound by a bargain to give the Guardians a daily ration of his blood. Living demon blood could feed a vampire without a partner, and so Special Investigations kept it on hand for emergencies. But the Guardians also received information through the demon.

“Aside from the blood, he gives nothing to us but lies.” Irena’s lips thinned before she said, “Are you returning to us? You have been outside the corps for a decade. We need you, Rosalia. There are not enough of us.”

No, there weren’t. And with Lorenzo dead, she had no excuse for limiting herself to Rome.

Rome was not where the nephilim were, anyway. “I have one task to finish before I can dedicate myself completely. But if I am needed, I will be available.”

She stood and produced her card. Irena took the information, but didn’t look at it before passing it to Alejandro.

“Rome?” he read.

“Yes.”

Irena frowned at her. “What have you been doing? There are no vampires left there, and your brother is dead.”

Rosalia might have been taken aback if the past few minutes hadn’t taught her to expect Irena’s bluntness. “But that was not all I did. I owed the Church—I have worked for them. For many years.”