Demon Blood (9 page)

He moved into the lobby. The lighting was brighter here, but still mellow. A young couple stood at the reservation desk. Near the lobby doors, a man in a suit spoke impatiently into a cell phone. At the seating area to his left, a dark-haired woman waited, facing the entrance. The knee-length black dress she wore hugged luscious curves. Either she was meeting someone . . . or hoping to.

Deacon paused. As if she felt his attention, the woman turned. This time, she wore the face he remembered. Soft brown eyes met his. Lush red lips curved into a smile.

That welcoming curve was a sucker punch to his gut. Rosalia. Not in the shadows, where she belonged. Here, waiting.

Long enough to have heard Camille and Yves?

“Oh,
fuck
no.”

His denial echoed. Heads turned.

Rosalia’s smile faded. She stood. “Deacon, listen for one—”

“There’s only one thing you could say that I’d be interested in listening to, sister.” He strode toward her. She could probably hear his heart pounding. So the fuck what? She’d probably heard that
not a single goddamn vampire in Paris
would lower themselves to feed him, too. That the woman he’d lived with for twenty-five years and had been a friend for almost ninety had threatened to slay him if they met again. “But unless you’ve got a key to a room upstairs and a vein you want to open—”

He broke off when a plastic bag filled with blood appeared in her hand. An instant later, the bag disappeared.

Quietly, she said, “It’s not from my vein, but it
is
living blood.”

Demon blood. Not many vampires knew that blood drawn from a living demon would feed them as well as blood from a vein. Fewer vampires knew that one demon had made a bargain with the Guardians to provide them with a supply of his blood. A pint a day. That wasn’t much.

So why would the Guardians offer it to him?

He only knew of one thing a vampire could do that a Guardian couldn’t: kill a human.

This is what it’d come to? They thought he was so fucking low, a dog to lick up scraps and attack on command, to get his paws dirty so their wings could stay clean?

Already pissed, now he was working himself up into a hot rage. “In exchange for
what
?”

He asked, just to hear her say it. To see if she’d lower her gaze as she did.

She continued watching him, her eyes steady. “I need you to win over the European vampire communities.”

Was this a joke? He almost laughed—until he thought of the scene she’d just overheard. That wouldn’t just happen in Paris. He’d be treated the same way in every single community.

So it was a joke, yeah.
He
was the fucking joke. Not a dog to kill for the Guardians, but one to kick. And when they sent Rosalia to do it, they caught him right in the balls.

Fuck this.

He turned for the door. Her sigh followed him, but he didn’t hear her footsteps. The suit on the phone got out of his way. Outside, the night was still hot. Humans crowded the walks. He went left, made it half a block.

“Preacher.”

Every man since Lot knew better than to look back. But God help him, he did—and Rosalia was standing not two feet behind him, looking as sweet and sexy and as sad as she always did.

Sweet, sexy, sad. Each one a hook in his skin, pulling him in.

“The blood is yours, preacher, whether you help me or not.”

Help
her? For fuck’s sake. Maybe he’d been quick to jump on thinking she’d ask him to kill someone, but the same two problems still existed. A) There was nothing a vampire could do that a Guardian couldn’t, and B) Deacon didn’t have any fucking interest in helping anyone, unless it was assisting a few demons on their journey back to Hell. By nature and by choice, he was useless to her. He turned to go again.

Her voice halted him before he’d gotten more than a step. “How many hours will you waste tonight searching for someone to feed from?”

Damn her. Why couldn’t she be useless to
him
? Deacon turned back.

“Not that it will matter,” she continued. She watched his approach, and even though he pushed into her space, forcing her to tilt her face up, she didn’t back away. “He and his wife have no plans to leave their apartment tonight.”

Theriault? “How do you know?”

She smiled faintly, but didn’t answer. The bag of blood appeared between her fingers instead.

He took it. God help him. She was so close that he didn’t even have to reach out.

“I have a week’s supply,” she said. “All of it is yours.”

“So give me all you’ve got now.”

She shook her head. “I’ll find you tomorrow.”

“Don’t.”

“I will.” Her eyes and smile didn’t seem as soft. Not hard . . . but brittle. Fragile. “You do what you must, preacher. I intend to do the same. And so I
will
see you tomorrow.”

She slipped past him. Not into the shadows as he expected, but walking along the street. Heading in the same direction he was. That fragile expression lingered in his mind. That wasn’t the look of someone fucking around with him. That was someone at a breaking point.

What was she doing here? Why asking for help? She had Guardian friends who could offer more help than he could.

He glanced down at the blood in his hand, then back after her. So, she was a Guardian. She was also running a bit vulnerable and heading the same way he was. He could hang back, make sure she got where she was going. Then he’d go wait for Theriault again.

Hopefully tomorrow, he wouldn’t still be around for her to find.

Well. That had gone as badly as she’d expected. Worse, probably, thanks to Camille’s and Yves’s unexpected appearance.

He’d been angry when the vampires had forced him into the hotel. She’d waited then for his anger to pass. She should have known better than to approach him after Camille had ripped out a piece of him.

And it didn’t help that as soon as she’d faced him, nervousness had taken hold. The enormity of what she had to accomplish struck her—and that she needed to convince
Deacon
to help her, of all people.

But she’d gotten the worst out of the way, and Deacon had been too wrapped up in his anger to notice how nervous she’d been. His rejection had been inevitable, so she’d lobbed at him the reason he’d be least likely to accept. She
did
need him to win over the communities, but he wouldn’t think it was possible, and wouldn’t want the distraction. Not when he was so focused on killing Belial’s demons.

She’d give that to him, too. But she’d wait until he wasn’t so primed to reject out of hand whatever she offered.

At least he’d taken the blood, though. It’d keep him strong. He wouldn’t have to hunt. She hadn’t mistaken his reluctance to find someone to feed from.

And she wouldn’t have to know that he was with someone every night—or feed him herself, and risk revealing far too much. Psychic shields weren’t much good with vampires when they fed, and if the vampires were nosferatu-born, shields were useless. They couldn’t just read emotions, but thoughts.

Deacon wasn’t nosferatu-born, but he
had
changed since drinking the nosferatu blood. His psychic senses were stronger. And even though Rosalia wondered what feeding him would feel like, she wasn’t ready to let him into her head. He’d already spent far too much time circling around her heart.

Knowing that he was trailing behind her didn’t help kick him out of there.

She didn’t look back, afraid it might put him on the defensive again. Maybe his following her meant nothing, anyway. Theriault lived in this direction, too.

At her hotel, she went inside. Deacon didn’t follow her, but when she reached her room and went out on the balcony, he wasn’t watching Theriault’s apartment. His gaze found her the moment she stepped outside. He still carried the bag of blood. Well, he’d have nowhere to put it, would he?

She should have considered that. He wouldn’t suck on it while walking down the street. While he waited in the shadows, though . . .

Knowing he’d hear her, even from across the street, she said quietly, “Hold out your hand, preacher.”

His brows pulled together, but he did as she’d asked. Dropping a small object out of her cache from that distance took concentration, but her aim was true. A drinking glass appeared in his palm.

His gaze found hers again. His brow arched.

“I’ve heard that fangs snag on the plastic.” She caught the amusement that pulled at his mouth. With a smile, she turned for her balcony doors. “Let me know if you want ice.”

He didn’t ask for any, though the summer night must be uncomfortable for him. Tomorrow, she’d remind him that her room had air-conditioning. For now, though, she’d just work.

Gemma had returned with Vincente to Rome the day before, but they both still searched for Malkvial. Rosalia’s equipment that recorded all of the conversations in Theriault’s home and over his phones had yielded their first small break: Malkvial had been in London the week previous. It wasn’t much to go on, but Gemma had already come up with several possibilities within Legion’s roster who’d traveled to England for business, and e-mailed them to Rosalia.

Clayton Conley. Nicholas St. Croix. Karl Geier.

She passed over Geier. Short, slightly overweight, and with thinning blond hair, he kept a modest home in Munich and hadn’t been promoted in more than ten years. Demons tended to adhere to a more striking and affluent template. With chiseled features and icy blue eyes, St. Croix certainly fit, and he possessed personal financial holdings that rivaled any tycoon’s—yet he’d been employed by Legion for the past three years as a financial consultant. He certainly didn’t need the money, but loyalty to Belial might have driven him to take a place at Legion.

But she wanted to look at Conley first. After Deacon had slain Caym, Conley had taken over Caym’s position in Prague. Putting another demon in the same position would be the height of arrogance—or stupidity. Rosalia wondered which had won out. If Theriault had been leading them, she’d have wagered that Conley was a demon. But if Malkvial was calling the shots . . . She didn’t know. She doubted, however, that he would be
that
arrogant or stupid.

But there was only one way to make certain: Rosalia would have to personally observe Conley and St. Croix to determine if they were demons. That would take time. She couldn’t use a psychic probe to test their shields, or they’d know a Guardian was there.

For as long as she walked this path, she couldn’t use her psychic abilities. No moving too fast, never appearing too strong, and remembering to always breathe. Until everything was in place, she might as well be a human.

A human with a cache. She thought of the glass she’d given Deacon, the blood. As long as nobody saw her materialize items from thin air, it wouldn’t give her away. Nor would changing her clothes. And if she kept her wings out of sight, those were still available to her, too. Unlike her Gift, a demon, vampire, or nephil wouldn’t
feel
her use her cache and her wings—and she was already accustomed to keeping humans from witnessing any of those abilities.

Not using her Gift would be the most difficult. She was too accustomed to hiding in the shadows. Now the only way to conceal herself was to stay out in the open.

The infrared monitors in Theriault’s apartment showed that he lay in bed, pretending to sleep for the benefit of his wife. She listened to the recordings from when she’d been out of the room while working. So much of finding demons came from details in financial trails. Travel, with no evidence of tickets. Patterns of purchases that indicated no regular sleep pattern. No evidence that they bought groceries—a sometimes misleading indicator, especially if the demon often sat through business meals or lived with a human.

Some demons were careful about details and appearances. She suspected Malkvial would be one of them. Belial’s previous lieutenant had been.

About two hours before dawn, Theriault rose from bed, but only went as far as his study. Rosalia left her computer and returned to the balcony.

Deacon wasn’t in sight.

She frowned, her gaze searching the shadows again. Each night previous, he’d waited outside until about thirty minutes before sunrise. Every night, as she felt his impatience grow, she’d expected him to draw the demon’s attention, calling him out. But the vampire continued to wait for an opportunity to take the demon off guard. Surely he hadn’t abandoned Theriault now?

The knock at her door shot through her. She stared at it, but could only imagine one person who might be on the other side. Deacon?

She couldn’t use a mental probe to find out; Theriault might sense it. Pushing her fingers through her hair, straightening her dress, she made herself walk slowly to the door.

By the time she opened it, her heart had settled down. Not for long. She wasn’t accustomed to being so close to him. From a distance, he appeared strong. Tall and big. But now, here, she couldn’t help but compare his size to her own, her body informing her impression of his. Tall
er
. Bigg
er
.