Demon Blood (5 page)

She’d been right about that, too.

He stripped off. His shirt and pants went next to the weapons. No reason to have any of them near his bed. If a demon or human came in, he couldn’t defend himself. A bomb could go off during the day and he wouldn’t know it. A Guardian could teleport in . . . or slide through the shadows.

He crossed the room toward the window, knowing he should hit the bed instead. Sunrise was almost here, and he’d drop where he stood when the sun came up. He pushed back the drapes. Not much to see. Scooters and chained bicycles lined the cobblestone alley. A few potted flowers folded in on themselves against the night. Deacon studied the shadows. Hell, he’d been watching the shadows all night, expecting her to step out of them.

When she’d spoken to him on the stairs, he hadn’t immediately known it was her. Sure hadn’t looked like her. His memory held a vision of long dark hair and crimson lips against pale skin. A fairy-tale princess, locked away by the nosferatu—but she’d been wakened by betrayal rather than a kiss, when Deacon had followed Caym’s orders and guided the others down into those catacombs. But at the chateau, she’d been rail-thin, tanned, and blond, like half the models working the floor. She’d walked like one, too, all knees and shoulders. No lush roll of her hips. And whenever he’d seen her, she’d worn a wide-eyed, vacant look in her blue eyes, instead of a warm, soft brown.

But when she’d looked at him, she’d seen right through him. So deep there wasn’t anything she didn’t lay bare. As if she knew him.

It was a stupid thought. How could she know him? But he’d barely made it down the stairs before she’d been in his face, telling him exactly why he was there and what he’d planned. And hitting the nail right on the head.

She wasn’t out there now. None of the shadows was deep enough; he could see through them. But when they were impenetrable . . . that would be Rosalia.

He curled his fist against the glass, wishing he could smash through it. Why the hell was he looking for her? She was the last person he wanted to run into again. She made him hunger. Made him think about a time when taking blood wasn’t just feeding. When it had been a part of something that mattered. But it never would be again. Not for him.

Goddamn her. He’d rather it had been
anyone
but Rosalia. She’d seen him at his lowest. A man couldn’t get past that. Other Guardians and vampires might have heard what Caym and the other demon had done, but they hadn’t
seen
. But Rosalia had been hiding in her shadows, watching as Belial’s lieutenant left him for dead. Deacon had been glad she’d hung back and hadn’t saved him. Glad of it. Then for some godforsaken reason, she’d taken him away from Prague and tried to help him. He was beyond that. She should have found someone more deserving.

But tonight she’d stuck her nose in it again. Helping him, when he could barely look at her square on. He hated being near her. He didn’t need a mirror when she was around. He couldn’t escape his failure or his guilt when she looked at him. Yet he searched the shadows for her. The temptation, the hope, of a single glimpse had drawn him to the window instead of the bed.

Movement beyond his reflection froze Deacon in place. Someone had come into the room. The door hadn’t opened—not a demon or vampire, then. So Rosalia had come after all? She wouldn’t be staying. He’d run her out of here, the same way he’d run her off before. Uncivil bastards pissed her off. Lucky for him, being one came easy.

Deacon let the drape fall back into place, began to turn.

“Don’t move.”

He tensed. No. Not Rosalia. The voice was a strange rasping harmony, both male and female and holding too much at once: threat, warning, and terror.

But threats didn’t work anymore. Deacon didn’t have much to lose. He turned, but he wasn’t stupid. He did it slowly.

She crouched in the corner, trembling. Pale as a vampire, but not one. Her clenched teeth formed an even line. No fangs. Tangled red hair framed a face with hollowed cheeks. Solid black filled her eyes where the whites and irises should have been. Deacon stared, unease crawling over his skin. He knew this woman. A detective. One who’d worked with the Guardians. He’d met her once, at a vampire club in San Francisco. She’d been human then. She wasn’t anymore. He didn’t know
what
she was.

“He wants to kill you,” she said, then gasped. Her fingers dug into the wall, her nails gouging the plaster. Her heart beat a rapid pace against his ears. “I’m holding him back. But it’s hard . . . when you move.”

Someone wanted to kill him? Nothing new. But
she
was new . . . whatever she was. And whoever was inside her. “Who?”

“Michael.”

The Guardians’ leader?
Deacon tried to take it in. No surprise that the man was out for his blood. His only surprise was that it had taken this long. But like
this
?

“He’s controlling you?”

Anger flashed through her psychic scent, dark and deep. “Hell . . . no.”

From what he could see, that response held more wish than fact. But she’d gotten her breathing down, slow and steady. “Why is he—”

“Shhh.”
It came out like the hiss of a snake. Or a demon.

Had Michael possessed this woman? Guardians couldn’t do that, but Michael was something more: one of the grigori, the son of a human and a demon. But demons couldn’t possess humans, either. The nephilim could—but they possessed the dead. The person inside didn’t fight their control.

But even if Michael had possessed her somehow,
why
? That wasn’t what Deacon knew of Michael, the man who valued human free will above everything, even life. Not even a man, but like a myth. He had power, strength. Michael wouldn’t use this woman. Michael wouldn’t
need
to use this woman. But apparently, he was, and she was fighting him.

Deacon felt the sun coming, like the clench of hot fingers on the back of his neck. Quietly, he said, “I’m moving to the bed.”

She nodded. “Slow.” Her voice sounded more like a woman’s now. Less male in it, and not so full of threat.

But however stifled, the threat was still there. And he was going to sleep with this in his room. Either he’d wake up, or he wouldn’t.

Deacon hoped to God he’d be waking up.

Paris never seemed content with what it had. Even at dawn, the city never allowed the sun its full glory. The day didn’t start with the rising sun, but with the warm glow of stone buildings, a glint against glass, and the steady brightening of colors that had been muted by the night. By the time the sun ascended, Paris was already shining.

Rosalia watched the sun rise from her room, surrounded by the sounds of the hotel guests stirring. Gemma had crashed in her suite upstairs as soon as they’d arrived, but Rosalia didn’t need to sleep. She’d chosen this room solely for its view of Theriault’s apartments, and she’d been able to watch both the demon and the vampire who’d watched
him
. She’d stood on her balcony in her own form, wearing pink silk pajamas that wouldn’t look out of place if she was noticed. The demon wouldn’t have recognized her regardless, but to Deacon, she would’ve been as plain as day. Neither had bothered to glance her way. Deacon had left half an hour ago—he must not be staying too far away—but she’d forced herself not to follow him.

On the avenue below, tourists were already ambling down the tree-lined walks toward the Place de Concordes, where Marie Antoinette had famously lost her head. Though Rosalia lived through those years and had heard news of the revolution, she hadn’t witnessed it. She’d still been training in Caelum. When she’d returned to Earth, Napoleon had been in power, and the nation embroiled in war. Ninety years ago, she’d met Deacon near the end of another war, in a situation that would have been laughable if she hadn’t been so stupid and careless.

In Brussels, while hunting a demon, she’d been accosted by humans in an alley. Focused on her target, she’d let her guard down, and two drunks grabbed her wrists and manhandled her into a corner. She hadn’t been in danger. Unless they cleaved through her heart or chopped off her head, they couldn’t have killed her, and Rosalia wouldn’t have let them rape her. She couldn’t have removed their hands from her wrists without breaking the Rules, but she didn’t have to spread her legs. It had been a difficult position, however, one that would have forced her to reveal herself. And although she’d have happily shape-shifted to scare the drunken piss out of her attackers, she hadn’t wanted to tip off the demon she’d been trailing.

But Deacon had walked by and seen that she was in trouble. He’d been James Buchanan Knox then, a Presbyterian reverend on shore leave. He hadn’t even waited for a plea to help. He’d come quietly into the darkened alley, wearing his chaplain’s collar. She could still hear the jeers of the men who’d equated that collar with softness and mercy. But Deacon hadn’t been soft. He’d asked them once, had given them one opportunity to let her go, before he began swinging.

He’d easily taken them down, and she’d felt how tightly leashed he was. His anger burned hot, but once they were beaten, he’d stopped. Fascinated, she’d let him escort her to the building she’d told him was her home, and she watched over him after that, repaying the favor. Just making certain that he was all right until he made it back home.

But he hadn’t returned to America. The war had taken its toll on his faith, and after he’d been discharged he also left his vows behind. He’d taken up boxing and drinking, and pursued both with focus and determination. In fighting circles, they’d called him the Deacon. Maybe in the beginning, some had known who he’d been, but later, they said he’d earned the name because he demanded “a tithe in pain.” She’d laughed the first time she’d heard that, but not the second or the third, when it became apparent that the only pain he hoped to extract was his own. How many bouts had she watched with her heart in her throat and her fingernails in her palms? He had fought
so
hard, yet always seemed disappointed when he won. As if he’d expected to hurt more. But he’d never managed not to care, which Rosalia thought he’d been aiming for. He’d never managed indifference, or cruelty. He never used women like he did the drink, never hurt anyone who wasn’t looking for pain, too. He just didn’t have people around him to care about. So Rosalia had sent Camille, and gave him new people.

She glanced at the phone. Camille. She should have contacted the vampire. Too late, now that the sun had risen. Camille would be in her daysleep. Courtesy dictated that a visiting vampire alert the city’s elders, especially if he didn’t have a partner to feed from. A bloodsharer would be provided to reduce the risk of human discovery. Rosalia wondered if Deacon had bothered to alert Camille and her partner, Yves.

Asking Camille would be particularly hard for him. Not because they’d parted sixty years ago as enemies, but because they’d remained friends. And because Deacon had trouble asking for help from anyone.

Maybe if he had, this would all have turned out differently. No betrayal. His community still alive. And with Lorenzo dead, maybe Rosalia could have come forward and told him how she’d met him so many years ago. Told him why she’d sent Camille.

And maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference at all.

A sigh moved through her. Rosalia turned toward her desk, where her computer waited. It was time to find out what Deacon had been doing the past six months.

He had been busy.

Not right away. There had been nothing the first month after Deacon had left Rome. Then he’d spent three months liquidating his assets. They’d amounted to a substantial sum, but he’d been using them carefully. He apparently intended to be doing this a long time.

She leaned back in her chair, pleased by what she’d found. The past two months showed a financial trail through Spain and London. A few demons’ deaths she’d thought were a result of the infighting were probably Deacon’s kills. Good for him. He’d known where to start—Legion Laboratories. Although not every executive in the company was a demon, careful observation would reveal who was. He’d only been in Paris a week and a half, though, so Theriault must have given himself away quickly. Arrogant and careless.