Demon Blood (13 page)

“Got a good look, sister?”

She averted her eyes—and just in goddamn time, too. Knowing she looked was making him big, hard. Hunger stirred, a building ache in his fangs.

“You still have that demon blood for me?”

Deacon saw hope rise through her expression, a gentle lift at the corners of her eyes and her lips. She thought his asking for the blood meant that he was agreeing to her plan for tonight—whatever it was. Better to set that straight now.

“That’s all I’m taking.” He hauled on his jeans, reached for a shirt. “Then I’m heading out after Theriault.”

“We’re in Budapest.”

He froze, the shirt bunched in his fist. One look at her face told him she was dead serious. She’d brought him to Hungary. “You’ll take me back to Paris. Now.”

“There’s a demon here to kill. One of Belial’s.”

“I don’t give a fu—”

“He goes by the name Benedek Farkas. He’s made himself part of the vampire community, pretending to be one of you. Tomás hasn’t caught on. Soon, Farkas will slay him and take over the community to strengthen Theriault’s bid for leadership.”

Goddammit. Deacon liked Tomás Lakatos. He led the vampires in Budapest well.

“It’s a Guardian’s job to protect him.” Not Deacon’s.

She offered a brittle smile. “And so a Guardian has brought
you
here.”

Fuck. Now, that was a neat answer, wasn’t it? He pulled on his shirt, then slipped into the harness that held his swords against his back. “How do you know this?”

“My surveillance on Theriault.” Rosalia moved closer, and while he buttoned up the front of his shirt, she began straightening the material that bunched around the harness straps. “I know Farkas will be at Tomás’s club with the rest of the community tonight. You won’t have to wait outside his apartment. You won’t have to hide from humans. You can just slay him.”

He barely heard any of that. Just felt the warmth of her fingers through cotton. What the hell was this? She was smoothing out his wrinkles?
Touching
him, when he was pissed and hungry, and for six months had been wondering how she tasted.

Touching him was the surest way of finding herself shoved up against a wall, his fangs in her throat, and fucked until his knees gave out.

When she reached for his collar, he caught her wrists. Startled, her gaze met his.

“Don’t,” he said.

For an instant, her face became still, her eyes flat. Then she nodded and pulled her hands away, tucking them into her elbows and moving toward the corner of the room. Almost, Deacon thought, as if she was searching for somewhere to hide, which made him feel like the biggest asshole on Earth.

Which was exactly what he needed to be: a bastard, so that she’d leave him the hell alone.

He picked up his jacket and bag. “You’re looking at the wrong guy, sister, but you’ll find another easy enough. You’re gorgeous, desperate, and lonely. Some sap out there will be panting to kill demons with you.”

She looked over her shoulder, her brows arched. And she said just dryly enough that he couldn’t help but like her for it, “Thanks.”

He turned for the door before he ended up smiling or some shit. Christ.

“By the time you reach Paris, you’ll have wasted the night,” she said after him. “At least here, you’ll accomplish something.”

Another low fucking blow. Did she think he’d just take that? He dropped his bag and stalked toward her. To his gratification, she retreated until her back was up against the wall.

He slapped his palms to the wall on either side of her head and got in her face. “So the fuck what? What happens if I don’t, sister? No skin off your nose.”

The gentle brown of her eyes darkened, so goddamn sad. He hated that, wanted to make everything better for her. He hated wanting
that
more.

“Then people die,” she said softly.

Jesus. Trapping him with people’s lives—the same fucking thing that Caym had done to him.

Anger exploded inside him. He pulled back and slammed his hands against the wall again. Plaster cracked. She flinched, and it felt good. He didn’t give two shits about her reasons for playing him. All that mattered was that she played like a demon, and he needed to make her pay.

He pushed in closer, until he could feel the warmth coming off her. Her perfume smelled like flowers. He wanted to breathe in that scent while he drank her down.

“Offer your neck,” he commanded.

Her eyes widened. Her gaze flicked to his fangs before lifting to his again. “I have blood for you.”

“But I want to get into your head. To know your reasons. And make sure you aren’t fucking with me the same way Caym did.”

“I’ll
tell
you my reasons—”

“That’s not good enough.” He didn’t care what they were anyway. He was just tired of being used.

Her heart began racing. He could hear desperation in every wild beat. “What about your bloodlust?”

His laugh was bitter. It wouldn’t matter. The bloodlust wouldn’t take over a vampire unless the women he drank from wanted him. And Rosalia was . . .

Breathing hard. Her moistened lips had parted, as if expecting a kiss. Her nipples formed hard bumps beneath red silk. A slight tremor shook her hands before they fisted at her sides.

She wanted him?

Ravaging need tore through his blood. Rosalia, soft and sweet—so perfect a man would be glad to beg at her feet—wanted
him
?

Yeah, right.

More likely, she just got off on fear. Or on playing off
his
fear of losing control. Deacon imagined the bloodlust taking him over and forcing him on her.

Like the nosferatu probably had.

His stomach seemed to crawl up into his throat. He could still picture how Irena had found Rosalia in the catacombs, her body crusted with her own dried blood, her skull gaping open where the spike had been shoved through it. Rosalia’s brother and Belial’s lieutenant had made a bargain, and as a result, the nosferatu got their claws on Rosalia. They’d fed on her for over a year.

And now she was trembling after he threatened to drink from her. Fuck.

He ripped away. “Give me the blood.”

She held out a plastic bag. After being close to her, hungry, his cock felt like heated stone. Dark and rich, the demon blood soothed some of that hunger. Rosalia waited by the window while he drank, looking out into the night, her arms around herself again.

What was she holding in?

Why the hell did he care? “So the demon is at Tomás’s club?”

Her smile came out on a relieved breath. She could save it. This was a onetime thing, and only because he liked Tomás.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”

No need for that. Deacon had been there several times. He’d find his way. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to know a Guardian was behind all of this.”

“I’m going as a human. Vampires can’t get beneath my psychic shields to see the difference.”

“The demon can.”

Her smile widened. “But he’ll be dead.”

He looked her over. That red dress skimmed her knees, and the sleeveless cut was relatively modest—except that it covered her incredible body. The fairy-tale princess with thick dark hair, perfect ripe tits, and lush crimson lips, which needed to be kissed. Any human man who looked at her would have but one thought in his head: getting Rosalia under him. Pampering her, taking care of her—but mostly just getting her in a bed with her legs wrapped around his hips and her nails digging into his back.

But if she walked into a vampire club, they’d treat her like a whore. Simply for showing up on his arm.

All right then.

She’d see what it meant to accompany a vampire that everyone considered a traitor. She wouldn’t be a princess, then. And tomorrow, maybe she wouldn’t be so eager to stick her nose in his life.

Deacon had agreed to come, but Rosalia knew she hadn’t won him over. She suspected he’d only capitulated because he thought that her plan would come back and kick her in the face.

Did he mean to reveal her as a Guardian to the vampires?

She squashed that uncertainty. No. Deacon was upset with her, but he wouldn’t do anything that might endanger the other vampires if demons discovered that a Guardian had been a part of this.

But when he’d made his deal with Caym, Deacon had thought the Guardians could take care of themselves. That no matter what he did, the Guardians could handle it. He might assume she would handle herself now, too—even posing as a human. And although he might use the knowledge against her, she had to let him know she couldn’t.

She waited until they crossed a street, still busy with evening traffic. Cooler than Paris, but still warm enough for short sleeves and sundresses, humans strolled along the sidewalks, looking into shop windows, stopping at cafés and restaurants.

“I can’t protect myself.”

Deacon threw a hard glance her way. They weren’t going to pass as the most loving couple, were they? It didn’t matter. The vampires would just assume he was using her as food.

“I’m supposed to be human.” She wouldn’t have to worry about breaking the Rules with vampires if she
was
forced to defend herself, but if she wanted to maintain the appearance of a human, she couldn’t whip her crossbow out of her cache, either. In a club full of vampires hostile toward Deacon, Rosalia would be vulnerable.

“I’m here for the demon, sister. Not saving your ass.” His voice was colder, harsher than usual, like the scrape of a blade over broken concrete. “And if you’re
human
, that means you can’t save my ass, either. So we’re even.”

She would, though. If it came to that, she’d drop her human mask and save him. She’d risk ruining everything. But she couldn’t blame him for not doing the same. He didn’t owe her anything.

Her chest tightened. “All right. That’s fair. You don’t have to help me. Just please don’t expose me.”

Deacon glanced at her again, but whatever he saw he didn’t like. He swore under his breath and looked away.

When he’d been an asshole at the chateau, Rosalia had hit back at him. Deacon kept expecting her to snap at him again. What had changed between now and then that she just took his shit?

Maybe she felt like crap for forcing this on him. She didn’t strike him as the type to go against a Guardian’s principles, and pushing a man—even a vampire—into something against his will. So if she was still pushing the issue, whatever she was planning must mean a lot to her.

Not that it mattered. Whatever her reasons, the fact remained that she was grabbing his strings and trying to play him.

The club lay a few streets off from any main thoroughfares. Surrounded by buildings more run-down than the tourist-friendly parts of the city, the façade appeared flat, gray, and industrial. Nothing interesting to see there, except when someone was looking for it.

Twenty years ago, after slaying the head of the community and stepping into his position, Tomás had taken care to give his people a place to run if threatened—by humans, by demons, even by Guardians. The back of the club hid a reinforced chamber that even a nephil would have difficulty breaking into.

It also offered the vampires a place to gather. Tonight, if they’d heard about London, many of the city’s vampires would probably already be here.

As they neared the entrance, Rosalia’s fingers slipped into the crook of his elbow. She looked up at him, and in her eyes Deacon could see the expectation that he’d shrug her off, combined with her silent request for him not to.

All right. He’d play this her way. It didn’t hurt him to walk in with a gorgeous woman on his arm.

He’d been right: The place was full. Even before they opened the doors, he could sense the number of vampires inside.

“They’ve heard about London,” she said softly.

“Yeah.” He could feel their panic and their helpless anger from here. They’d be looking for someone to take that out on. Deacon would be an obvious target, but Rosalia would be, too. This riled up, they might not just leer and give her a hard time. They might take it further. “So you wait here while I—”