Demon Blood (17 page)

Taylor followed.

Anaria lived on a private island in the Aegean, complete with a sun-warmed mansion overlooking the sea. Taylor didn’t know how Anaria managed to pull that off, until she realized that the almost sixty humans sharing the grigori’s home weren’t humans at all, but the nephilim. One of the humans that the nephilim possessed must have owned the island before he’d kicked over and gone to Hell.

It was almost like walking through a retirement home—one that drew its residents from every part of the world. Which made a hell of a lot of sense, though Taylor hadn’t considered it before. When the Gates to Hell had closed, Lucifer had freed the nephilim from prison so that they could enforce the Rules on Earth, but the nephilim couldn’t just fly between the realms. They possessed the souls of the damned as the humans died. And except for a few—the youngest in her early twenties, Taylor guessed—they had a lot of white and gray hairs between them, and quite a few men without any hair at all.

For the most part, they acted like humans, too—eating, talking in little groups, some off by themselves and reading. A bunch of zombies having a big family reunion.

But they bothered her. She thought they bothered the hell out of Michael, too, though he was staying quiet. And it wasn’t until Anaria invited her out onto a big, sprawling patio to sit and talk that Taylor realized why: Every one of these bastards had done evil enough that they’d been destined for Hell. Though the nephilim possessed the human and took control, the human’s personality still remained.

And one of these fuckers had raped and murdered the vampires in London.

Anaria sank gracefully onto the foot of a lounge chair, studying Taylor’s face. She wondered how deep the scrutiny went, but Anaria must not have picked up on the determination hardening Taylor’s every thought and reaction. Anaria smiled, and it was beautiful—and Taylor didn’t feel the same compulsion to smile back.

“Michael has always been stubborn. I imagine he circled the world trying to find me.”

Find Anaria, or the nephilim? “Probably to ask you to spare London.”

Anaria’s voice gentled, as if she spoke to a child. “We
are
sparing the vampires. People were never meant to suffer the nosferatu’s curse, the bloodlust. People were meant to walk in the sun. They are abominations.”

One of Taylor’s few friends was a vampire. Only years of practice dealing with bigoted assholes kept her temper in check. “Abominations? Have you ever actually spoken to one?”

“I have spoken with many. And I know that next you will say that they are like humans—they love; they laugh. That is all true. But their very existence is a cancer, one that can spread without check, and destroy the protection of free will in every human.”

Oh, God. She couldn’t be serious. “They destroy free will? They
choose
to become vampires.”

“Yes.” Anaria’s face brightened, as if Taylor had just made a point for her. “You see? It is a disease, one that behaves in the same way as a demon. A demon doesn’t force a human to do anything, but preys upon a human’s greed, fear, anger until an irrevocable choice is made, and his soul is lost. Vampirism is the same. It preys upon a human’s fears: weakness, death—and the human
chooses
to throw away the protection of his free will. What human could reject the lure of immortality and strength, especially as they grow older and death comes closer? Very few. And once they’ve given up their free will, the demons would easily destroy them all when Lucifer opens the Gates to Hell again. Is not the Guardians’ purpose to prevent the destruction of humanity at the hands of the demons? Yet you protect the vampires, those selfsame creatures who will bring that destruction about.”

Speechless, Taylor shook her head. And though she tried, Taylor could not find the point at which the argument fell apart. If more humans knew about vampires, many of them
would
choose to become immortal, and demons
could
kill humans after they transformed. It all made a twisted kind of sense, but was so
wrong
.

A layer of Anaria’s harmonic voice deepened in sympathy. “I understand why this troubles you. Certainly you have vampire friends. But you should not let your emotions cloud your judgment.”

Un-fucking-believable. “And I suppose Khavi’s prophecy, which states that vampires will be the downfall of your children, has not clouded your judgment at all?”

“Of course not.” Anaria’s brow furrowed delicately. “Nothing that Khavi predicts is certain, and moreover, she is a liar. She foresees much more than she tells anyone, and manipulates everyone to her end. Her prophecy concerns me not at all.”

That rang far too true. Khavi had predicted Taylor’s death at the hands of a vampire, but had not prevented it. For several months, Taylor had wondered and suspected that Khavi had put the events into motion that led to her death, simply so that Michael would have someone as a tether.

Anaria watched her face. “You know this is true,” she said.

“I don’t.”

With a sigh, Anaria shook her head. “Do not try to lie. Truth was once my Gift, and I still see it clearly.”

Well, shit. Taylor looked away from her as two of the nephilim strolled by. She glanced back at the grigori, who was smiling at them, her eyes shining with love.

“They will be humanity’s saviors. First, from the vampires. And when I take the throne in Hell, they will ensure that humans only choose love and kindness, saving all from the tortures of the Pit. Can you not see them as I do?”

Taylor thought it prudent not to answer that one. “Which one is the savior who killed the two vampires in London?”

“Do you think I would tell you, when you so clearly wish to do him harm? You have nothing to fear from them—I have told them never to slay a Guardian, unless they must to defend themselves. And I have stressed that you in particular are not to be harmed. Can you not make the same promise in return?”

Though her gentle expression didn’t change, a note of steel had entered Anaria’s voice. The mother, in full-on protection mode. Taylor stepped carefully.

“I don’t have enough skill with a sword to harm any of your children.”

Anaria relaxed and seemed to take that as a promise. “That is true.”

Taylor hesitated, then ventured further. “The humans whose bodies they’ve taken . . . Do you think that—”

“My children are in control.”

Anaria anticipated her, which told Taylor this wasn’t the first time the question had come up. All right. So throw something unexpected at her.

“So he
meant
to rape the vampires in London? I thought you only needed them dead. Not violated.”

But Anaria’s eyes didn’t so much as flicker. “My children are new to their physical forms. They have been imprisoned for more than two
thousand
years, and have had little opportunity to experience what humans take for granted.” She paused. “And the vampires were not forced or tortured.”

“Threatening someone’s life until they acquiesce is still force.”

“That is not what happened.”

Oh,
Jesus
. Taylor felt sick as she realized what that meant. “And you think that is
okay
?”

Anaria gave her that infuriating speaking-to-a-child expression again. “My children are only spirit. They are living proof that a body is only a vessel, and without psychic energy to fill it, that vessel becomes empty. You are letting your emotions and your human sensibilities cloud your judgment again. My child did no harm.”

“Except for murdering them.”

“
Slaying
them,” Anaria said. “Even more necessary to humanity’s survival than slaying the demons.”

There was no point in arguing there, Taylor realized. Anaria was absolutely convinced that the vampires were a cancer that needed to be eradicated. But to say that a body was just a meatsack, that it meant nothing to violate it? No. And this time, she wasn’t left speechless.

“Then why do I have Michael’s body in my cache if it is merely a vessel?”

Khavi had explained it to her: His soul manifested as flesh in Hell, but his physical form matched the resonance of his psyche and completed the link between them—like a tuning fork struck and held near a sympathetic string until both vibrated at the same frequency. Every individual’s resonance was as distinct as a DNA strand and was the only reason Taylor hadn’t dumped his body out of her cache, breaking the link between them. If she did, he couldn’t come back. Khavi worked even now, trying to discover a way to bring his soul out of the frozen field—but it would be for nothing if he had no body.

She hated him. But she wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer.

And now she’d surprised Anaria. Her brows arched high, her lips parting. She leaned forward. “How did Khavi know to link you in that way?”

That, she’d never explained. “I don’t know.”

“He inscribed symbols into his body, yes?”

Taylor had been dying, but she remembered that part. Using Irena’s flaming knife, the blade heated by the power of a dragon’s heartblood, Khavi had carved the demon script into Michael’s torso, his back, and his neck.

“Yes.”

“And you took his blood from the symbol for ‘merge.’ ”

She hadn’t known what the symbol was. And she hadn’t known that sucking down a mouthful of the Doyen’s blood wasn’t a part of the standard Guardian transformation.

“Yes.”

“Then he took your blood, and—”

“No.” Taylor shook her head. “He didn’t take my blood.”

Anaria’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You tell the truth, but you must be mistaken. The link cannot be completed without an exchange of blood. What did he do, then?”

His lips, always so hard, had been soft against hers. He’d tasted her, kissed her as if he meant it . . . and she’d been completely lost in every deep stroke of his tongue. Her head already spinning from the wound to her chest, and he’d blown through her mind. She hadn’t even cared that only a minute before, she’d been unable to breathe and coughing up . . .

Oh, God. Coughing up blood. Her mouth had been full of it.

She didn’t know what the other woman saw in her expression, but Anaria’s voice was suddenly sympathetic again. “So he took your blood?”

Taylor had to swallow before answering. “Yes.”

“He is sometimes so thoughtless and focused only on his goal, he does not see the pain he leaves in his wake.” Anaria sighed. “He should have told you that he has kissed many, many women, so that you would know it meant nothing.”

It hadn’t meant anything
, Taylor wanted to say. But she didn’t think it’d pass Anaria’s truth test. Despite all the dark and cold and screaming afterward, that kiss had been . . . warm. A moment of hope and clarity, after fear and pain and confusion.

She refused to dwell on it, though. There was still so much to do—and two vampires who still needed their murderer confronted and accused. She lifted her gaze to Anaria’s.

“If you’d introduce me, I’d love to meet your children.”

Deacon didn’t need the dry air to tell him he’d been moved. That he was
moving
. Either the Guardians had invested in a private jet, or Rosalia had chartered a plane. He faced a line of oval windows, their shades pulled down. The steady drone of jet engines didn’t drown out her breathing and heartbeat. They sounded near and clear—and directly behind him.

So she hadn’t taken the hint, after all. Instead she’d laid him out on his side in a half-reclined seat and pulled a blanket over his legs. Now she was probably waiting for him to roll on over, so that she could tell him which demon she’d set him up to kill.

He’d just come fresh out of dreams of a demon crushing him, of killing his partners, and here she was pulling at his strings.

Goddamn her.

He closed his eyes, holding it in. Anger sparked the bloodlust, and he needed to be cold now. When he turned to look at her, he had to be a hard bastard, one who didn’t give a fuck about how soft she seemed.

Not that he needed to look. The warmth of her breath touched the back of his neck. She had to be lying just behind him, in the same position as he was. Any closer and she’d be spooning him. And it was too damned easy to imagine these seats as a bed.

He sat up. She remained half-lying in the seat, covered by a dark cloak that swallowed her body in its voluminous folds. The hood shadowed her face, concealing her expression.

Irritated, he reached over and pulled it back, expecting to reveal her sad eyes and the gaze that saw right through him. She had them closed, instead. Relief helped him even out his voice, smooth out his frustration. “When are you going to quit, sister?”

“I can’t quit.” She still didn’t open her eyes, but she didn’t need to. Grief and anger suddenly burst through her shields, both as familiar to Deacon as his face in the mirror. “The nephilim killed my family.”