Demon Blood (22 page)

He hadn’t considered that she might want him? What was lower—his opinion of her or of himself?

“I was doing what I wanted to since I met you. What were
you
doing?”

He didn’t answer. His silence stabbed at her. God, she’d been so stupid. To think that he might feel any desire in return. No matter the reason he’d commanded her to kiss him, she’d believed something had changed along the way. But while she’d been losing control, he’d been . . . testing to see if she’d whore herself for the cause.

She’d said it didn’t matter what anyone thought of her. But she did. And it hurt.

Pale yellow light began to shine against her legs. Her eyes, glowing as she lost control to her emotions. She
never
did that. She suddenly, desperately needed him to leave, before he witnessed that, too.

So he’d managed to do one thing:
She
had discovered how far she would go.

“All right, Deacon,” she said, and almost didn’t recognize her own voice. She felt as if dirty rags had been shoved into her chest. “Count yourself out. I’ll figure out another way.”

She heard his sigh, and the regret in it. “Rosie—”

“Go. I’ll call ahead. The plane is yours. I won’t even check to see where you went. You’re free of me.”

“Goddammit. At least let me—”

“Apologize? Fine. I accept it. You don’t owe me anything else, so go on.” She didn’t hear him leave. Maybe he needed words he could understand. Words he’d thrown at her before. “We’re done. So get the fuck out of my face.”

Still no movement behind her. Only the beat of his heart.

“Haul off, Deacon.” To her horror, her voice broke.

But it got him moving when words alone could not. She heard the crunch of gravel beneath his feet as he walked onto the road. The car started, and a moment later, he drove away.

Oh, God. What had she done?

She closed her eyes, which had begun shining like a beacon. Hugging her knees up to her chest, holding on to the darkness, she prayed.
Oh, God, oh, God.
The refrain remained the only light in her mind, and she begged Him to help her bear the pain, to help her formulate another plan.

She had no idea what she was going to do now.

Rosalia couldn’t sit and cry forever. Prayer steadied her, but she’d already been gifted with strength of heart and mind so that she could help herself. And putting a new plan into motion would take time—but the vampires in London didn’t have much.

With a deep breath, Rosalia gathered herself, and brought in her satellite phone from her cache. She had to contact the plane’s charter service. No doubt Deacon would want to head to Paris and continue on with Theriault.

The alert for a waiting connection sounded as soon as she opened the phone. The number linked to the surveillance van. Panic fluttered in Rosalia’s chest. Gemma had been watching St. Croix. Had something happened?

The phone transmitted video in addition to audio. She engaged both, and a moment later, Vin’s face filled the screen. He wasn’t supposed to be there.

She couldn’t keep the fear out of her voice. “Is Gemma all right?”

“Yes. But she’s been throwing up and decided to stay at the abbey. So I’ve taken over the van until you return. . . .” He frowned and peered more closely at the screen. The indifferent mask she was so accustomed to him wearing cracked. Concern bled through. “Mama, are you all right?”

Oh, curses. Her lipstick and heavy eyeliner had suffered though kisses and tears. She must appear horrid. “Oh, that.” She vanished the makeup, gave a soft smile. “I’m fine.”

He stared doubtfully at the screen for a few more seconds. “All right. I just wanted to ask you to check in on Gemma if you return to the abbey.”

That hadn’t been what he’d intended to ask. “You be with Gemma. I’ll take over surveillance.”

“No can do, Mama. After we visited Father Wojcinski, Gemma got it in her head that there will be no more cohabitation until the wedding.” He shrugged. “Anyway, putting in a late night will be good practice for after the baby comes.”

“Vin—”

“I’ve got a game up on the other monitor. You can keep an eye on me and on the Paris feed in your War Room. And you can take a few hours, take a swim.”

“Thank you, Vincente.” Fearing that the tears were coming again, she moved on. “What of your surveillance?”

“He’s sleeping. Or pretending to.”

It had just passed midnight in Rome. A reasonable time for a human to go to bed . . . or a demon who needed to pretend for the benefit of a human.

“Is he alone?”

“Yes.”

Odd. Then either St. Croix wasn’t a demon, or he was very careful about appearances—just as she suspected Malkvial might be. “All right. I’m en route now. I should arrive in another hour.”

“Give me a buzz to let me know you got in all right.”

Sweet boy. She disconnected and called the charter service. A few minutes later, it was settled: Deacon would soon be on his way to Paris, and she was heading for Rome.

Maybe it was better this way.

So, that was that. No Guardian using him anymore. He’d known all he had to do was be an uncivil bastard and she’d stop hounding him.

He should have done it before driving away became so fucking hard.

As she’d promised, the plane was waiting for him. So it was back to Paris. Back to what he’d been doing: stalking Theriault, and slaying him. And if slaying Theriault messed up Rosalia’s game plan, she’d come up with another. She had to, anyway.

But he couldn’t stop staring at the empty seat next to him. She should be there, all curled up in that ridiculous pose. She was done with him, but so what? That didn’t mean she had to get back home under her own power.

Too late now. She’d called ahead to the plane, but he didn’t have her number. He couldn’t tell her to get over herself. So he’d been a bastard. She could still catch a ride and . . . kiss him so sweetly.

Because she’d
wanted
to kiss him.

Christ. He still couldn’t believe that, but it didn’t matter anyway: She wouldn’t want to kiss him again. He’d made sure of that, hadn’t he?

Fuck.
Fuck.

He had Camille’s number. If anyone could help Rosalia, it’d be Camille. A strong vampire—though not as strong as Deacon, now that he’d taken the nosferatu blood, but Camille’s skills made up for that. She’d taught him everything he knew that didn’t involve punching a man.

Yves, though. He was used to Camille manipulating him from behind, but if she came out in front? There was no telling if Yves could handle that. He might accidentally expose both Camille and Rosalia, and send demons running after them both. If Rosalia ended up in the path of demons, she could probably handle that. But she was worried about the nephilim—and their mother, Anaria.

Anaria, who had torn through the Guardians’ warehouse, and they’d been unable to defend themselves against her.

Rosalia wouldn’t stand a chance against Anaria.

And Yves, the little prick, would fuck it all up. Or Camille would, if she and Rosalia didn’t hit it off. Rosalia would have to start over. Again. Probably with some vampire who couldn’t hold a sword. Someone who would ruin the perfect setups she gave him.

Hell, even resenting how she’d overrun him, Deacon recognized how perfectly she’d arranged the two kills he’d made. The demons had practically cut off their own heads.

He looked out at the runway. It was an easy decision, to do nothing. To go where he’d intended. He just had to . . . do nothing.

Situated near the old walls of the city, the abbey had stood unchanging for hundreds of years, orange plaster over stone, an old warm sanctuary amid the newer construction that came and went. Once surrounded by an orchard, now only a small fenced garden overgrown with roses separated her walls from her neighbors’.

She didn’t mind. The abbey’s heart had never resided in its stone walls.

Deceptively large from the outside, the building didn’t hold nearly as many rooms as its dimensions suggested. An enormous courtyard relegated the living spaces to a narrow string of rooms along the walls, and many of the bedchambers were accessible only from its paths. It was where the family had met, fought, trained, and talked. Abundant with life; with gardens planted for consumption and for beauty; cypresses; fig and orange trees, the courtyard formed the abbey’s center in a sense that went far beyond the physical.

Rosalia flew directly to Gemma’s room, landing on the gallery that overlooked the courtyard and served as the walkway connecting all of the second-floor chambers. Beyond the door, the young woman slept. Vanishing her wings, Rosalia continued to her own chambers, two rooms separated by a corridor leading from the gallery. After checking in with Vin, she returned outside.

The roses had folded for the night, but the jasmine had bloomed and filled the air with its heady fragrance. The birds rested quietly in the trees, and the tinkling of the fountain was the only sound in the still air.

Fifteen years ago, she’d had a lap pool installed at the end of the courtyard. The scent of chlorine sometimes overpowered the flowers’ perfumes, but Rosalia had never regretted the change.

She stripped off and dove in. Though she could swim at extraordinary speeds, she sought only a methodical rhythm: twenty strokes, and turn. She’d have liked to work herself into exhaustion, but Guardians couldn’t tire. Peace couldn’t be found in sleep. Only the rhythm.

Once she found it, she turned her mind to the daunting task she faced. Of all the vampires she trusted, Camille was the only one who might pull off such a scheme. But Rosalia knew Yves too well. He was a good man, but he’d make a mistake.

And Malkvial would have no reason to believe Camille, anyway.

She pushed away the despair, the doubt. There had to be some way. But she still hadn’t thought of one two hours later, when a knock at the front door pulled her out of the water.

She climbed from the pool, wondering if she’d been mistaken. Shaking the water out of her hair and slipping a silk robe on over her naked form, she listened—and the knock came again.

At three thirty in the morning? That didn’t bode well.

Typically, she used a psychic probe to discover the identity of the caller. But there was another way, just as simple. She brought in a crossbow from her cache. Forming her wings, she flew up to the roof, where the bell tower at the corner provided cover and offered a view of the door.

Deacon.

Her heart thudded. Her mind raced while she decided what to do. She hadn’t thought he’d come here.

Why
had he come here?

His fist rose to the door, but he paused before knocking again. As if he’d heard her, his gaze swept her direction, found her atop the roof. He stepped toward her.

Defensive mode kicked in. She fired the crossbow. The bolt stabbed the ground in front of his boot. He froze.

“I can hear you from here. Just say what you’ve got to say, then leave.”

He lifted his hands, as if in surrender. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve already accepted your apology.”

“No. I never had time to give it.”

“Well. Now you have.” She turned to go, but paused when he said—

“Yves will fuck it up.”

God. He could already see where she would go next, the best course of action? “You’ve stated, very clearly, that you don’t care.”

“Then tell me why I should. Tomorrow.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Tell me when we go hunting another demon tomorrow. Tell me another reason why I should care. And if I don’t, there’s the next day, and the next demon. I know you’ve got one lined up.”

Rosalia sank to her heels. “Are you offering to help me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His slow smile caught her off guard, and her heart thudded again. “I’ll give you a reason tomorrow, too. But tonight, it’s because I was a complete bastard, and I’m sor—”