Demon Blood (25 page)

She switched on the microphone. “Go home and sleep.”

Vin yawned and stretched. “The tracker’s on his vehicle.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“How’s Gemma?”

She’s fine.
Rosalia almost gave that automatic answer, then realized it wasn’t her place to protect him from this. “She had a bad moment. She’s sleeping now, but it was a rough night.”

His haunted expression tore at her heart. “I don’t know what to do. How to help her. I wish to God I’d been here with her that night.”

As much as Rosalia wished that he’d never left, it wouldn’t have changed anything. The nephilim would still have come. “Just hold her when she needs it.”

“I intend to—Father Wojcinski be damned. So don’t be surprised when I show up at the abbey in about thirty minutes.”

She’d only have been surprised if he
hadn’t
come. “All right.”

“Good night, Mama.” He flipped off the monitor.

Rosalia smiled to herself and moved back into the bedroom. Resisting the temptation to spend a few minutes on the bed, simply soaking in Deacon’s presence, she crossed the room and vanished her clothes. Painfully aware that this marked the first time she’d been naked in the same room with a man—even a sleeping one—she showered to rinse off the scent of chlorine. As she dressed, her gaze fell on Deacon again. She could look upon him forever and never tire of the view.

She couldn’t help herself. Climbing onto the bed, she curled around him and drew in his scent. She wouldn’t sleep. But every day, she took a few quiet minutes to think, to examine and re-examine her plan.

For today, she wanted to do it here.

Sunset brought Deacon hard out of dreams. He jacked up to sitting, facing unfamiliar walls, his mind still awash in pain and blood. He fought to orient himself.

Rome. Rosalia’s abbey. Her bed.

He threw back sweat-dampened sheets and headed for the shower. Cranking the knob all the way left, Deacon stepped under scalding water. He gritted his teeth and bore it until the rage and pain faded.

He’d be killing a demon tonight. That would help, too. But for the first time six months, it wasn’t his only reason for getting up.

He hadn’t been going after Belial’s demons because it’d been the right thing to do—it’d been the
only
thing to do. It couldn’t bring him peace. It couldn’t bring his community back. It just made living with himself easier.

But thanks to Rosalia, he had a new reason for taking down Belial’s demons and the nephilim. Pursuing Belial’s demons could be something useful, something for his community: a vow that they’d be the last.
Never again
would a city of vampires be slaughtered by demons or nephilim.

He’d still take a hell of a lot of satisfaction by slaying them along the way.

The water cooled, the heater tank running low. Deacon lathered up. The pink soap smelled like Rosalia, flowery and delicate. His bloodlust stirred, and he soothed his fangs with his tongue to stave off the insistent hunger. But even after rinsing, her scent remained all over his skin like she’d spent the day wrapped around him.

He wouldn’t be kicking her out of bed if she did.

And that was the goddamn understatement of the century. Christ. She hadn’t even pulled his strings and he’d come running after her—which just showed how much of a glutton he was for pain. Even if Rosalia was interested in burning up a few sheets, eventually she wouldn’t need his help, and he’d have to move on. And in less than a week, she already had a few hooks in him.

He’d loved Eva and Petra, loved them deep—but the hooks they’d had felt different. From their first meeting, he’d liked the two women, and that had grown into affection and a sixty-year friendship. But something else was going on with Rosalia. Even resisting everything he liked about her, she hit him gut-level. She had from the day they’d met. And he wasn’t looking forward to knowing what her hooks would feel like if they went deep, because he’d be ripping them out when he left.

Problem was, even knowing what he’d be in for, he’d take any opportunity she gave him. And, hell—maybe he deserved having his heart torn out.

He grabbed a towel. His bag had been moved from where he’d dropped it beside the bed that morning. He glanced around, hoping he wouldn’t have to track down Rosalia in his shorts, asking where she’d put it. As hungry as he was, the bloodlust would grab hold of his cock the moment he saw her, and she’d get an eyeful in return.

A second later, he found his clothes piled neatly on the bench at the end of the bed, cleaned and pressed—just as Eva and Petra once had done. Grief hit him out of nowhere. He sat, their absence a dark, yawning hole in his chest.

God, he missed them.

And they’d be so fucking pissed at him. Not for taking revenge, that selfish route—but for being a first-class asshole while going about it. A man could be hard, and he could be ruthless. Leading a community of vampires sometimes called for both, and they’d accepted that in him. Then there was just being an out-and-out bastard. They wouldn’t have stood for that.

He had to do better. He had to
be
better.

Resolved, he stood and dressed. When he opened the bedroom door, the ringing clash of metal drew him to the walkway overlooking the courtyard.

Wearing black shirt and trousers, with boots propped by high heels that shouldn’t have been anywhere near the soft earth in the garden, Rosalia crossed swords with a tall woman in white fencer’s regalia. Gemma, Deacon guessed, though he couldn’t see her face behind the mesh mask. Both women used the hedges and fountains as obstacles, leaping after each other, and exchanging a flurry of steel when cornered.

He recognized Vin sitting at a small table near the courtyard’s edge, watching the women. Deacon moved down the stairs and joined him.

When the man stuck out his hand, Deacon shook it. “She’s going to break her ankle.”

Vin grinned. “Father Wojcinski used to caution her about vanity, until she told him how many demons’ throats she’s slashed open with those heels.”

Deacon could believe it. Even holding back, Rosalia put his own bladework to shame. To his surprise, the human might have, too. “Gemma’s good.”

“She’d have taken gold in Beijing, if she’d gone. But she doesn’t compete anymore.”

If
she’d gone?

Ah. Because earlier that year, before the Summer Games had begun, the nephilim had killed everyone here, leaving her alone. Yeah, that could have thrown her off stride. Deacon wasn’t sure if he knew of anyone who could have bounced back from that in a few months.

“Where were you?”

Vin’s jaw tightened. “Not here.” He stood as the women finished—Gemma out of breath, and Rosalia with a brilliant smile.

“Deacon.” Her gaze ran over him. “I see you found everything.”

“Yes.” Since thinking back to how he’d found his clothes was bringing his grief up to the surface again, he moved on quick. “What’s on for tonight?”

As if she heard a little grief in his voice, she cocked her head and studied him before turning to Vin. “You two are going out?”

“Dinner by candlelight . . . and then a romantic evening in the van.”

Rosalia laughed. “The last night, I think—and we should not be too long. I can take over the watch before it grows very late.”

Her soft smile remained as she watched them retreat into Gemma’s room, and as she looked to Deacon.

“I suppose you will want your dinner as well.” A bag of blood appeared in her hand. “I would put them all into the icebox so that you can feed at will, but this is the last one. We should receive another shipment from San Francisco tomorrow.”

“And if they don’t send it?”

She turned toward the kitchen, and he couldn’t read her face when she said, “Then we’ll make other arrangements.”

He could only hope those arrangements included Rosalia spread out on a table.

With fruit piled in ceramic bowls, and the faint scent of cinnamon and cloves, the kitchen appeared just as warm and lived-in as the other rooms within the abbey, though he assumed only Gemma must have been a regular user.

Deacon discovered he was wrong. After Rosalia set a tall glass in front of him, she pulled out a plate and a peach. A paring knife appeared in her hand, and she sliced around the fruit before rotating it open.

She took a bite, and he couldn’t decide which appeared more succulent: her mouth or that peach.

Mistaking the reason for his attention, she said, “Eating became a habit when Gemma’s grandmother first came to work for me. By the time Vin, Gemma, and Pasquale arrived, it was a good habit.”

Whereas he couldn’t even taste food. He lifted his glass. “Well, I appreciate the company. Otherwise I’d be desperate and lonely.”

As an apology, it wasn’t worth much, but her smile could knock a man off his feet. His weren’t all that steady when she gestured to the courtyard.

“Shall we eat out there?”

They didn’t have candlelight, but the moon filled in. He followed her to the fountain, where she straddled the stone bench and used the length of seat in front of her to make a table. He swung his leg over the other end, facing her, and took a swig of the blood. Living, it felt like a jolt of electricity across his tongue.

His hunger sharpened. He needed a distraction, and latched onto the unfamiliar name she’d mentioned back in the kitchen. “Pasquale? That’s another kid who lived here?”

“Gemma’s brother. Vincente’s best friend.” She looked down at her fingers. “He’s gone.”

Another vampire? That didn’t surprise him. Surrounded by immortals, why wouldn’t a young man try to become one? “And another reason for taking out the nephilim?”

“No. This happened more than a decade ago. He was attempting to become a Guardian.”

Which meant sacrificing himself in some way. Christ, that must have been one hell of a blow. “But he didn’t.”

“No. And it was . . . a difficult time. For all of us.” He’d become accustomed to seeing sadness in her eyes, but now he heard the same emotion in her voice, almost drowned in it. She fell silent for a moment, then looked up at him again. “So do you go first, or do I?”

“Giving our reason of the day?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she hummed around a bit of peach.

He could have said her mouth had been a reason to come back. Her blood. An opportunity to find out more about her. He skipped all of those reasons, and held up his glass.

“This is one.”

She accepted that easily enough. “Yes. I imagine that without a partner—partners—it’s better than the alternative.”

She had that right: Drinking demon’s blood from a glass was much better than fucking a stranger almost every night. And he didn’t want to think about how finding a new partner would become necessary once the demons and nephilim were gone.

He remembered the stories in her head, wondered if she had two for Eva and Petra. “You knew them?”

“I knew
of
them better than I knew them. I only spoke with them a few times—the latest at Eva’s gallery showing in ’ninety-five.”

She’d been there? He thought back, trying to remember faces. She hadn’t used this one, he was certain. But he recalled the painting in her room . . . and standing in front of the same canvas during the showing. A woman—a human woman, he’d thought—her dark hair streaked with gray and her face gently lined, had come to stand beside him. She’d told him that painting was her favorite, that Eva was both talented and lovely.

Shit. Only fourteen years ago, she’d been close enough to touch—and he hadn’t recognized her for the Guardian she was.

“You said I was lucky to have her.”

Her brows shot up, as if surprised that he remembered. Hell, so was he.

“You were,” she said. Her lashes swept down, but not before he saw the shadows in her eyes. He just didn’t know why they were there. “I liked them. And I liked knowing that Prague’s leader had such strong personalities behind him. That he had partners loyal to him.”

“They gave me hell.”

“Because they could. Two women in love with each other at a time when vampire communities weren’t open? They went through hell. And women who’ve been through hell don’t play with a man’s ego unless they know he won’t strike back at them. They don’t tease him. But they trusted you. And they
chose
to be with you.” Her smile widened almost to the edge of a laugh. “Them giving you hell probably did you good.”

Yeah, it had. But he didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat hurt too damn much.

He finished off the glass. His hunger receded, and discomfort took its place. He’d chosen blood as his reason because it would reveal the least, yet she’d managed to peel off part of him, anyway. And he wanted to expose her in return.

“Your son said you overcompensate.”

Her brows arched. “He did?”

“Yes. If something goes wrong, you go overboard fixing it.”

She pursed her lips. “Maybe so.”

“How do I fit into that?”

Her brows lifted again.

“Sister, it’s easy to see what you’ve been doing here. You want to kill demons? You’re smart enough you could have made it seem like a vampire was doing it without anyone being the wiser. Hell, you could go in
looking
like me, and no one probably would have noticed anything different. But instead, you’re helping me out. Letting me kill them. What I can’t figure is
why
. What failure of yours is so bad that you’re overcompensating with me?”

“You’re wrong. It does have to be you.”

“Bullshit.”

Laughing a little, she shook her head. “You don’t even recognize . . .” She trailed off, her expression becoming serious as she studied him. “All right. You’re correct—I am trying to make up for something.”

“Then spill it.”

She did, but only after a moment, as if she chose her words carefully. “There was a man once. For no reason at all, he helped me . . . and when I’ve been helped, I feel as though I owe someone.”