Demon Blood (26 page)

Her wry smile invited him in. But his gut had tightened up.
A man.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know more. Yet he couldn’t stop himself. “Go on.”

Her eyes softened. “So I kept returning to him, looking for some way to help him out, to return the favor. And I . . . got to know him.”

“Started talking to him?”

“No!” The denial came out on a burst of laughter, and fire swept over her cheeks. “No. I didn’t do that. I wouldn’t have done that.”

So she’d just stalked him.
Didn’t see her, did you?

“You got hot for him.” Jealousy brought out the bastard. “I get it.”

The look she gave him said he didn’t get it. “It wasn’t like that. I couldn’t be with anyone. Especially not a human. Lorenzo would have killed him, just to hurt me. And I . . . I thought he must be too good to be true. That eventually he’d be a disappointment.”

Her color was high again, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Was he?”

“No. But I couldn’t . . . But the timing wasn’t right. It was never right. And it was never going to
be
right. He was human and I was a Guardian, and my brother hadn’t changed.” She took a deep breath. “But I wanted so much. And I thought,
Maybe one day, it would be right.
So I arranged for him to become a vampire.”

Deacon stared at her, struck dumb. That’d been the last thing he expected her to say. And how did she
arrange
for someone to become a vampire? It couldn’t have been against the man’s will. The transformation had to be voluntary. So the man had chosen a vampire’s life for his own reasons.

He could understand that, easily. He remembered Camille, so bright in the darkness of his life. How she’d had a purpose—and through her, he’d had one, too, until he’d found his own again.

This man had probably been seduced by the transformation the same way. “You knew he would accept it?”

“I thought he might.”

But Rosalia couldn’t be with him and provide the blood he’d need. That meant—“Even though he’d be with someone else?”

So she’d arranged for his transformation, then handed him over to another woman. That was damn cold and calculating.

But the expression on Rosalia’s face was neither. “He was with someone else,” she said softly. “But he was
alive
.”

So his life had made the trade-off worth it. Christ.

She continued. “And I thought . . . At some point, he won’t live up to my expectations. And I’ll lose interest.”

“Did he? Did
you
?”

“Yes, he did. And no, I didn’t.”

So, some perfect bastard. Someone who might be good enough for her. “So why aren’t you with him now? Your brother’s dead.”

“Yes, well—” She took another deep breath. “Not so long ago, he was forced to make a bargain with a demon.”

Now it was coming together. The connection. “Like I did.”

She made a strange noise in her throat. “Yes. Like you, he was left with no good choices. Only bad ones. I didn’t know it, though. I had no idea what was happening. And while he was away from his community, I thought: Maybe now I’ll try.”

“And you met up with him. You told him?”

“No.” Her gaze locked on his, held steady. “I’d have to tell him how I manipulated his life. I feared his reaction.”

He considered his own aversion to Camille trying to manage him, and his relief that Eva and Petra had never tried. “Yeah, that’d make any man pissed enough to walk away.”

Then realize what he could have with her and get over it.

“Yes,” Rosalia said softly. She looked away from him. “I probably shouldn’t have done it that way. I probably should have been open from the beginning. Maybe it would have changed things.” She sighed. “Or maybe it wouldn’t have. In any case, the demon got to him, and I should have known. I should have seen, but instead I was trying to flirt. And instead of being able to help him, his bargain with the demon ended . . . badly.”

He’d died? Deacon hadn’t been around any other vampires the past six months. He didn’t know who it’d been—or even if it was a European vampire, someone he was familiar with. And he didn’t want to ask around and find out who he was competing against.

Competing against? By the sound of this guy, Deacon wasn’t even in the same class.

“So you couldn’t help him, and now you’re overcompensating by helping me.”

And her wanting to kiss him suddenly made more sense. She’d transferred more than her guilt over from this other guy.

“Yes.” She lifted her sad eyes to his again. “That’s oversimplified, but basically . . . yes. That failure is one of my many reasons.”

He’d wanted to expose more of her? Shit. Judging by the jealousy eating at him, he’d exposed more of himself. Her vulnerability was killing him.

He pushed all of that emotion away and said flatly, “So we have our reasons, and now we should be going. What city’s on the agenda for tonight?”

She took several moments. Still wrestling with her heart-break, he guessed. Her answer, when it came, was soft. “Monaco.”

Where she’d change her clothes and put on that human-scented perfume, then rub his shirt over her skin. He wanted to put his scent on her. Wanted to mark her as his.

“Did you have all of my shirts cleaned?”

Her puzzled expression said he’d lost her. “Yes.”

“Come here, then.”

Here, in this courtyard, she was a Guardian, not a human. She’d say no if she didn’t want to.

And if she wanted him—even just as a replacement—Deacon wouldn’t object to being used. Not when he knew this was the only way he would have her.

He was a bastard again, after all.

“Come here and kiss me, Rosie. You need my scent on you. You’ll get it.”

Her lips parted. She seemed about to say something, then stopped herself. Leaning forward, she lifted her knees onto the bench and stalked toward him like a cat. She paused in front of him, rising up on her knees between his legs.

Her hair slipped over her shoulder, curling against her breast. Peaches perfumed her breath. For a moment, she looked down at him—maybe through him. Then she lowered her head, and her mouth settled gently on his. The tentative movement of her lips whispered through him, so sweet. He remembered her awkward kiss, his callous response.

No. A thousand perfect tits couldn’t equal one touch of her lips.

His hand closed around her nape, and he brought her in for a deeper kiss. A vampire couldn’t taste, but he could smell her luscious scent. Feel the heat of her mouth.

She moaned softly in her throat when his tongue pushed against hers. She licked his fangs, and the heat of her tongue speared straight to his cock. He strained toward her. Her fingers searched his jaw, his hair, then down over his shoulders. Touching all of him. Her breasts brushed his chest, then pressed harder against his pecs as if she loved the feeling. As if she wanted to surround him, devour him.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Come over me, Rosie. Like this.”

Lifting her, he brought her knees forward until her thighs spread wide over his. When she settled back down, her warm center tucked hard against his stomach. Her breath caught, her eyes closed, and then she rocked into him, as if testing the sensation.

His hands found her hips, urged her to rock against him again. Her heart pounded, her breath came fast. She was all heat and softness. And need—as if she couldn’t get enough of him. When was the last time he’d felt that? Had he
ever
felt that?

Not like this. She claimed his mouth in a wild, desperate kiss. Sensing the scrape and tear of skin against his fang, he pulled back . . . and stared.

Her eyes glowed. No longer brown but yellow, as if a sun burned within. Her skin had flushed, her hands fisted in his hair. She hadn’t noticed the cut, the blood that beaded on her lip.

Temptation gripped him. He’d just fed, his hunger and bloodlust sated. He wouldn’t lose control with a taste, and he only wanted to know . . . wanted to know more. Her mental shields couldn’t hold when he was in her blood. She closed her eyes as he brought her down. A niggle of guilt made him hesitate, but pausing only fueled his need. Gently, he drew her bottom lip between his.

Just a drop, but her blood was strong, stronger than he’d imagined, crashing into his veins like the crest of an orgasm. His mind hurtled into hers. Longing poured through him, fierce and sweet, and the hectic thread of her thoughts.

Her lip healed, breaking the connection. Deacon struggled up from the deep psychic well, aware that something had gone wrong. His bloodlust lurked just below the surface, on the verge of taking him over. Rosalia had stiffened against him; he gripped her hips painfully tight, grinding her sex against his raging erection.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stop. Shock held him quiet, staring up at Rosalia. The bloodlust had never hit him like that before. Not from one drop, taken after he’d already drunk his fill. But he shouldn’t have risked it, risked
her
.

Her eyes weren’t glowing anymore. She licked her lip, and fear fluttered over her expression. Her voice seemed thick.

“You tasted my blood.”

A flash of memory brought him the image of Rosalia, with dried blood crusting her skin. Her shattered skull. The nosferatu, feeding from her. “Christ, I’m a thoughtless bastard. You were in the catacombs for more than a fucking year, and here I am—”

“I don’t remember anything that happened to me there.” She cut him off, her gaze searching his face as if worried that she’d find . . . what? “Did you hear inside me?”

Just her regret and her need for the other guy. But she didn’t need to know that—she looked too vulnerable as it was. He shook his head.

Her relief punched through him. So she didn’t want him peeking in, taking her blood? He wouldn’t. Not again. Never again.

She swung her leg to the ground and stood up. “We should get started anyway.”

Her wings formed, and he realized—“We’re flying there?”

“Yes.”

So she’d be holding him against her as she flew. By the time they arrived in Monaco, his scent would be all over her.

“You didn’t need my shirt.” Or his kiss. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Her smile appeared, wicked and sly and embarrassed, all at once. She seemed to struggle for a reply, and finally settled on, “ ‘I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.’ ”

She quoted Scripture to explain why she’d come in for his kiss? “I see now why the Church kicked you out.”

Her laugh rolled out, light and surprised. She nodded, as if agreeing, then laughed harder, the sound emerging from deep within her.

God, she was beautiful. “Are my lips like lilies, then?”

She wiped her eyes, looking him up and down, and he knew she must be choosing another verse. But when she spoke, he heard reverence in her voice, not amusement.

“ ‘His legs are of pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold: his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars. His mouth is most sweet.’ ” Her gaze locked with his. A soft smile curved her lips. “ ‘Yea, he is altogether lovely.’ ”

He’d heard conviction in her voice before, and he had no doubt that she believed what she’d spoken. But he’d looked in a mirror. His mug didn’t qualify for ugly, but he wasn’t a prize, either. It only followed that when she looked at him, she saw someone else.

And for now, that didn’t matter at all.

The best part of having a vampire computer-genius friend with legal access to many countries’ police databases, and illegal access to dozens of others, was that tracking down convictions and dates of death was a damn sight easier. In a conference room at Special Investigations, armed with a computer and the list of names, Taylor began searching for the nephil who’d raped and murdered the London couple.

All of the nephilim had possessed humans who’d been bound for Hell. No one knew exactly how the judgments were made or exactly why a soul went Above or Below, but Taylor preferred to believe that it wasn’t for the petty stuff—and considering how much free will mattered, so that even demons had to follow the Rules, Taylor thought that was where the line was drawn. Getting down and dirty with seven naked friends? You still get a pass through the golden gates. Rape? Not so much.

She’d met all of Anaria’s children, in their human forms. She remembered faces. And so far, she’d been able to match fifteen of them to convicted murderers, rapists, and one child predator.

The rapists, she scrutinized closely, looking for the same MO as used in London. Facedown, hands behind the backs—and the victim could be male or female. Nothing had popped, yet.

Maybe it wouldn’t. There was a good chance he’d never been caught, or he’d be in a database her friend hadn’t accessed. Or she’d miss him because the database didn’t have a picture, or the conviction was too old. Or he’d been convicted of something else. Taylor knew the chances of nailing him down this way were slim.

But this kind of work was familiar, and Michael was quiet, so she kept on.

As another name matched yet another face, she began hoping that Anaria was right about her children—that they were in control—because otherwise the woman had her own personal village of the damned living under her roof.

And Taylor’s mind kept heading back to those body resonances. To possess the body, the nephil had to alter his own resonance until it matched the human’s psyche; if it didn’t match, the body rejected him. And the nephil possessed all of the human’s memories, used the same brain that the human had. So maybe the nephil
was
in control—but Taylor wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the nephil had undergone a hell of a personality change.