Demon Blood (31 page)

“Gerry.”

She could accept that. A vampire might have known about the dungeon. Lorenzo hadn’t kept it a secret. “How did you gain access to the house?”

He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. “How did you?” he countered.

Slowly losing patience, Rosalia thought. Though he’d been going along with her questions, she had the impression that he didn’t usually roll over this easily—and that the only reason he answered her was because it would eventually benefit him.

The cold intelligence in his eyes reminded her too much of her father, as if he was constantly judging how useful someone could be. After only a few minutes in his presence, she would have been certain he was Malkvial if she hadn’t already known he was human.

She briefly considered whether a human could masquerade as a demon, and rejected the possibility. Demons did not respect humans; they would never follow one, and they wouldn’t be fooled by one.

And St. Croix wasn’t quite as slick as a demon. His London accent held more river than estate, something no demon would ever allow. And if he hadn’t been trying to conceal the rougher edges of his emotions, she would have wondered whether they were a mask he put on to appear more human. Instead, she thought those rough edges were something he hadn’t yet filed down—but he’d been trying.

She didn’t like him. But he
had
felt something for these vampires, be it friendship or a deeper affection. For that, she could give him something back.

“You’ll find a broken window upstairs,” she told him.

His brows lifted. He seemed surprised that she answered. Then he nodded and said, “I own the building.”

As soon as he made the claim, Gemma spoke up.
“It’s true, Mother. I’ve just confirmed that Willingham Cross Properties belongs to him.”

All right. But why buy it? “Did you need a house where you can lock up a demon, Mr. St. Croix?”

For an instant, his gaze was no longer calculating, but pure ice. “Yes.”

“Were you looking for any demon? Or did you just want to keep this one?”

There, she hit a wall. She’d gotten close to something he didn’t want to answer. There was a subtle shift of his expression, a suggestion of humor and warmth. And
that
, Rosalia recognized, was his mask.

His gaze slowly traveled the length of her, his interest palpable. Wondering if he could seduce her to get what he wanted? She suspected it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done so to a woman. “Maybe I’ll keep you.”

She supposed he was incredibly handsome—for a human snake. “I don’t think so, Mr. St. Croix.”

“Then tell me what you are.” His focus settled on her mouth. “You have no fangs, and so you aren’t a vampire. How can I be certain you aren’t a demon? You move quickly enough to be one.”

“I could tell you, but if I am a demon, you would be foolish to believe me.” Rosalia smiled, though she had to acknowledge the problem: St. Croix had seen her. He knew she wasn’t human. And with the wrong word, he could reveal her to the demons at Legion and ruin everything. Which meant she needed to keep him close and slowly dole out information so that he wouldn’t go elsewhere to find it. “Now is not the time for telling you what I am, for there is too much to explain. Tonight, you have friends who need to be taken care of.”

He glanced down at the bodies again and nodded. His hand rose, as if intended to push it through his hair again, but this time he noted the blood on his fingers. His eyes cooled, losing the warmth—his anger and grief ripping away the mask again, but now joined by the icy touch of hate.

She would have wagered the demon he’d intended the cell for was a very specific one, indeed.

Vin’s quick tread descended the stairs, and he was followed by a slower, heavier step. Rosalia frowned and listened more closely. Deacon’s gait wasn’t hesitant . . . not exactly. And he wasn’t limping. But it sounded as if he was being careful as he took every step.

Was he still hurting?

Vin brushed past her, carrying an armful of white cloth. St. Croix stopped him, took the first sheet, took care of his friends.

Rosalia turned toward the stairs. Deacon had almost reached the bottom, and her heart clenched when she saw the way he was moving.

She’d seen it before—more than ninety years ago, when he’d lost himself in a bottle almost every night. She recognized the precision of every step, as if the world was spinning around him, but he’d be damned before he let anyone know it.

But he’d healed well. She’d expected to still see marks on his throat, like a newly formed scar where the blade had sliced his jugular, but not even a hint of pink was left.

Perhaps he hadn’t taken as much blood as he’d lost. That might account for some disorientation. Was it just physical, or was it mental as well?

Though the upstairs door had been open and he must have heard every question and response, she told him, “Mr. St. Croix picked up the demon in London.”

“That’s too bad for the vampires who came with him.” To her relief, his reply was clear, his eyes sharp. His gaze ran over her, searching out her injuries—almost healed now. The tightness around his mouth eased. “Where’d he pick the vampires up?”

St. Croix straightened up from beside the covered bodies. “Also in London, three years ago. They are my associates.”

“Your associates.” Deacon took in the cell, the overturned gurney, the splatters of blood. “In what kind of business?”

“Finding someone.”

“A demon?”

Though he stiffened, St. Croix said, “Yes.”

But not the nephil, Rosalia thought. So what had St. Croix hoped to gain by bringing him here? “Did you think this demon might help you find the one you’re looking for?”

“Yes.” His pale eyes narrowed. “How did you happen upon us tonight?”

“We’re looking for a demon, too,” she said. “But we didn’t join Legion to do it.”

He hadn’t expected her to know his connection to Legion, and in his moment of surprise, she felt his hatred, his determination. This man had no love for demons, she thought. Now he knew that she felt the same—but he didn’t know if a mutual enemy meant they shared the same goals. He studied her for a long, calculating moment.

She truly disliked that look. “You’re wondering how to use me to get what you need,” she said. “So I’ll make this easy: If what you need means that a demon dies, I’ll offer the help.”

“A demon will definitely die.”

Dark pleasure suffused his chiseled features. At that moment, St. Croix looked very much like the creature he wanted to kill. Rosalia tamped down her revulsion.

“Then we can share information. With your associates gone, you’ll need new ones—the difference being that our information is accurate.” The offer sounded cold, even to herself. Gerald and Sally still lay in pieces on the ground. Not being able to vanish their bodies and to take care of them hurt.

St. Croix only took a moment to decide. “That is acceptable.”

“Good.” Rosalia glanced down at the covered bodies. “Will you make the proper arrangements for them, or shall we?”

“I’ll see it done.”

Rosalia nodded. “I’ll meet with you tomorrow, then.” She gave him the name of Father Wojcinski’s church. “I will look for you there at eleven in the morning, and we will talk, Mr. St. Croix.”

Deacon hadn’t expected her to say farewell to St. Croix so quickly. Although the man didn’t know what she was, he’d seen what she could do. Rosalia was so damn set on keeping anyone from knowing about her, yet she hadn’t even extracted a promise of silence from St. Croix—or frightened him into keeping his mouth shut.

So Deacon would.

His expression must have tipped her off, though. After telling St. Croix that they’d talk, she’d barely finished turning around before pressing her hand against Deacon’s chest, as if holding him back. She looked up at him with warm eyes and an expression that asked him to trust her.

All right. He could do that. But it didn’t hurt to smile and give the smug bastard a good look at his fangs before following her up the stairs.

She had the curviest ass he’d ever set eyes on. He wanted to fill his hands with each sweet cheek and take a good bite. He had to settle for just walking up the stairs without tripping.

The first few minutes on the nephil’s blood had felt like he’d pounded back a fifth of vodka. Everything around him appeared slowed down, as if viewed through thick water. Climbing up the stairs was easier than walking down had been, but the disorientation wasn’t going away. He was just getting used to it.

But he hadn’t yet gotten used to the way Rosalia’s psychic scent seemed to vibrate with musical notes and sound. Apparently, nephil blood was a drug to vampires. Not a high. Just
more
, like opening a conduit. It brought too much into his head, twisted the input, cluttering his senses.

Deacon made it out of the house without making a fool of himself. By then, he’d realized why Rosalia hadn’t threatened St. Croix. The man didn’t have anything on her, and he didn’t know she wanted to keep the demons from finding out about her. Right now, she had the advantage. But once St. Croix had that knowledge, he could hold it over her head. So she’d given St. Croix just enough, and then promised more. He probably felt like he’d gained something, but he hadn’t gotten anything important out of Rosalia.

St. Croix had been an unexpected complication, but Rosalia had effortlessly put him in a position where she maintained control. Deacon doubted the man had any idea how she’d played him. He had to admire how well she’d managed it—and he hoped to hell she never tried anything like that on him.

Outside, the heat and humidity immediately had him sweating. He could have used another swim, and another opportunity to get his hands on Rosalia, but he didn’t think that was on the agenda.

Vin slid open the van door, and was knocked back when Gemma launched into his arms. The woman’s eyes were puffy and wet from crying. Christ, hearing the fight with the nephil go down must have torn her raw. Deacon watched them for a moment before turning to Rosalia.

“What’s up next?”

“Now we listen to everything he does, and dig deeper to find out what we missed. Then we start looking for Malkvial again.” Rosalia stopped next to her son, touched Gemma’s arm. “Are you okay,
mia piccola bambina
?”

Gemma unhooked one arm from around Vin’s neck and snagged Rosalia in for a hug. “You killed it.”

Not fast enough.
Over Gemma’s shoulder, Deacon saw the loss of the two vampires reflected in Rosalia’s expression. He felt it in the deep vibration of her psychic scent.

Since when did anyone’s emotions start sounding like that?

Rosalia patted Gemma’s arm before pulling away and climbing into the van. “Let’s head out. We’ll drive by his hotel, and I’ll wire it before he returns.”

“What about inside the library here?” Vin glanced back at the house.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“You did it on the way out,” he guessed.

“Clever boy.” She flicked a curl back from his forehead. “Go on in.”

Vin headed for the driver’s seat, with Gemma next to him. Rosalia’s smile faded as soon as their backs were turned. The engine started, and she sank into a chair, let her face fall forward into her hands.

Deacon rolled a chair next to her. He remembered the desperation in her eyes when she’d faced the nephil. The dread in her psychic scent when she’d begged him to feed from her. And the devastation upon realizing that they’d lost two more vampires.

She looked completely alone. Probably wondering what she could have done differently, what she hadn’t seen, obsessing over the mistakes she’d made. It killed him.

And it pissed him off.

“Get over yourself, princess.”

She stiffened. Her hands dropped, revealing her face. Just as he’d suspected: Her eyes were sad and tortured. She’d been beating herself up over everything that had happened since they’d stepped into that nightmare of a house.

“So you didn’t single-handedly save everyone. So you didn’t foresee that they’d take out the nephil’s IV, or even why they’d be pumping vampire blood into someone in the first place.” He pushed closer to her, got into her face. “Who’d have thought two vampires and a human could bring down a nephil? Who?”

“
I
should have.”

“Because you’re omnipotent fucking God?” He didn’t know whether she flinched at the words or at the hard smile he gave her. “You aren’t his bride anymore, and you’re not a saint or a miracle worker. And beating yourself up over it won’t bring them back.”

A yellow glow lit her eyes, and she replied with controlled ferocity, “So you are the ox and I am the ass.”

God, he loved it when she slapped back at him.

But this time, she’d missed. There was a world of difference between Deacon blaming himself for what had happened to his community and Rosalia taking the blame for what had happened here. “You can’t win everything.”