Demon Blood (46 page)

The demon was already dead. The body lay near a white sofa, and the head had been propped up on the oversized television. Blood trailed down the flat screen and dripped to the zebra-skin rug. “The Blue Danube” played on the sound system, a surreal accompaniment to the scene.

Deacon crossed the room, crouching beside the body. He couldn’t smell anything but demon blood. Guardians wouldn’t have left an odor, but they wouldn’t have come here—not without first telling Rosalia. A vampire’s lingering scent would be detectable this close to the time of death. The body was still warm. Almost hot.

So the demons who’d done this probably hadn’t gotten far. Maybe they hadn’t left at all, but had been waiting for Deacon to head inside, leaving Rosalia alone.

Deacon hauled ass back outside, breathed his relief when he saw her standing in the shadows beneath a tree. Were they being watched? He pushed out with a strong psychic sweep, hard enough that Rosalia’s eyes widened. Her mind felt human, with strong shields. He pushed harder, a hell of a lot harder, until he broke through and sensed the Guardian beneath. That was what he’d need to find a demon. He swept that out wider, searching over thousands of human minds.

A second later, he felt the dark, scaly slide of a demon’s psyche. It answered with a psychic probe that tried to pierce Deacon’s shields. A slight taunt echoed beneath it, the message clear.
Come find me.

It wasn’t hard to guess where to go. That taunt originated in the same direction as the vampire community’s club.

He told Rosie what’d been left in the demon’s home. “Someone knew I was coming,” he finished.

She frowned. “I didn’t expect him to make this move.”

“Malkvial?” he guessed. And killing one of Theriault’s demons was a bonus.

Her brow creased, and she stared up into his eyes, but not looking at him. He could almost feel her mind working as she tried to fathom a demon’s.

“If he just wanted to kill you, he could have waited here. Is he trying to make a bigger statement by doing it in front of vampires?” She shook her head, talking her way through it. “No. No, that would make a statement to the vampires, but it says to other demons, ‘Deacon’s dangerous and he’s stepping on my toes.’ You’re not, though. You’re doing him a favor. All of Theriault’s demons look like fools now. For God’s sake, they’ve been slain by a
vampire
.”

Deacon grinned. She’d said that like a demon might, as if a vampire was a piece of shit that a demon had to scrape off his heel.

“Maybe he’s delivering a message?” Putting the vampire back in his place. “Though he could have done that here, too.”

Her eyes cleared, hardened. “That’s it. He’s testing your resolve. You’re killing demons, but you’re taking them by surprise. Now he’ll see if you run—because if you do, he’ll paint you as a coward and a failure, and drive
that
home with another message.”

“By killing the vampires here?”

“That would be perfect, wouldn’t it? ‘Deacon’s arrogance destroyed another community.’ So if you confront the demon waiting for you, he delivers his message—probably by slaying you and making you pay for your arrogance. But if you run, he delivers another message to his demons and to every vampire community: Deacon is a coward. Either way, he wins.”

“So how does this fit into your plan if I have to kill him?”

“Oh,
Malkvial
isn’t waiting for you. He’s challenging you, but he wouldn’t want to give the impression to any other demons that you’re important enough to bother with himself.”

“I have to kill the messenger,” Deacon realized.

“Yes.” She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Demons can be clever, as Malkvial seems to be, but they are rarely original. The only time they surprise me is when love enters the mix. But it isn’t here.”

Deacon’s gaze searched her face. She laughed, but worry and a touch of panic whistled through her psychic scent, a cold wind past a jagged cliff.

And he could have told her that she was wrong: Love
was
here.

But he had to push it away.

Rosalia hadn’t expected this. She’d imagined many other scenarios, but not this particular one.

Deacon could handle this, no doubt. But it served as a reminder of how much could go wrong, how quickly everything could fall apart. One missed step. One wrong move. The dreaded possibilities rushed in on her without cease, spinning through her mind. Like falling from the sky, unable to form her wings.

“You all right?”

She had to be. They’d almost reached the club. “Yes.”

He wasn’t convinced. His gaze searched her face. “You’re scared. You’ve been worried since we left the demon’s place.”

“I’m not
scared
.” Her pride stinging, she frowned at him. “Not of this demon. Just . . .”

“You don’t like not being in control. Or letting someone else dictate events.”

He saw her so well. Knowing how he disliked her maneuverings, she wasn’t sure if that pleased her or not.

“Trust me. I’ll pull it off.” He grinned, and her heart flipped over. “Then you’ve got to fix your inner control freak. Just let go.”

“I can’t.”

His grin turned wicked, showing plenty of fang. “You did in my bed.”

She had to smile. So she had, and loved it. And she trusted him to carry this through now, just as she had then. But—“If everything goes out of control there, no one dies.”

“I came damn close a couple of times, princess.”

A laugh burst from her, but she couldn’t make it last. She’d come close, too—but not for several days. Barely touching, rarely talking, never kissing. She hated it. But today had been better, giving her hope that they could take another step forward.

She glanced up at Deacon, but he was no longer smiling. He stared ahead, his jaw set.

“You hear that?”

Only the puttering of motorboats on the canals, voices and appliances and televisions within the residences. Listening close, she looked toward the club, a tall, narrow building topped with steep gables. No lights shone through the windows. All was quiet. She didn’t dare try a psychic probe to find out why.

And she hoped to God that the silence didn’t mean they’d been too late.

But his senses were different, she remembered—stronger now. “What are you picking up?”

“Vampires, blocking their minds. At least, they’re trying to. Their fear screams.”

Anger wound up inside her, hot and hard.

He glanced at her. “They’re pissed, too.”

“Good.” Fear without anger too often led to subservience. If they got the chance, Rosalia suspected these vampires might fight.

No one met them at the entrance. The heavy wooden door opened easily, and they passed into a large foyer, empty but for the paintings that filled the walls. Pastel landscapes, bold modern pieces, religious scenes that dated back to the Renaissance era, they all shared one feature: the sun. Rising and setting in shades of orange and pink, or high and brilliant in its full glory.

“I’ve never been able to decide whether Stefan put these up as a welcome or a warning,” Deacon said. Though his voice was casual, Rosalia had never seen him as focused.

Listening for sounds deeper within the club. Waiting to see if the demon came for him.

Rosalia adopted the same easy tone. “Perhaps he does neither, but uses them to gauge a visitor’s personality. A cynical or suspicious vampire sees the sun that destroys him; an amiable and hopeful one sees a generous gift from their host, a room bursting with beauty and memory.”

And though she said “perhaps,” Rosalia knew it for certain. A strong and thoughtful vampire, and a good friend of Tomás Lakatos, Stefan had come to Amsterdam from Budapest ten years before. He’d renovated this building, formerly a small hotel, into a club and boardinghouse for both community members and visitors, with his own suite on the top level, and in the basement, a reinforced chamber designed to keep out demons. In the public areas, he’d created meeting spaces much like those in Budapest, with billiards and game tables, surrounding everyone with warm woods, soft lighting, and comfort.

Deacon pointed to the double doors leading to the community’s meeting room, formerly the hotel’s dining room and kitchen. Yes, Rosalia heard it, too—hearts thundering, and a small moan, almost like a whimper, as if someone was holding back a scream through clenched teeth.

Deacon drew one of the short swords from the harness beneath his jacket, approaching the meeting room. “I told Stefan that since he’d included one of Eva’s paintings, it showed he had damn good taste. What do you think he made of that?”

That Deacon was incredibly loyal to those he loved. But she said, “That you were only pleased that Eva had sold the work because you depended on her money. And that she was your sugar mama.”

He choked back a laugh, but was still grinning when he opened the door. The effect was exactly what she’d hoped—the vampires saw confidence, and the demon saw a cocky male that needed to be put down.

And though the vampires crowded into a three-deep circle around the room had been shielding too well for Rosalia to sense their fear, now she felt their hope, rising like warm air. They parted, giving Deacon a clear path to the demon.

In the center of the darkened room, the demon stood in his natural form, a grotesque combination of goat, snake, bat, and man. Leathery wings stretched over a skeletal frame. Black horns curled back from his forehead. Red scales gleamed over bulging muscle. His taloned hands were empty of weapons—he didn’t need them. At his feet, Stefan lay on his stomach, his cheek against the polished wood floor and facing the door. With backward-jointed knees, the demon lifted his split-hoofed foot onto Stefan’s head, applying enough pressure that the vampire’s face distorted with pain. The demon’s threat was clear: one wrong move, and he’d crush Stefan’s skull.

As threats went, it was a poor one. Painful and gory, certainly—but it wouldn’t kill the vampire. When Deacon destroyed this demon, Malkvial wouldn’t be losing a particularly clever ally.

And Malkvial must have known what he’d sent.

Rosalia’s gaze searched the vampires’ faces as Deacon steered her to the left. She recognized all the vampires, except for two standing near the doors. Not blocking the exit, but just close enough for the vampires here to realize that they wouldn’t make it through.

Not vampires at all, she thought. Demons, shape-shifted.

But probably not here to kill Deacon. Malkvial had sent a challenge, testing the vampire. What good would that be if the messenger was killed and no one reported the results to him?

Deacon pushed her toward the line of vampires. “You all watch over her. If one hair is harmed, you’ll pray for the sun.”

The vampires nodded. Cool hands welcomed her in, urging her behind them. Good. Their protection made her seem weaker than anything else could have. The demon barely looked at her.

Everyone
was looking at Deacon, who came to a stop less than ten feet from the demon. “You’re wasting my time.”

“Am I?” His leg flexed, and Stefan’s skull cracked. Blood gushed from his nose.

Around her, the vampires sucked in breath. From the circle at the left side of the room, Stefan’s lover, Gilles, screamed and tried to leap toward the demon. Two others caught the auburn-haired vampire, dragged him back into the circle. The demon glanced at the male, his pleasure at Gilles’s distress evident, before returning his attention to Deacon.

“A complete waste of time.” Deacon absently tapped the side of his blade against his leg, as if the demon concerned him not at all. “See, I’ve come across a demon like you before. He got off on pain, too.”

That description pleased the demon. He grinned. “I do love it so.”

“Except Caym only beat up on those weaker than him, and he couldn’t take any pain himself. I think you’re like that, too. The second I cut into him, he started screaming.”

That was a lie. Deacon hadn’t given Caym time to scream.

But it was effective, sparking the demon’s anger. Rosalia smiled. Anger could act as fuel in a battle, but didn’t help thought—and this demon needed all the help he could get.

“And he was dumb as a brick,” Deacon added. “He always had to be told what to do, where to go, who to kill.”

The demon didn’t like that much, either. His grin had vanished, replaced by a sneer. He opened his mouth, but Deacon didn’t give him a chance to speak.

“So, you’re of no use to me. You don’t have the brains to pull off what I have in mind. But run back home and tell Malkvial that I have a proposition for him, and that I’ll expect he’s got brains enough to find me tomorrow at midnight. And I won’t waste
his
time.”

“I’m not a vampire’s messenger boy.”

“All right. You’re not a messenger boy. You will
be
the message, instead.” Deacon’s voice hardened. “And you’ll tell Malkvial this: We vampires won’t be fucked with. We won’t be your pawns. And when you crush our head, two will rise up in its place. In this case, it’ll be me and Gilles.” Deacon flipped his sword around, holding it by the blade and swinging it toward the circle of vampires. “So come on up, Gilles. We’ll send this message together.”