Demon Blood (52 page)

As if satisfied, he retreated into the screams that always lingered in the back of her head, and quieted them.

Taylor began to breathe again. She breathed until the presence of another Guardian drew her gaze up. Irena hovered above her, motionless but for the wings holding her aloft. The serpent tattoos winding around her arms seethed.

“You cow-fucking idiot.”

Ah, shit. Khavi must have told her that Taylor had run into Anaria . . . several times.

“I really prefer goats. Or ducks. I would love to hear you say that.” But although they’d become friends in the past several months, Taylor could only push the Guardians’ leader so far. When Irena’s eyes narrowed and began to glow a poisonous green, she added, “She obviously didn’t harm me. And if you’re going to worry, add in a couple more: I attacked Rosalia, almost killed Deacon, and helped them slay one of the nephilim. I think I’ve also slain a demon and a nosferatu, but I’m not certain. And there might be more that I can’t remember.”

Irena’s mouth dropped open, and she landed in a crouch on the tower. “Michael?”

“He asks for permission now. Kind of.”

The other Guardian closed her eyes. “Rosalia and Deacon?”

“All right.” If you could ignore the heartache and longing wailing from both. “Just getting ready to kill a shitload of nephilim and demons.”

“Already?” Irena blinked her eyes open. “I do not know Rosalia, though Alejandro speaks well of her. Do you think what she has done is feasible? Will she and Deacon be safe?”

Taylor hoped so. “Yes.”

“Will
you
be safe?”

“I don’t think Anaria will hurt me, no.”

Irena seemed to choke. “Anaria is involved?”

“Not really by her choice.”

The other woman stared at her. Probably debating whether to chain her somewhere, then realizing that Taylor could just teleport out. Finally, she let out a heavy breath.

“You are certain you wish to do this?”

She hadn’t been a little while ago. Now she was. “Yes.”

“Then take this.”

A steel spear appeared in Irena’s palms, and Taylor had to stop herself from lurching forward, snatching it from the Guardian’s hands. Power hummed from that weapon, which could pierce stone like a blade into water. The heat of a dragon’s blood drew her . . . and drew Michael.

“I cannot make it flame,” Irena said as Taylor reached for it. “Michael told me that only those with the dragon blood in their veins can.”

So she wouldn’t, either. That was all right. As soon as her fingers closed around the shaft, she could feel the power of it burning through her. When she vanished the spear into her cache, she still sensed it, a quiet, warm hum through her mind.

Irena smiled slightly, but the worry in her eyes hadn’t disappeared. “When the time comes, I would like to be there with you, Rosalia, and Deacon—if it does not upset her plan. I want you all to have someone watching your backs.”

And that right there was why Taylor liked this woman so much.
Watching each other’s backs.
The Guardians weren’t always so different from the family and job she’d known.

“If it doesn’t upset her plan, I’ll bring you in,” Taylor promised.

Just before dawn, Rosalia forced herself out of bed, and dressed while Deacon laughed at her heavy sigh. She’d have preferred to stay with him, but she’d spent the whole of the previous day—and a good portion of the night—neglecting everything else. She pushed him off into the shower and then to his garage before heading out into her courtyard. The garden needed tending before Gemma’s wedding planner arrived for a tour of the abbey.

But when the knock came, she found Irena waiting there instead, dressed not in her outlandish longstockings and rabbit-fur mantle, but simple gray trousers and a long-sleeved shirt.

Rosalia did not even know what to think. Guardians could change their appearance, yet she’d never seen Irena as anything but the barbarian.

But Irena herself wasn’t wholly unexpected. The Guardian had known Rosalia intended to use Deacon, but she hadn’t told Irena that included his bargaining with a demon.

“I came quietly,” Irena said, her Italian marked by a strong Slavic accent. “You will not be revealed by me.”

Rosalia nodded, stepping back and inviting her in. She led the Guardian to the courtyard, and when Irena spoke again, she heard the movement from within the garage stop, as if Deacon had frozen in place, holding his breath.

“From the San Francisco community leader, I have heard that Deacon has made a bargain with Malkvial.”

Unsurprised that word had already reached the States, Rosalia answered, “Yes.”

“You requested him to do this?”

“Yes.”

Irena’s green eyes suddenly glowed with anger. “You dare risk his soul?”

Rosalia blinked. She’d expected to be called a fool for trusting him, which she would have turned about very carefully. But Irena was concerned for him?

Michael, it seemed, had left them in good hands when he’d passed the reins over to Irena.

“No,” she said. “His part of the bargain is not so difficult. He only has to stay alive to fulfill it. And I will fight to my last breath to see that he does. We need but two days more.”

“This was of his free will?”

Rosalia gestured toward the sparring chamber, where curtains covered the ragged hole in the wall that opened to the garage. “Ask him.”

Irena nodded. “I will return after sundown—”

“No. Ask him
now
.”

She led Irena to the garage, where even the air-conditioning couldn’t win against the heat coming through from the sparring chamber. Deacon waited for them, his big body tense.

Irena didn’t hesitate. She called in her kukri knives, prepared to strike. “You have been fooled by a demon!”

“No, Irena. Feel him,” she said, remembering her own reaction. “Look how he sweats in the heat.”

Deacon held out his hand. Irena touched his skin, then looked up into his face. Astonishment dropped her mouth open.

“The nosferatu blood did this?”

“No. This was nephilim blood,” Deacon said quietly. He watched Irena carefully, braced as if for a blow—facing his friend for the first time since she’d discovered the truth of his bargain with Caym.

“You killed a nephil?”

“I helped.” Deacon wiped his brow, glanced at Rosalia. He was clearly uncomfortable—a discomfort probably made worse by her witnessing it. To her relief, she heard a knock at the door.

“You’ll excuse me.” She lifted her hands, backing toward the sparring chamber. “A cohabitating couple becomes desperate, so marriage simply can’t wait.”

Rosalia’s parting joke creased Irena’s brow. She glanced at Deacon. “You are marrying her?”

A bark of laughter escaped him. He shook his head.

“She smells like you.”

That shut him up. What would the Guardians think of Rosalia, fraternizing with him? He knew she was afraid of their reaction regarding the humans. Would being with him, even temporarily, make their reaction harsher?

But Irena didn’t seem interested in dwelling on it. Moving to the center of the room, she stood, her gaze skimming over the worktable, the GTL, the engine parts scattered on the benches and concrete floor. Her Gift lay in metal. He’d seen some of the amazing sculptures she’d created with barely a thought. And here he was, sweating over an old car. It probably seemed piddling to her.

When she looked back at him, however, he didn’t read any judgment in her expression—and Irena never bothered to hide her feelings, for good or bad.

He should say something. He didn’t even know how to begin. There were too many dead. But of those living, Irena was the one he’d hurt the most.

But as usual, Irena did not hesitate to speak her mind. “You’ve chosen this bargain?”

“I have.”

“Of your free will?”

When he nodded, she frowned. Her eyes narrowed and she regarded him more closely, her expression turning thoughtful. “I was certain that when I saw you, I would want to kill you.”

Was that why she’d come during the day? “I expected to have taken a few punches by now,” he admitted.

And he
would
have taken them. Hell, he’d like her to do it now. It wouldn’t make the past go away—but maybe it could make them both feel better.

Maybe. Or nothing could.

“Yes.” She looked at her hands, as if imagining them as fists. “And I thought I would be angry. But instead I am sorry. I am sorry it came to this. I am sorry that you felt I couldn’t help you. And I am sorry that even though you didn’t come to me, I still couldn’t save them—any of them. My friends and yours.”

“Me, too,” he said quietly.

“I wondered if I should kill you then. When we found you.”

With a spike through his head, after he’d slain Caym—after Caym had poured out the remains of his partners onto the floor. “Then, I would have welcomed it.”

“I know. It is why I did not kill you. I thought it would be worse for you to live.”

Was it? He would have agreed, once. This burden would always be his to bear.

But
worse
would have been having no opportunity to pay for his mistakes. No opportunity to grieve. No opportunity to avenge them.

“You should have killed me, then, if you meant to punish me. This is better.” More painful than death—even more painful than he could imagine Hell—but better.

She understood. Though coarse and blunt, she wasn’t slow. “So you are still fighting.”

“I’m trying.”

“That is good.” She made a vague movement with her hand. “I have something for you. After Rosalia took you from Prague, I gathered this. It did not seem right to leave them on the floor. I thought I might spread their ashes in Caelum, but you would know of a better place for them.”

He came closer, and his chest tightened, filled with an unbearable ache. She clutched an iron box between her hands. The lid of the box had been sculpted like a bed, and atop it, Eva sat laughing and clutching the sheet to her chest; Petra, lying on her stomach, looked over her shoulder with the sardonically amused expression that she’d aimed at Deacon more times than he could count.

“I liked them. I didn’t know them well,” Irena said. “But this is how I remember them best. I came to you, do you remember? I dragged you from your bed to take you hunting. And they laughed.”

“I remember,” he said hoarsely, taking the sculpted urn.

The iron was heavy. He cradled it in his arm, tracing his fingers over their likenesses. So perfect. Petra’s metal hair moved on a breath, each curl a delicate wire. Eva’s mouth almost soft, her fangs sharp.

He could not even voice his gratitude.

Irena must have known. She walked past him, giving him a few moments.

When he turned, she was surveying a fender, running her hand over the dented steel. “I have never understood why you do this. New automobiles are faster and better, and you have money to buy them.”

He didn’t point out that he had money because he’d restored those cars. And he didn’t know why himself. He’d always loved it. He liked reclaiming their beautiful design and function.

“Newer vehicles are faster. I don’t know about better.”

She smiled and picked up the fender. With her Gift, she could smooth it, strengthen it. He didn’t think he’d enjoy restoring anything if the work was that easy.

“And I like to work with my hands,” he added.

“I do, too. But only when it is a new weapon.”

“You don’t fix them?”

“My habit is to throw damaged weapons away.” She replaced the fender and looked over at him. “I have been trying to change that habit. With the proper effort, a repaired weapon can also be strong. Perhaps a friendship can be, too.”

Christ. That fast, he choked up. He’d never expected this from her. Had never hoped for it, had never even considered it a possibility.