Demon Forged (19 page)

“She did not say. Perhaps it is the Margaret Wren woman—Rael’s employee. Perhaps it was Julia Stafford, and we have already failed. I would like to know for certain.”

“I will ask her.”

They shouldn’t have to ask. Not if a woman’s life was at stake. “Ask her also if she knew that Julia Stafford would die, and yet did nothing to prevent it.”

She was thankful that Michael did not make excuses for Khavi. His face was like stone. “I will.” He looked at her, seemed to hesitate, then said, “There are many reasons I did not say who my father was, and one is that Belial is no longer the father I knew. But I have also remained silent because of the question that no Guardian can afford to ask: Is this demon different?”

“Are they?”

He shook his head. “No. Not in any way that matters. But if I am part demon, and I am part human, what does that mean? Is it possible for a demon to be good?” He gave her a wry smile. “Alice told me that was the first question she and Jake asked after Belial told them he was my father. If we ask, if we hesitate—we are lost. Demons cannot be redeemed; any attempt will fail, and endanger the one who tries.”

Because then Guardians would have to judge before slaying. And hesitating to find out if a demon deserved to die was far too dangerous.

“Lilith changed,” Irena pointed out.

And how she
hated
using Lilith as an example.

Michael must have known. He laughed. “Lilith was never what they are. She began life as a human, and her transformation did not make her heart a demon’s. If it had, I’d have slain her long ago.”

He stood, and Irena stood with him. Michael had said exactly what she’d needed to hear. Demons could not be redeemed, and Guardians could not hesitate to kill them.

But Michael knew her well. Knew her
so
well. Had he said it for that reason? Was his answer a demon’s manipulation, too?

She said baldly, “I do not know if I can trust a word you say.” And it hurt.

She thought it might have hurt him, too. After a long silence, he nodded. “One day, perhaps you will again.”

She hoped so. Oh, gods, how she hoped so.

Rosalia pulled him into one shadow and out another. Deacon took one step that lasted an endless time and no time at all, and he was on a downtown street. Muffled techno music and the damp, acrid scent of wet pavement and old exhaust filtered through the suffocating darkness.

She let go of his hand. The darkness receded. He could breathe again—not that he needed to, but within the shadows, he’d been certain that inhaling meant sucking in the night.

Rosalia melted out of the darkness after him. “This way, I believe.”

She followed the music. Her stride was long, all hips and swivel. His gaze dropped from her ass to her feet. A black skirt swung at her knees. She’d pulled a pair of spiked heels from somewhere. Appropriate for a nightclub, and they did illegal things to her legs—but they weren’t much help to a vampire trying to control his bloodlust.

At the street corner, she came to an abrupt halt. A black lace fan appeared in her hand. Steel glinted at the tips of each rib. Reaching for his swords, Deacon caught up with her.

A line of people—humans, all of them—stretched down the sidewalk. A vampire couple skipped the queue and headed directly to Polidori’s entrance. The door was unmarked, and guarded by a . . .
Jesus Christ
.

A nosferatu. Ames-Beaumont’s bouncer was a nosferatu. Almost seven hulking feet tall, with pale skin, and as bald as a whore’s ass.

Rosalia made a small, relieved noise, and her fan vanished.

Deacon took a second, closer look. The bouncer’s ears weren’t pointed, and his arms weren’t as hairless as his head. Not a nosferatu. Just a vampire who superficially resembled one of the cursed creatures—and who guaranteed a jolt of fear at first glance.

Considering what had been feeding on Rosalia for the past year, Deacon guessed she’d gotten a lightning-sized jolt when she’d seen it.

“Clever,” Rosalia murmured, her expression on the tail end of alarm and heading into curiosity. “If anyone planned to challenge Ames-Beaumont, that vampire would give them second thoughts before they even made it to the door.”

Clever, yeah. But not exactly a welcome sign for new-comers.

“Do you—” He stopped and stared at her. She’d formed fangs. He pushed away the sudden, hot image of her sucking at him. “You aren’t going in with me like that.”

“The bouncer isn’t letting humans in.”

“Yeah, but I’m here to get food. You walk in with me like that, and Ames-Beaumont will tell me I’ve already got a source. So lose the fangs.”

Her tongue ran over the points, and her red lips plumped into a pout. Then the fangs were gone, just normal human canines again.

He looked away from her mouth. “If Ames-Beaumont works with SI, then he doesn’t have a problem with Guardians.” Maybe that was her reason for the vampire disguise; most vampire communities had only recently learned that Guardians existed, and wouldn’t know what the hell to think if someone like Rosalia showed up at their door. “So just flash your wings at the bouncer. Or do your shadow thing and sneak in.”

She gave him another searching look, then rolled her hips and crossed the street. All right. So flashing her wings in full view of humans wasn’t the best idea he’d come up with, but she had her own idea. She stopped in front of the bouncer. He opened his mouth, began saying something about the line—and her eyes flared a warm yellow. The bouncer opened the velvet rope and held it until Deacon went through.

The stairwell had been painted black. They hit the lower level, paid the cover fee, and as soon as they pushed through the swinging doors, got a face full of air-conditioning that kept the place as cool as the night outside. Definitely a vampire’s nightclub; anything much warmer, and Deacon would already have been sweating. The club was huge, with an upper level balcony that wrapped around the walls, leaving the ceiling above the dance floor open. They’d gone for an industrial look, with exposed beams and pipes, and thrown in a good dose of English parlor. A crazy mix, but it worked.

Vampires sat at half the tables. Others danced, although that hadn’t gotten going hard yet. A few vampires had drinks in front of them, each untouched. No point in buying a drink except for appearances—they couldn’t taste anything and couldn’t get drunk.

“That will be Ames-Beaumont’s table.” Rosalia nodded to a large, horseshoe-shaped booth in the back. The seats were empty. “He’d have a view of everything.”

“Then let’s make sure he sees us.”

“I’ll find out if anyone knows when he’s coming.” Rosalia headed for the lightly attended bar.

Deacon approached Ames-Beaumont’s booth, and wasn’t surprised when he heard the heavy footsteps coming toward him, the gravelly voice that said, “Not that seat, man. You’ll find another—” The vampire broke off. “Deacon?”

Well, damn. Deacon’s stomach hollowed out, but his grin was genuine. “Darkwolf. You done traveling yet?”

“I’m settled.” The big vampire gripped his forearm, then pulled Deacon in to slap his back. “Are you done being an asshole?”

“No.”

“Tell me about it then.” Darkwolf steered him toward another booth. “I’d give you the best table, but you being who you are, it just wouldn’t look—”

“I’m not here to challenge him.”

“I fucking hope not.” Darkwolf dropped onto dark blue velvet, stretched out his leather-clad legs. More black leather strained across his massive chest. “Because as good as you are, Ames-Beaumont wouldn’t even break a sweat taking you down. Taking ten of us down.”

Us?
Deacon looked at him hard. “Did you try?”

If he did, that meant something was wrong with Ames-Beaumont’s leadership. Darkwolf believed in the strongest leading and protecting, but he wouldn’t hesitate to fight against a corrupt leader.

“Hell, no.” Darkwolf laughed. “I had to convince the fucker to take the spot. I sure as hell didn’t want it, not after what went down here.”

Drink in hand, Rosalia slid in next to Deacon. “What went down?” she asked.

Darkwolf looked at him.

“Guardian,” Deacon said.

His eyes narrowed at her. “I know the Guardians around here. I don’t recognize your scent.”

Psychic scent, as Guardians didn’t have any bodily odor. At least, not that Deacon had ever been able to tell. Irena smelled like smoke and blood, but it was like a perfume covering up the scent of nothing. The only fragrance coming from Rosalia’s direction was the peach and alcohol in the fruity drink she was sipping.

She held out her hand. Darkwolf took it, let go. He’d checked the temperature of her skin, Deacon realized. A demon could shape-shift to look like a Guardian, but it couldn’t conceal that.

“All right.” Darkwolf’s gaze moved between them, guessing, measuring, wondering. “Two years ago, or thereabouts, a nest of nosferatu moved into the city, trapped all the elders in here”—he gestured around them—“and burnt it down.”

“These nosferatu,” Rosalia said. “Are they the ones who made a bargain with Lucifer?”

“Those are the ones. So the Guardians got rid of them.”

Deacon knew that. And he also knew that he was supposed to think “got rid of them” meant the Guardians had slain the nosferatu. But that wasn’t what had happened. No, somehow the nosferatu had ended up in the Chaos realm, trapped in a hellish dimension with dragons and God knew what other terrors.

No one had access to that realm. Yet the Guardians still managed to trap the nosferatu there.

“How?”

One question. And if he got the answer, got what Caym wanted—Deacon’s people would be safe.

Darkwolf’s eyes went flat and wary. “I don’t know.”

He was lying. Deacon’s blood pounded. He could drag Darkwolf over the table, beat it out of him. But getting the answer with violence would just draw attention to what he was doing. Would just jeopardize it all.

But if that risk hadn’t held him back, he’d have done it. He would have beaten a
friend
to get what he needed. Caym had made him into this.

And he’d get the bastard what he wanted. Then spend the rest of his life seeing the demon dead.

“Then we had problems with a demon trying to take us over, a nosferatu . . .” Darkwolf shrugged. “Ames-Beaumont got rid of them. He and his partner.”

And they’d obviously both secured Darkwolf’s loyalty. So even a beating wouldn’t get it out of the vampire.

Deacon made a show of looking around, taking a few seconds to calm himself. “This is their place, yeah? They don’t let humans in?”

Darkwolf’s lips quirked. “We do at ten. Someone’s got to buy the drinks, keep this place running. But before ten, it’s just the community.” He glanced at Rosalia. “And guests.”

So that any community business Ames-Beaumont needed to handle could be done without humans observing.

“So, you’re here to see him?”

Deacon nodded and steeled himself before admitting, “I lost Prague.”

He expected Darkwolf’s surprise. Not Rosalia’s.

She choked on her drink. “How?”

His pride raged inside. Wanted to rage out loud. He went with the cover story, and kept it short. “One of the nosferatu-born moved in, so I moved out.”

“And your consorts?”

Were being held hostage by a demon with a plan. “They didn’t want to fuck a beaten vampire.”

“When did this happen?”

That was still Rosalia, when he’d expected Darkwolf to be asking the questions. Her eyes were wide as she stared at him. His humiliation was hot.

“About three weeks ago.”

“That’s why you were in Rome?”

“Yeah.” That, and because that’s where the demon had told him to go. He grabbed her drink, took a gulp. He couldn’t taste it, but it was cold, drowning the heat of humiliation.

“Rome?” Darkwolf leaned forward, and as if sensing Deacon’s humiliation, changed the subject. A damn good friend. “Now that’s some bad shit, man—those nephilim coming in and killing them all.”

“Yeah.” Deacon laughed without humor. “Bad for most of them. A few deserved it.”

“Acciaioli?” Darkwolf grimaced and shook his head. “Now that’s the truth.”

Rosalia made a small sound. Deacon glanced over. She stared down into her drink with a lost expression in her eyes. Hell, she’d said she’d had friends in Rome. Lorenzo Acciaioli, the asshole who’d led the community, probably hadn’t counted among them, but he and Darkwolf probably shouldn’t start running a list of vampires in Rome who’d deserved to die.

He changed the subject again. “So SI brought me in, but I need a blood-sharer.”

Darkwolf frowned. “The Guardians didn’t hook you up?”

He thought of Irena, her note. “No.”

With a nod, Darkwolf stood. “I’ll get it rolling. We have a few threesomes where there isn’t any commitment. One of them might want a break.”