She said that like she’d had family worth saving.
But he couldn’t be rough on her while sitting this close. Spotting his clothes piled on the seat facing him, he took the opportunity to grab a little distance before he said, “I’m not crying over that, sister. If any vampire deserved what the nephilim did to him, it was your brother.”
“No. I don’t mean Lorenzo.”
She had other family?
When he turned back around, she’d raised the back of the seat, but still sat half-turned with her legs curled beneath her. A man sitting like that would look broken; Rosalia just looked comfortable.
But was she? Her fingers poked out of the wide sleeves to play with the folds of her cloak. And she’d opened her eyes, but didn’t look at Deacon, directing a pain-filled stare at the shaded windows.
“Not
just
him,” she continued. “The nephilim slaughtered every vampire in Rome, including friends who’d shared my abbey for more than one hundred years.”
Deacon remembered her abbey. She’d brought him there after he’d slain Caym in Prague. He’d stayed in her home for only a few minutes, but that had been long enough. Every piece of furniture and every decoration had told him a family had lived there, filled with warmth and steeped in history.
Walking through that place so soon after losing Eva and Petra had been like a knife to his chest. And he hadn’t considered until now why only one woman—a human—had been in the abbey when he’d woken up.
He hadn’t considered until now that the empty home might stab through Rosalia’s heart every time she walked through it, too.
“Fourteen vampires,” she continued softly. “Some had lived with me since their transformation. I trained them. I fought with them. I saw them live and love. But the nephilim came . . . and now almost all of my family is gone.”
Those staring eyes glistened with tears. Deacon turned and hiked up his jeans, giving her the moment she obviously needed.
So she’d had her own little community in Rome. Friends, maybe a lover.
No. Scratch that. Any man good enough to be with someone like Rosalia would have torn Rome apart trying to find her when she’d been in the catacombs. First stop would have been her brother, and Deacon hadn’t heard any rumors that Lorenzo had slain another vampire around that time. And Deacon
would
have heard the rumors; Rosalia’s brother had liked every other community leader knowing just how strong he was.
“Your friends,” he said. “Anyone I know?”
“One, though she had moved away from the abbey before you met her. She wasn’t with those slaughtered.” Before he could ask who that was, she said, “And I was trapped in the catacombs while they were dying. I still would be trapped there, if not for you.”
If not for him?
She had her gratitude on backward. Caym had told Deacon to lead the Guardians to the catacombs in hope that the nosferatu waiting there would kill them all. Rosalia’s rescue hadn’t been a part of it.
“I hate to point out the obvious, sister, but even if you hadn’t been trapped, you couldn’t have done anything to save them. The nephilim would have killed you, too.”
“I’d rather have died trying.” For the first time since he’d woken, she looked at him. “Don’t you hate being in a position where no matter what you do, it ends badly?”
All right. He’d walked right into that. No matter what decision he’d made while dealing with Caym, it would’ve ended badly—for his community, for himself, or for the Guardians. She’d chosen a heavy-handed way of making her point, though.
He tried to summon up a little anger toward her. He couldn’t. And now that he was on this ride, he might as well see where they were headed. He assumed she had another demon for him to kill.
And he had to admit, as easy as slaying Farkas had been, killing him had been more satisfying than waiting around for Theriault.
When he glanced at her again, she was back to staring at the windows. “So what do you have planned for tonight?”
“We’ll be landing in Athens within an hour.”
“Sardis’s community? He’s a prick.” His vampires deserved better. “Let the demon kill him.”
“Valeotes—the demon—doesn’t intend to slay Sardis. At least not yet. He’s put Sardis and the community into his pocket. Valeotes promises protection; they give up blood in return.”
And how long before the demon asked Sardis to do worse? “Everyone knows the shit Caym pulled on me, yet Sardis is taking that risk and working with him?”
“As you said, he’s a prick. An arrogant one.”
Her lip curled slightly, as if she’d smelled something foul. So Sardis disgusted her. Deacon couldn’t fault her taste in people.
Heh. She must think it unfortunate that her plan included hanging around
him
. “And what’d you think of me when you found out about Caym? That I was a prick? Arrogant?”
Rosalia looked at him. Her smile formed slowly, as if she held secrets behind it that she didn’t want to let out too soon.
Or let them out at all. She didn’t answer him, but said, “After Caym destroyed your people, the Guardians visited every vampire community and killed any demons leading them. Most were Lucifer’s demons, but Belial’s demons obviously learned from it. Now they aren’t leading the vampires directly—either to avoid notice by the Guardians or because the nephilim kill the vampires’ leaders.”
“What about Farkas?” The demon had planned to take over Budapest.
“Farkas was Theriault’s demon. Not as smart, twice as arrogant. Valeotes follows Malkvial.”
Was she still looking for that one? “Are you hoping to get Malkvial’s human name out of him, then?”
“No. Taking the time to question him would be too dangerous for you—and Valeotes would just lie. I simply don’t want Valeotes’s fingers on any of Sardis’s buttons when you bring the European communities together.”
She really thought that was going to happen? She didn’t give up easily. He couldn’t decide whether her determination despite certain failure made her foolish or admirable.
But he imagined that his quest for revenge probably looked the same from her end.
“You said Malkvial intends to slaughter vampires once he’s taken the lieutenant’s position. So why would one of his demons pair up with Sardis?”
“Because Sardis might be useful.”
Yes. Vampires could kill humans. God knew what else. “So we kill Valeotes before that happens. Before he can use anyone.”
“You’ll kill him, yes. We’ll be arriving in Athens just after sunset. That will give us time to look over Sardis’s compound before you go in.”
A compound. Deacon knew the general layout only through other vampires’ descriptions. He’d never visited Sardis.
What she’d said finally struck him. “
After
sunset?”
“Yes.” She smiled slightly. “I do not imagine that anyone will detect my Gift, unless they are also flying at 35,000 feet.”
He still couldn’t grasp it. “It’s daytime. Outside. Now.”
“Yes.”
“Bullshit.”
Her brows lifted. “Look.”
Pulling in a deep breath, Deacon turned toward the windows and reached for the shade. Rosalia didn’t stop him. Taking her silence as a sign that he wouldn’t burst into flames, he slid the window shade up.
His knees almost buckled. Daylight spilled through the glass onto his hand and arm. In ninety years, he hadn’t felt that warmth. Swallowing hard, he looked through the window. A shadow lay across the glass, like seeing through sunglasses, but outside it was unmistakably day. White clouds floated against a blue sky. And . . . the sun.
He’d forgotten how bright it was. Even through the shadow that Rosalia’s Gift created, he had to squint. Incredible.
About to say as much, he turned, but the distress on Rosalia’s face stopped him. Her skin had paled, and her eyes were tightly closed. Pain bracketed her mouth, held her body rigid.
As if his silence tipped off Rosalia that he was looking at her, she glanced up at him before closing her eyes again. “My Gift isn’t . . . compatible . . . with the sun.”
And hadn’t been since he’d woken up, Deacon realized. Maintaining this shield inside the cabin had been the reason for her blank stare—and obviously the direct sunlight, even the sliver coming through the window, made it worse.
With a final look outside, he lowered the shade, then sat to pull on his boots. Her sigh indicated some relief, but her fingers still clutched the folds of her cloak and her eyes remained closed.
Deacon laced up his boots, feeling a little shaky himself. Though he’d come to accept the differences between living as a vampire and as a human, he had no idea
how
a vampire fell asleep at sunrise and caught fire at the touch of the sun. Natural law couldn’t account for it. Obviously something bigger was at work, a force more powerful than nature.
And he’d accepted that the Guardians’ Gifts could rewrite natural rules, too. Irena shaped metal to her will. Alejandro could create fire from nothing and control the flames’ intensity. Other Guardians could teleport or instantly heal wounds.
But accepting that Rosalia’s Gift could rewrite even the powerful
unnatural
rules that governed vampires knocked him for a loop . . . and humbled him.
Leaning back in his seat, he looked down at her. With her legs curled under her, she had to sit sideways. The cushioned seatback pillowed her cheek. Her dark hair hung in tangled waves over her shoulder. The pain had eased from her features, so that she almost appeared to be sleeping.
The princess, waiting for her kiss. Deacon wasn’t even close to qualifying for a prince.
And maybe “princess” didn’t fit her so well, either. A Guardian’s Gift reflected some part of their human life. He couldn’t figure out why a woman like Rosalia would have darkness for a Gift.
“So,” he said, and saw that a single word opened her eyes as quickly as a kiss would have, “what’s the story behind your Gift?”
“I don’t know. It could be the manner in which I died—my connection to vampires.”
She didn’t sound convinced of that. “You must’ve thought of other reasons.”
“Oh, I have.” She laughed softly, but it didn’t last. Looking up into his eyes, she seemed to hesitate, as if uncertain whether to reveal the rest. Then her mouth firmed, determination slipped into her psychic scent, and she continued. “Perhaps from when I was a girl. My father . . . I do not know if a demon arranged for his death, or if my father died of natural causes and a demon took advantage of the opportunity. But one day, my father was no longer himself.”
“A demon took his place?”
“Yes. Lorenzo and I didn’t know then what had happened. And my mother . . . she didn’t last long.”
That had to have been rough. “But you?”
“Lorenzo and I avoided him as much as possible. My father didn’t care about us, anyway. Not until we were useful . . .” She stumbled and broke eye contact before finishing quietly, “. . . to him.”
Useful.
So he’d been right; she didn’t like forcing him into this. He didn’t like it much, either, but he didn’t have the urge to tell her to fuck off. Seeing this side of her had gotten to him.
That didn’t sit well with him, either—but he wasn’t going to stop her from revealing herself, now that she’d started.
“I challenged him once,” she continued. “I told him I knew what he was, and he ordered one of the servants to lock me into a wardrobe. No light, no food or water. He left me there for three days.”
He could picture that all too easily. Alone in the dark, in her own filth. Hungry and terrified.
But her voice warmed as she remembered. “Lorenzo was on the other side of the door. He tried to help me, to open the wardrobe. And when he couldn’t—he was
so
young then—he sat talking to me. At night, he slept outside the wardrobe doors. That’s what I remember best. The dark, yes—but also Lorenzo’s voice. They were both comforting. I felt safe. The dark was less frightening than being outside with Father.”
Jesus. And that explained why she hadn’t slain her brother. Deacon and every other vampire in Europe just knew Lorenzo Acciaioli as a sadistic, tyrannical bastard. But he and Rosalia had probably spent most of their human lives protecting each other.
“But your father didn’t let you die.”
“No. Eventually I would be useful. He could marry me off.”
The revulsion in her expression didn’t surprise Deacon, but his own anger did. This had all happened centuries ago. The thought of Rosalia being forced to marry shouldn’t feel like a punch to his gut. “Did he?”
“No. I ran away to the convent. I thought Lorenzo would be safe, too—he’d already left our home. But he was not.”
“Your father talked him into the transformation.”
Acciaioli would have to be convinced. Most humans died after being transformed against their will.
“Yes. He became a vampire and visited the abbey with my father. And that was the end of my human life—and the end of the demon’s life, too.”
The way she skimmed over the details told him that it must have been bad. He focused on the good part. “You killed the demon?”
“Michael did.” A shadow passed over her face. She adjusted her position, bringing her knees up beneath that long cloak. After a moment, she continued. “When I finished training in Caelum, I returned to Rome, where Lorenzo was already heading a community. I tried to help him—to change him. But obviously I did not; I barely contained him.”
Because Acciaioli hadn’t just been a vampire. He’d been nosferatu-born, and strong. Unsurprisingly, he’d ruled his community unchallenged. The only surprise was that he hadn’t tried to take over the other European communities.
Only recently had Deacon realized that they had Rosalia to thank for that.
Almost seven years ago, Acciaioli had come to Prague looking for a fight. With Acciaioli had been his weird little brother; Deacon hadn’t known then it was Rosalia, shape-shifted. In that strange, pubescent-vampire disguise, she’d kissed Deacon—a halting, awkward kiss that had turned his stomach—and Acciaioli, who’d witnessed the kiss, had left Prague as fast as he could charter a flight.