“Doing what?”
Irena’s lips had curled into a sneer. Obviously, she was not a fan of the Church.
“Listening. But they do not concern themselves with kings and emperors so much, and so I do not exist to them anymore. I never have officially, anyway. But now I do not exist even unofficially.”
“You
spied
for them?” Alejandro asked. Rosalia thought he was amused, but wasn’t certain. He was a difficult man to read.
“Yes. And trained vampires to do the same.”
That surprised them. He and Irena exchanged a quick glance.
“Did Michael know?”
“Oh, yes. Of course. After all, I reported the Church’s interests to him.”
Irena threw her head back with that loud laugh. Alejandro didn’t smile, but stroked his goatee in a gesture that was familiar from Rosalia’s days as a novice, when he’d tutored her with swords. She’d thought of it then as his silent laugh; two hundred years had not changed that.
When Irena’s laughter faded and she could hear herself speak again, Rosalia continued. “But now that I am back with you, I would like a territory to protect, if possible. I prefer Europe.”
“That will work,” Irena said. “But you’ll have to take all of it.”
Perfect. “I will.”
Alejandro’s gaze sharpened. “And your vampires?”
“They are gone.”
“They were in Rome when the nephilim massacred them all?”
Hatred sat bitter on her tongue, her heart. “Yes.”
“And Deacon?” Irena asked. Both Rosalia and Alejandro had danced around the vampire. Apparently Irena would not. “Is he still with you?”
“No. He is killing Belial’s demons.”
Approval flared in Irena’s eyes. And realization. “And what task do you need to finish?”
“I’m going to help him.” That was not all she intended to do, but she had no plan yet for the nephilim—and even if she had one, what good would it be without Michael? In the meantime, she would assist Deacon. She had her reasons for killing Belial’s demons, too.
Alejandro began to shake his head. She cut off his protest.
“I will not reveal myself. I will give Belial’s demons no reason to hurry and follow Malkvial, or to strike against us. Not when we are so . . .” She trailed off.
Weak
was not the right word.
“Weak?” Irena’s smile had a dangerous edge.
“Not weak. Outnumbered.”
“You split hairs,” Irena said, but Rosalia didn’t think it was an accusation. “You should know that I do not disagree with killing demons at any time.”
Alejandro appeared amused again. “We have only held back because the risk was so great,” he said. “If you think you can assist Deacon without turning Belial’s demons on us, do.”
Irena frowned. “Won’t they turn on vampires?”
Alejandro gave the same answer that Rosalia would have. “They would never admit that a vampire could damage them. And if the suggestion was made that Malkvial wanted to slay vampires out of fear, the others might balk. It might delay his taking the lieutenant’s position.”
Rosalia nodded. “What of the nephilim?” she asked. “Has there been any sign of them?”
“No,” Irena said. “Not since Michael was killed.”
“Has Anaria given up?”
“She is probably regrouping. We killed half the nephilim’s number in Chaos.”
“Half?” Rosalia could not stop her smile. “Good. That is good.” And on that note, she would take her leave. “I will return to Rome, then. And I will keep you abreast, should I learn anything new. Be well, Irena. Alejandro.”
“Be safe,” Irena said.
Rosalia gathered the shadows, letting them pull her into their dark cocoon. Safe, yes.
She
would be. But the vampires? Her fear for them would not diminish. She felt so protective of vampires. And although Belial’s demons and nephilim were enemies of each other, always it was the Guardians and vampires caught in the middle. The nephilim were focused on slaughtering vampires except when a demon broke the Rules. And now, instead of protecting the vampires in hope of fulfilling the prophecy, the demons would be killing them, too.
Demons. Nephilim. They all had to be stopped. But how would it be done without uniting the demons against the Guardians or the vampires, and without drawing Anaria’s wrath? How to remain untouched?
How to stand by, watching and listening, as they destroyed one another?
Rosalia stopped. Darkness swirled around her. Her thoughts raced. Her body was still, though a storm of shadows raged outside and a maelstrom of possibility raged within. What would be the demons’ downfall?
Their arrogance.
It was a lightning strike, illuminating the dark. Rosalia ripped apart the shadows, like tearing a veil away from her face. In the tech room, Irena stared at her, two curved knives in her hands. Alejandro stood slightly in front of Irena, his body angled protectively. Rosalia could not imagine what her shadows had looked like from outside, but it must have been terrifying for Alejandro to respond that way.
“I will need you to stay out of Europe,” Rosalia said. “All of you. If there is something a Guardian must do, contact me. No Guardian can be near Deacon or me if we are to be safe—if all of us are to be safe. And if you discover who Malkvial is, I will need to know.”
Irena vanished her knives. “Do you plan to have Deacon slay him?”
“Not just Malkvial.” Rosalia smiled. Her heart shed the despair, was buoyed by hope. “We’re going to kill them
all
.”
CHAPTER
4
If the vampires following Deacon through the Paris streets were shooting for stealth, they’d missed by a mile. Fine by him. He’d make a meal of them if they came too close. Better than wasting half the night softening up a human woman with a bottle.
A bead of sweat itched from his hairline down over his temple. The sun had set an hour before, but the city still suffocated under its heat. Deacon wiped the sweat away, searching for a suitable bar. Hotels worked best. Businesswomen traveling alone made up a significant portion of his diet, and their bedrooms lay no farther away than an elevator ride.
Just imagining feeding from one seemed to make the air around Deacon heavier, weighing him down. Fuck. He didn’t want to play that game tonight. He didn’t want to get into another stranger’s body—or her head. But without blood, he hadn’t a chance in hell of beating Theriault.
If
the opportunity arose. Three days had passed since the gala at the chateau. In the previous two nights, the demon hadn’t spent a single moment traveling or alone, and Deacon pissed away time and money while waiting for an opening.
And he spent far too much time watching the shadows. Wondering if Rosalia was still in the city. Planning how to get rid of her if she stuck her do-gooding nose in his face again.
Reminding himself that sucking her dry wasn’t part of that plan.
The assholes tracking him were all but asking for it, though. He glanced back along the narrow street. No vampires in sight, but he knew they were near. They’d done a shit job of blocking their psychic scents. Even if Deacon’s mind hadn’t been stronger than theirs, he’d have felt their contempt. Their anticipation.
Looking for a fight, were they? He’d give them one—
Deacon stopped mid-turn. He’d curled his hands into fists. He forced them to open.
Fighting would call attention to him. It didn’t matter if that attention came from demons, Guardians, or his own kind. Once he drew notice, he’d have to abandon the city, leaving Theriault for later. Teaching a few pissant vampires a lesson wasn’t worth it. They’d obviously recognized him, but if he got off their radar, they’d move on.
A hotel sat at the end of the street. Constructed with a white stone block façade and large enough to employ several uniformed doormen, it housed a restaurant along with a bar. Deacon battled the temptation to wait near the entrance long enough to catch a look at the vampires’ faces. Teeth clenched, he went inside.
He wasn’t hiding. Just avoiding a conflict he couldn’t afford to have. But god
damn
if it didn’t grate on a man’s pride.
Resentment rolled through him like a hot and fetid stone as the hostess seated him at a dimly lit corner table. It cooled as he ordered and methodically chewed his way through a richly fragrant meal that was all texture and no taste to his vampire tongue. By the time he sensed Camille and her partner, Yves, entering the hotel, the resentment had become an icy weight, a bitterness at the back of his throat.
A far cry from how he’d been feeling the last time he’d seen Camille. She and Yves had visited Prague, where they’d shared with Deacon everything they knew of the nephilim. Together, they’d made preparations to evacuate their communities if the demons targeted Paris or Prague. When had that been? Ten months ago? A year?
She hadn’t changed. Her gaze searched the room for threats as soon as she entered, a habit she’d possessed for as long as he’d known her. Her dark hair still framed her pixie face, making her dark eyes seem huge and guileless.
But the hardness in her gaze was new.
Sixty years ago, they’d parted well, both recognizing that they were better friends than partners. Camille didn’t like that she couldn’t manage him, and Deacon didn’t like being managed. Yves, however, was an easygoing sort. He had to be, the way he let Camille run him. Deacon had never figured out if Yves knew how quietly she could maneuver a man. Perhaps the vampire knew he was the appearance of leadership in Paris, and Camille was the reality of it.
But unlike the last time they’d met with Deacon, Camille and Yves weren’t here as his friends. As the Paris elders, they were here to run him out.
Protecting the community came first. It always came first. And when protecting his people went really fucking wrong, friendship didn’t matter so much anymore.
One side of Deacon’s table stood flush against the wall; a corner lay behind him. When Yves sat across from Deacon and Camille to his left, their backs were exposed to the room. They wouldn’t like that. And if it made them edgy and defensive, that suited Deacon just fine. He was heading that way himself.
He’d made a mess of everything else. Might as well start a big fucking mess here, too.
“I am not sure which surprises me more, Deacon,” Camille said. “That we had to find out from one of our vampires that you were in Paris, or that when we find you, it is here.”
Camille’s gaze lingered a second too long on Deacon’s empty plate. When her eyes met his, the conclusion she’d drawn was clear: He’d hidden from them.
Like a coward.
Smiling took effort. Judging by the way Yves shifted his weight, as if reaching for a weapon, that smile hadn’t looked friendly.
“In other words, after your boys lost me, they called Mommy and Daddy for help. Can’t let the demon-loving bastard get away.” They didn’t confirm or deny it, but he knew that was how it’d gone down. “Untwist your panties, Camille. I’m just passing through.”
“Passing through? But you’ve stopped.” Yves looked Deacon over. “And food obviously isn’t all you’ve been eating. No humans, Deacon. Not in our city.”
Not anywhere. No community allowed vampires to drink from humans. “You’ve got a volunteer willing to feed me?”
“No. Not for you.”
“No” would have been enough. But the “Not for you” made it crystal clear.
“We have enough trouble,” Camille said. “Watching for the nephilim, demons pressuring us . . . We don’t want the Guardians breathing down our necks, too, if they learn you’re in our community.”
Oh, now, wasn’t that clever. Not enough to let him know he was damaged goods. Now he endangered the whole fucking community.
“The Guardians let me go.” Deacon still didn’t know why Irena had. In her place, he wouldn’t have shown mercy. But maybe that was why she was a Guardian, and he was the bastard who’d betrayed her friendship. “They aren’t going to come hunting for me.”
Except for their leader, in the form of a possessed detective. But even if Michael came for him, the Guardians wouldn’t make the community pay.
“You understand that we don’t want to take that chance,” Yves said as he stood.
Yeah. Deacon
did
understand that. He’d taken chances trying to protect his community, and they’d been slaughtered. Camille and Yves would learn from his mistakes, but they wouldn’t tolerate Deacon being around to repeat them.
She rose to her feet. “And I’m sure that you understand that when we say, ‘Good-bye, and good luck,’ we truly mean it. Good luck to you, Deacon—and good-bye. If we see you in Paris again, it will be for the last time.”
So it’d come to this? “You won’t see me.”
Camille nodded. For an instant, regret flickered through her psychic scent. But she wouldn’t have been the woman she was—the community leader that he’d long admired—if she hadn’t squashed it. As she left, he felt nothing from her at all.
Blocking, he hoped. Just as he blocked her from sensing the gaping hole in his chest—the hole that used to hold his community, Eva and Petra. It’d started to heal just a little bit, but Camille had ripped it open again.
Fuck them. Fuck
all
of them. Under the table, his fists clenched. He wanted to drive them through the wall. Or head outside, find the pissants, and pound this rotting fury into their bones.
He had only his goddamn self to blame, though. Himself, and too many demons.
Killing Theriault came first, but then he’d make good on his word. Camille wouldn’t see him again.
Feeding from humans, though . . . There wasn’t anything he could do about that.
A few women had looked him over since he’d entered the restaurant, but none dined alone. The bar, then. Though judging by the wary look the waiter gave him and how quickly he scuttled back with Deacon’s check, maybe he ought to wait a while before approaching anyone. If one glance at his expression scared every woman away, it’d be another night wasted.