Demon Blood (29 page)

“You can’t defend yourself if you’re holding me.” As Taylor moved closer, Deacon’s muscles tensed, rigid beneath her fingers. “And I can’t fight.”

She knew. Oh, God, how she knew. She’d taken that ability from him by deciding to fly to Monaco. She’d rendered him helpless because she’d wanted to hold onto him.

Taylor flew past them along the plane of the wall, less than ten feet away.

Deacon stared after her in disbelief. “She can’t hear us? Our heartbeats?”

Rosalia shook her head again.

“She’ll smell your blood and come for you.”

Maybe. She had Michael’s instincts but not his knowledge. Even now, she only searched with her eyes, not her other senses.

Still, Rosalia wasn’t taking any chances. She vanished the blood as soon as it left her body—but she couldn’t stop the scent from surrounding them. A breeze the wrong way would reveal their position, and she had to wait until the wound sealed before using her Gift to take them away. She couldn’t now. Her blood would leave a physical trail behind them.

Taylor passed into the shadow. Her confusion swirled against Rosalia’s mind, a dark miasma of uncontrolled emotion.

Deacon’s anger and tension increased. Though he was shielded, she could almost feel how much he hated himself for being in this position, but it was her fault. She’d chosen to travel this way, for no reason other than having an opportunity to keep him close. She hadn’t needed the cover of his scent, and the expense of a chartered plane was nothing to her. Now he couldn’t defend himself.

She’d been just as bad as a demon: arrogant and careless. She’d taken risks she shouldn’t have. She’d had to use her Gift . . . and it was just pure luck that they were over the sea when Taylor had hit them, and no one was nearby to sense it.

Deacon’s hand sought her ribs. When he drew his palm back, his skin was red with her blood.

“Is this why you’re so quiet?” The gravel in his voice had roughened.

The blade had passed through her lungs. She wouldn’t be able to talk for several minutes. Not until she healed.

Her nod made him swear. Helpless, she stared at Taylor. Then, recalling herself, she gestured for the phone.

Awkwardly, she moved Deacon around, holding him against her side. With one hand, she texted Vin, telling him to retreat and wait. Soon, she’d use her Gift to arrive close to Rome, but she couldn’t push into the city. She couldn’t risk the vampires panicking and killing the human if they felt her coming.

It wouldn’t be long. Her wound would seal in another minute or two, and they’d be able to go without leaving a blood trail. Her insides wouldn’t have healed—but she didn’t need to breathe, anyway.

She put in another message, but not to send. She showed the screen to Deacon.

“Then why take that chance, sister?”

His anger felt like another slice through her chest. But she’d risked his life, and he deserved an explanation, one that didn’t use an excuse like needing his scent to fool the vampires. A true explanation, with a reason that came from the heart of her.

His jaw tightened. “Fuck.”

Her vision blurred. But she couldn’t cry, not while watching Taylor. She vanished the moisture in her eyes.

Taylor’s sword hadn’t touched her heart. Yet it still managed to ache worse than the injury.

This was a first-class example of overcompensation. Here she was, beating up on herself, when he was the reason Michael was after them.

Christ, she’d gotten a sword stabbed through her chest while protecting him. She shouldn’t be apologizing for anything.

Rosalia looked at him. This whole time, she hadn’t opened her mouth, as if she was afraid of blood pouring out. Now she nodded, and he realized the scent of blood that had surrounded them had faded. Her wound had healed—at least on the surface.

The shadowy veil around them thickened into an impenetrable darkness. He couldn’t see her—couldn’t see anything. Then it pulled out from around him, like coming out of a sticky vat of tar. His stomach dropped in a brief sensation of free fall, then her wings pumped and water rushed into the shoreline beneath him. Then they were over land—fields and groves and communities passing in a blur.

Christ. He hadn’t known how fast she could fly when she put effort into it. Within minutes, Rome lay beneath them, and they were diving. His fingers clenched involuntarily on her arm, then she swooped and settled on the ground next to the van. She vanished her wings and set him down, but he still felt like he was dropping, his head spinning.

And he’d kill himself before admitting that.

The van’s side door slid opened to the sound of Gemma retching into a waste bin. Rosalia patted her shoulder as she stepped into the vehicle. She stopped by Vin’s chair and made a single gesture at her throat.

“You can’t talk?” Vin turned to Deacon, standing in the open door. “What happened?”

Rosalia cut him off with another gesture. She poked at the infrared screen, her expression fierce.

Vin got the message. The human mattered now. “We tracked St. Croix here. He went in. A few minutes later, the Davanzatis show up.”

“Davanzatis?”

“Vampires,” Vin answered Deacon, then turned to Rosalia again. “They drive into the garage and wheel out the human, strapped to a gurney. He’s got an IV dripping blood.”

“And it’s not someone just using it to heal?” Deacon asked. A transfusion of vampire blood could speed healing—or, in the case of terminal illness, strengthen the recipient.

“This guy was struggling. Damn hard. He broke from the restraints once—just his arm—and St. Croix strapped him back in. They registered the same temp.”

So that proved St. Croix wasn’t a demon. A demon couldn’t hold a human down, not without breaking the Rules and calling in one of the nephilim to slay him.

“Now where are they?”

“They’re too deep in the house, and the stone walls are too thick. I can’t get a reading.”

Rosalia looked to Deacon. The question in her eyes was clear: Was he ready to go in?

“Are you still playing a human?”

She nodded.

No worries. Two vampires, he could handle. And a human St. Croix wouldn’t likely pose a threat. “Can you give me the layout? Your brother never invited me over for dinner.”

She smiled and pulled out a sheet of paper, quickly sketching the floors and rooms. The main floor included several parlors, a study, and a library. The three levels upstairs contained bedrooms and private parlors. Downstairs, her brother had kept a dungeon.

He read that label again. “You’re fucking with me. A dungeon?”

Vin shook his head. “She’s not. He even threatened to put me down there.”

Rosalia’s expression froze. She stared at her son before glancing at Gemma. The younger woman gave a weak smile.

Ah, so Vin wasn’t supposed to know that. Had this happened when he was a kid?

“How long ago?” Deacon asked.

Gemma sat next to Vin. “About a month before Lorenzo made his deal with the demon, and Rosa disappeared.”

Not when he was a kid, but less than two years ago. And after his threat, Acciaioli had gone after Rosalia instead of her son—either trying to get rid of her or make her pay. Deacon looked to Rosalia. “What did you do to him?”

Her lips pressed together and she shook her head.

“It must have been bad for him to retaliate like he did. He risked a bargain with a demon.” Deacon had to grin at that. “You must have scared the shit out of him.”

After a moment of surprise, her son began grinning, too, but Rosalia wasn’t looking. She finished the sketch, then wrote, “Reinforced doors and windows. We’ll make noise getting in.”

“Do we care if we make noise?”

She shook her head, and a long black cloak formed over her shoulders. She slung a crossbow across her back. A long, thin sword appeared in her head. All she needed was a mask, and she’d look like a female version of Zorro.

That sly fox had always been one of Deacon’s favorites.

Vin stood and retrieved a shoulder holster from a locked cabinet. Rosalia gave him another fierce look.

“The trouble is, Mama, you can’t stop me. And I know you’ll stop him from stopping me.” He jerked his head at Deacon.

Judging by her expression, Deacon wasn’t so sure that she’d prevent him from chaining her son to his seat. He raised a brow at her. She seemed to contemplate his offer for a moment before shaking her head.

Vin faced her again. “Your hands are tied if the humans in there do anything. And you need someone to watch your back. So does he.”

Wearing a headset and rolling her chair along the van’s floor, powering up various equipment, Gemma added, “And if something goes wrong between Deacon and St. Croix, the last thing you want is Guardians breathing down your neck, trying to get at the vampire who hurt a human. And they’d love to get at Deacon, wouldn’t they? But the Guardians can’t touch Vin.”

Deacon exchanged a look with Rosalia. The faith these two young people had in them was pitiful. Rosalia rolled her eyes before turning to the other woman and holding out her hand. Gemma gave her a small receiver designed to fit over the ear. She offered another to Deacon.

“If anyone else shows up, I’ll yell,” she said.

They headed out. A tall, wrought-iron fence surrounded the house. Rosalia had called it a monstrosity, and Deacon had to agree with that assessment. Of black stone, it rose in a solid nightmare of Gothic architecture. Towers stabbed the night sky, and the ornamentation around every narrow window and along the roof was so heavy that the building seemed to be folding in on itself. It was nothing like the open warmth of Rosalia’s abbey.

At the side of the property, Rosalia paused and searched the neighboring windows, as if making certain no one could see them. She wrapped her arm around Vin’s waist and they jumped over the high fence with an ease that spoke of practice.

That kid must have had an interesting childhood.

Deacon launched himself over and landed beside them. He took the lead, heading for the access point she’d marked above the front entrance. Columns supported the portico roof. He jumped up to the roof, landing heavily on the sloping surface. A moment later, Rosalia crouched beside him, her grip secure on Vin’s arm. Deacon found the small oval window tucked between two snarling gargoyles.

He glanced through into an empty bedroom. Dust sheets draped the furniture. Putting his ear to the glass, he listened, but couldn’t make out movement or voices from any of the nearby rooms.

Still, there was no reason to bring them running by shattering the window. He drew one of his swords. Irena had crafted the blade with her Gift, and after thirty years, the edge was still as sharp as a diamond-tipped razor. He etched a deep circle in the window near the frame, then thumped the heel of his hand near the cut. The circle popped out and he caught the glass before it fell.

He slipped inside, moved quickly to the door. Rosalia came through, looking around. Her expression was both sad and wary, as if this place didn’t bring back good memories.

It probably wouldn’t bring back good memories for anyone. Acciaioli had stuffed the rooms full of furniture, great looming pieces covered in sheets. All that white should have lightened the place, but it felt heavy and oppressive, as if one more piece would upset the balance and bury a man beneath the weight.

This second level was clear. Quietly, Deacon used the stairs to the main floor. Muffled voices were coming from somewhere, but he couldn’t pinpoint the direction.

A Guardian’s hearing was better than a vampire’s. Rosalia pulled up next to him, pointed at the floor. The dungeon, then. Probably constructed of thick stone, which usually conducted sound well—but if Lorenzo had used it as a real dungeon, he wouldn’t want the screaming and moaning in his living place all the time. Considering how indistinct the voices were, the stone must have been lined with insulation or wood.

She gestured to another room—the library, where they’d find the stairs to the dungeon. Bare shelves lined the walls. Either Rosalia had sold the collection of books, or Acciaioli hadn’t been much of a reader.

Someone had been using this room. The chair and desk had been uncovered, revealing ornate carvings in the dark wood, as overwrought as the rest of the house.

Rosalia moved quickly to the stairwell door, calling in a second sword. Deacon heard the footsteps a second later—someone climbing the stairs.
One
person. Gun drawn, Vin stopped next to Rosalia, just behind her shoulder. Deacon flanked the other side of the door. When it opened, Rosalia and Vin would be behind it. Deacon would be the first person he saw.

It was a human—St. Croix. The man’s baby blues had barely widened before Deacon’s hand closed around his throat, cutting off any call for help. Rosalia shut the door.

To his credit, the man didn’t struggle. Vin quickly moved to Deacon’s side and patted St. Croix down, coming away with two semiautomatic pistols. Tucking them behind his waistband, he returned to the door. Rosalia moved to the opposite side. If the vampires came through, she could deal with them.

Deacon tossed St. Croix into the chair by the desk. “You’ve got three words to explain why there’s a human tied up downstairs, and why I shouldn’t rip your throat out for it.”

St. Croix rubbed at his neck, where the marks from Deacon’s fingers were still vivid. His psychic scent radiated anger, but not a bit of it showed on his face. A cold bastard. “He’s not human.”

“Try again.”

“He killed vampires in London.”

“He killed vampires, but he can’t break out of restraints?”

“Apparently not. We’ve chained him, put him behind those thick bars. That’ll keep even one of them.” A London accent clipped St. Croix’s words. Not a lofty one, despite the self-satisfaction that bled through the anger. “And once he’s in a cage, we won’t have to keep pumping him full of the damned vampire blood.”