Demon Blood (56 page)

A laugh slipped from her. “That never works like it should.”

“Maybe not. But even if he didn’t agree with the way you used them, I think he perfectly understood the reason you chose them. Your reason for all of it. Your reason
s
, actually. I noticed you never have just one.”

“I don’t think any Guardian does.”

Something in Taylor’s eyes flickered. “Even Michael?”

“Especially Michael.”

With the tips of her fingers, Taylor touched her lips and smiled faintly. “That’s good to know.” She focused on Rosalia again. “I’m going to head out. You sure you’re okay?”

“No.” Not right now. Not this moment. But she had hope. “I eventually will be.”

Sunset was only thirty minutes gone when some pissant vampire waylaid Deacon on his way to Theriault’s. One of those younger shits who wrote poetry to Mother Darkness and thought becoming a vampire would make him sparkle. Hot and hungry and aching through to his soul, Deacon was in no kind of mood to deal with him.

The little pissant could see it on his face. Shifting uneasily in his Converse, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his skinny jeans. He said in a rush, “Yves and Camille request your presence at their home.”

“What the hell for?”

The kid hunched his shoulders a little. “It’s about feeding,
monsieur
.”

Oh, Christ Jesus. Feeding. With a single word, he stared bleakly into his future. No Rosalia. And taking his blood from other women.

“I’m sorry,
monsieur
,” the kid whispered, and Deacon realized the vampire had read the despair in his psychic scent.

His anger was suddenly gone, leaving only that huge black hole in his chest. “Haul off, then,” Deacon said quietly. “Tell them I’ll come.”

But not for feeding. Not tonight. Just to pay his respects like any vampire should when coming into a city. Then maybe he’d see how far he could get living off animal blood. It might leave him shaky, stupid, and with a limp dick—but Deacon didn’t want to fuck anyone, anyway.

He made his way to Camille’s place, then almost stopped when he realized how many vampires were there, having a party of some sort. But it struck him that there was only one way that Camille could have known he’d returned to Paris—and on the slim chance that Rosalia might be somewhere around, too, he went through that door.

Camille was the first to greet him. She bussed his cheeks, and shoved a flute of champagne into his hand. “We can’t become drunk, and we can’t taste it—but the bubbles are necessary to celebrate life. Now, come with me.”

She led him through a room bursting with vampires, refusing to let a single one stop them. At the balcony overlooking a quiet, tree-lined street, she shooed a couple of vampires back inside.

They wouldn’t have privacy, but they had the illusion of it.

She turned to him. “When I woke up today, I found an insulated drink cooler in my home, packed with dry ice, units of blood, and a message to you in it.”

Deacon didn’t dare hope. “What was the message?”

She produced a folded note from inside her bra. His heart pounding, Deacon took it.

The message wasn’t from Rosalia. In Irena’s clunky block letters, she offered to deliver demon blood for as long as he needed it, wherever he needed it.

His throat closed up. Deacon stuffed the note into his pocket, feeling Camille’s gaze on his face.

“I expected Rosalia here with you. Did you leave her in Rome to clean up after the mess?”

He didn’t want to get into this with Camille. She knew him too well. To stall, he threw back a swallow of the champagne—tasteless, but fizzy. Hardly a celebration.

But it gave him an idea of how to answer. “She’s busy planning a wedding for her son.”

“Her son?”
Camille’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, Rosa. Good for her.”

Deacon frowned at her. That was a little more relief than the revelation seemed to call for.

“It was the reason I left, ninety years ago. I didn’t want to be like her: three hundred years old, and never been loved. In any sense.” She paused. “Although I suppose now that you and she are—”

“I’m not.
We’re
not.”

“Oh.” Her brow pleated. “You smell like her perfume.”

“It’s soap.” And hours and hours of Rosalia beside him, under him, over him. He hadn’t yet washed her off.

“Ah,” she said, but her confusion seemed deeper than it should be.

What was the mystery here? “Just have it out, Camille.”

She took a few seconds, and he knew she was framing her words carefully when she began, “For two hundred years, she prevented Lorenzo from taking over every community in Europe and ruling us all.”

“I know she did.”

“And yet, here
you
are—and you’re now the de facto head of every European community.”

He shook his head. “If that’s what everyone is thinking, just tell them I don’t want any of their positions.”

“I won’t tell them. And we aren’t expecting you to rule; we’re expecting you to protect our communities. This is what you have brought upon yourself by saving us. Will you shun that responsibility?”

His jaw clenched, and he realized this was the reason Camille had requested his presence. She could have delivered the blood. But she’d brought him here, showed him the vampires celebrating—and if he denied his responsibility, he’d have to look each one in the face and essentially tell them they didn’t matter.

He wouldn’t. He
couldn’t
. When a threat showed up, they’d look to him. He couldn’t turn his back on them.

Finally, he said, “No. I won’t shun it.”

Camille smiled as if she’d never had any doubt, and patted his hand. “You won’t be locked into a community. In fact, I think it’s best if you aren’t a part of one, so that you seem impartial. You’ll be the one we can all go to, if we need your help. And if ever again another Lorenzo comes to power, you can do what the Guardians—
all
of the Guardians—neglected to do, and slay him.”

Shit. He didn’t want that responsibility—but he knew that if someone like Lorenzo took over a community, waged the same reign of terror over his people, Deacon
would
destroy him.

As if Camille saw his acceptance, she gave a satisfied nod. Her tone altered, became pensive. “When I heard that Lorenzo had been killed, I called Rosalia up to congratulate her—or to console her. I didn’t know which it would be. But I thought,
She’d finally done it
—because no one knew about the nephilim yet.”

Not for weeks after Lorenzo had died. And even then, no one knew how the hell an entire city had been massacred until the Guardians had told them.

“So I called her,” Camille continued, “and I spoke with Svetlana, who told me that Rosalia wasn’t home. I thought nothing of it because she was so often gone. But later, I received a call from a young human woman asking if I’d seen her. And that they hadn’t seen Rosa for months, and she was looking for her.”

That would have been Gemma. “Her vampires never asked you?”

“Not once.” She lifted a shoulder as if it was nothing, but Deacon heard the note of sadness in her psyche. “Rosalia has always been about protecting her family. Her family has rarely offered the same to her.”

Deacon would have torn Europe apart looking for her. To
know
, if nothing else. And he’d have given his life to protect her.

“And I’ll tell you why Lorenzo didn’t just kill her: Without Rosalia standing in his way, he could have taken over all of Europe as he planned. But he hated her too much not to rub her failure in her face. So he’d wake her up and let her see what he’d done.” She looked down into her champagne. “That is the one and only thing I thank the nephilim for. If they hadn’t killed him when they did, we’d all be dead, and our communities under his rule.”

“I don’t think anyone shed tears over him. Not even Rosie.”

“Who would?” She expelled a disgusted breath. “As it was, even with Lorenzo dead I didn’t have much hope once I heard she was gone. Then when Rome was destroyed, followed by Berlin, I had none at all. She’s held the balance in Europe since she became a Guardian, and without her, the balance was gone. Everything was spinning out of control. I wasn’t even surprised when you turned on the Guardians for a demon.”

“But then she came back.” If there was any reason to be thankful for Caym, that was the single one. If not for the demon, Rosalia might have still been in those catacombs.

“Then she came back—and I should have known that she would. If there’s one thing about Rosa, it’s that she won’t quit. She won’t lose faith, even if she loses hope. And after she loses hope, she still fights on, she still endures.” Camille looked up at him with a smile. “And she can be insidiously clever and patient while she’s about it. I’ve learned to never underestimate her. If she told me that she’d planned this ninety years ago, intending to put you in this position as a way to pay you back, I’d have believed her.”

Ninety years? “Pay me back for what?”

“You have no idea?” When he shook his head, she said, “I didn’t either, not then. I thought it was all for me. She said,
Here is a man who helped me out once. He’s a good man. He needs someone to make him laugh, and you need someone who will laugh at you.
And I liked you. We had fun those early years, didn’t we?”

“Yes.” But he still didn’t understand. “
What
was for you?”

“Sending me to you. I simply thought it was her way of helping me. No, that’s not fair—it
was
her way of helping me. But Rosa, she never has just one reason. And if she can kill fifty birds with one stone . . .” Trailing off, she took a sip of her champagne. “Afterward, I looked back, and it was true that every single move she asked me to make helped me. But it helped you, too—and I realized, you had always been at the center of it.”

Deacon’s mind reeled. He knew what this meant—but he couldn’t take any of it in. Couldn’t believe it. His heart pounded. He set the champagne flute aside, afraid he’d shatter the glass in his hand.

She sighed. “But I suppose that is why you are not with her now. How could you be? She will never trust anyone so much that she will give them her heart. She wraps herself in reasons, and they are all true, but the one reason that makes her vulnerable, she never gives. After what her father was, and Lorenzo—how could she? But what is love without trust? And I know you, Deacon. You could not stay with a woman who has many reasons to be with you, but will never say she loves you.”

The admission tore from him. “She did.”

Camille stepped back, staring at him as if he’d struck her. “And you
left
?”

She read the answer in his face. Her eyes filled.

“Oh, Rosa,” she whispered. Camille averted her face, and when someone called her name, telling her to come for the phone, she went quickly inside.

Deacon stared blindly out into the night. His fingers bit into the balcony railing. Rosalia had trusted him and given him her heart. And he’d thrown it back at her.

What had he done ninety years ago? He couldn’t think of anything. Some small act of kindness that had meant so little to him.

And he’d decided to leave, as if she meant so little to him. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Camille came back outside. “I have a message for you. It says: ‘Theriault is alone. His wife has left him.’ ”

Rosie. He needed to talk to her
now
. “You have her number?”

“It was given to me with the understanding that I would never share it.”

“How do I get it?”

She pursed her lips, as if indecisive. Camille was never indecisive—she was manipulating him.

He didn’t even care. “How?”

“Perhaps, as leader of the European community, you can apply for protection from the Guardians.” Her brows arched. “But do you really need a reason to see her?”

No. But he might need to give Rosalia a reason to see
him
again.