Demon Blood

might be fast enough to beat her now, anyway.”
    She headed for the door, brushing past him. Deacon caught her wrist.
    “Rosie, wait.”
    She jerked her arm out of his grip. Surprise jolted through his psychic scent. He reached for her again, as if her tearing away from him had been an accident. She stumbled back, calling in her crossbow. She leveled it at his chest. He froze.
    “Don’t touch me.” She wouldn’t be able to walk away if he held on. She backed toward the door. “Just . . . don’t touch me.”
    Deacon didn’t move. He stared at her, his hand still outstretched. The withdrawn expression in his gaze became determination, and he stepped toward her as if he didn’t care whether she’d shoot a crossbow bolt through his heart. She wouldn’t—but she didn’t wait to see what he’d be throwing at her next.
    She turned and fled into the sun.

    Jesus. Oh, God.
    Taylor ripped up out of the dark, feeling as if she’d gone on a three-day bender. The sun was warm on her back. Waves crashed. No need to guess where she was. Anaria’s island, again. All right. So, maybe try to find that nephil from London again. She slowly calmed the heaving of her chest . . . and realized she wasn’t alone. She looked up.
    Anaria sat in the sand about thirty feet away, sobbing into her hands.
    Oh, man. Taylor didn’t think any of the sudden ache in her chest had been compelled. Anaria cried like her heart had been broken, and it was so wrenching, so sad. And Taylor didn’t have to guess what had happened. She’d knocked on too many doors, told too many people that a loved one was never coming home.
    She felt Michael begin to push her toward the sobbing woman, but she held him back. What did he think she was that she needed to be prodded to do this?
    On bare feet, Taylor crossed the length of beach and sat next to her, sliding her arm around Anaria’s shaking shoulders. The grigori shuddered and looked up, her eyes completely white, glowing brilliantly. “My children . . . they felt him die.”
    “I’m sorry for your loss,” Taylor said. Not sorry the nephil was dead, but sorry for her.
    Anaria’s face collapsed, and she covered her eyes with her hand, bowing her head. “Did you . . . Do you know who did this?”
    “No,” Taylor said truthfully, grateful that she could. More than grief had layered Anaria’s voice in that moment, a note both bitter and deadly, and even Michael seemed wary . . . ready to take over at a second’s notice. “No Guardian or vampire, so far as I know.”
    Her lips trembling, Anaria nodded. “Thank you.” She shuddered again, before looking blindly out over the crashing waves. “I’ve lost so many. My husband. My brother—though Michael was lost to me long before the others. My friends and my children.”
    Taylor didn’t know what would comfort her. “Do they go to . . .” Heaven? Above? Something else? “Where the angels are?”
    “Yes. Of course, yes,” Anaria said, wiping her cheeks. “You have seen the angels in his memories?”
    “No.” Just flashes of nosferatu and demons. Only killing.
    “Yes, of course,” she said softly, staring out into the sea. “There is too much he would not wish you to see.”
    Like what? But Anaria was crying again, and Taylor could only hope that whatever he kept from her stayed hidden.
    She didn’t want to try handling more than she already was.

    The church was rarely empty or silent, and this day was no exception. Two women spoke together in a center pew. A man knelt, praying. From the confessional, she heard soft weeping, and Father Wojcinski’s compassionate response. Their quiet voices filled Rosalia’s mind with warmth, and she let herself take comfort in them.
    In a gray-haired, petite form and swathed in a black dress, Rosalia genuflected and made her way to the back pew, where she waited. She didn’t wait long.
    “He’s here,” she murmured to Gemma, monitoring the conversation from the War Room with Vin and Deacon. The church’s proximity to the abbey meant they had no need for the van today. Even the infrared would be of little use if St. Croix had arranged for any demons to arrive first—the day was already too hot for an accurate reading.
    Standing at the chamber entrance, St. Croix observed the room, his gaze skimming over Rosalia and moving on. Though she knew he hadn’t yet slept, he didn’t appear tired. His handsome face displayed no emotion, and his blue eyes were distant and icy as he regarded