Demon Blood

midnight, just as he’d requested. This wasn’t the best hotel in Paris—far from it—but it suited his needs.
    Not that he’d ever had too many needs. But he’d whittled them down to a cheap room with heavy drapes and a solid lock, blood, and a mirror. Facing himself every day meant that he’d never forget why he was still going.
    It wasn’t as bad as it had been, though. Six months ago, every time he’d walked into an empty hotel room the punch of grief and failure had almost leveled him, and after he’d regained his feet, was followed by unexpected jabs. But now he automatically hung up his jacket, instead of slinging it across the back of the chair before realizing that Petra wasn’t there to cluck her tongue at him and iron out the wrinkles. The clothes he laid on the bed before showering were always the same as when he finished, not replaced with ones that Eva liked better. He never expected the odor of turpentine and oils from Eva’s studio to fill the rooms anymore, only the scents of strangers. The noise of the television was never punctuated by their laughter, but came through the walls or from another floor, accompanied by the sounds of people he didn’t know, eating and fucking and living.
    Eating and fucking and living. Deacon was still doing all of that, too. But he wasn’t doing enough killing.
    He laid his swords on the top shelf of the closet. This time, he’d left the gun in the room’s lockbox. When he’d had bullets coated in hellhound venom, which could slow a demon, the weapon had been useful. But he’d used two bullets slaying a demon in Madrid, and the rest in London. That one had been close. By the time he’d managed to kill it, he’d bled almost as much as the demon. He’d relied on those bullets too much. He wouldn’t make the same mistake with Theriault.
    Getting to the demon might be harder than he’d anticipated, though. Deacon had been hoping to get his chance on the sixty miles between the chateau and Paris, but the Guardian had been right. Those other two demons had remained with Theriault until he’d reached his residence on the Champs-Élysées—the best Paris had to offer. There, his protection had left him, but Deacon couldn’t take advantage of their absence. The fucker had a human wife. Considering she was pregnant and the baby couldn’t be a demon’s, maybe she wouldn’t care too much when Deacon killed him. But he wasn’t bastard enough to kill Theriault in their home where his wife might stumble across them. A few more nights of watching, and maybe he’d find his opening. Trying tonight would have been suicide. And although this journey Deacon was on couldn’t end any other way but with him dead, he’d like to take out a few more demons first.
    She’d been right about that, too.
    He stripped off. His shirt and pants went next to the weapons. No reason to have any of them near his bed. If a demon or human came in, he couldn’t defend himself. A bomb could go off during the day and he wouldn’t know it. A Guardian could teleport in . . . or slide through the shadows.
    He crossed the room toward the window, knowing he should hit the bed instead. Sunrise was almost here, and he’d drop where he stood when the sun came up. He pushed back the drapes. Not much to see. Scooters and chained bicycles lined the cobblestone alley. A few potted flowers folded in on themselves against the night. Deacon studied the shadows. Hell, he’d been watching the shadows all night, expecting her to step out of them.
    Rosalia.
    When she’d spoken to him on the stairs, he hadn’t immediately known it was her. Sure hadn’t looked like her. His memory held a vision of long dark hair and crimson lips against pale skin. A fairy-tale princess, locked away by the nosferatu—but she’d been wakened by betrayal rather than a kiss, when Deacon had followed Caym’s orders and guided the others down into those catacombs. But at the chateau, she’d been rail-thin, tanned, and blond, like half the models working the floor. She’d walked like one, too, all knees and shoulders. No lush roll of her hips. And whenever he’d seen her, she’d worn a wide-eyed, vacant look in her blue eyes, instead of a warm, soft brown.
    But when she’d looked at him, she’d seen right through him. So deep there wasn’t anything she didn’t lay bare. As if she knew him.
    It was a stupid thought. How could she know him? But he’d barely made it down the stairs before she’d been in