Demon Blood

puddles on the slate tile. “Sorry about the floor. I can’t get my head around the water to vanish it. And . . . I’m a mess.”
    “Don’t be sorry.” Rosalia spoke in English, her accent matching Taylor’s American one. The water vanished from around the other woman’s bare feet, from her clothes. “We’re informal here.”
    Taylor glanced up, focused on Deacon’s naked chest. “I see.”
    Rosalia laughed softly, but Deacon was grateful when she handed him a white T-shirt. He liked Rosalia looking at him. And maybe it was just his 120-year-old Victorian sensibilities kicking in, but he preferred that only Rosalia did the looking.
    He dragged the shirt over his head. “Are you all right, then?”
    “I’m better than usual.” She looked to Deacon, then back to Rosalia. “First, I apologize for eavesdropping on your conversation. You said my name, and after that I couldn’t not hear it.”
    “Understood.” Rosalia vanished her swords.
    So Taylor could listen in on their Italian, but she only spoke English? Deacon said in Czech, “Something you heard here brought you?”
    Taylor caught on quick. “It’s Michael,” she explained. “What you just said sounded like nonsense to me, but once it’s in my head, I know what it means. It freaks me out.”
    Then Deacon would switch to English, too. “So what brought you up here?”
    “Hearing that you’ve all but taken over a couple of communities, which means you’re painting a target on your back for the nephilim. And that’s just bad juju.”
    Rosalia shook her head. “No. Deacon isn’t actually leading any communities. I wouldn’t take that risk.”
    “And if that was how it worked, you’d be okay. But it’s not, and neither Anaria nor the nephilim will stop to consider whether he’s actually leading the communities. If they hear he’s bringing several cities under him, they’ll think: Here’s our chance to kill a bunch of vampires in one go. They’ll end up disappointed when his blood doesn’t have all of the resonances they’re looking for . . . but by then it’ll be too late.”
    Deacon looked to Rosalia, saw the same confusion on her face—and a lot of worry. He turned back to Taylor. “You’ve got to explain this.”

    Taylor told them how Khavi explained the blood and the resonance to her, and she couldn’t decide what horrified Rosalia more: that her plan painted a target on Deacon’s back, or that Taylor had been visiting with Anaria.
    When Taylor finished, she looked at Deacon. “I couldn’t figure out was wrong. You’re awake.”
    He wasn’t the only vampire that Taylor knew who could resist the daysleep, but the other one had been infected with dragon blood through Michael’s sword. Only Anaria and Irena had weapons of similar power now.
    Deacon glanced at Rosalia. He waited until she nodded before saying, “We killed a nephil last night. I drank its blood.”
    Darkness flashed through her mind. Taylor rocked back, fighting it. When Rosalia took a step toward her, her face lined with concern, she held up her hand. “I’m okay. He’s just . . . worried. That’s really bad news. If she finds out, she’ll gun hard for you. And for you”—she glanced at Rosalia—“for protecting him. And anyone else who was with you, or in her way.”
    Rosalia paled, her hand clutching over her heart. “Vincente and Gemma.”
    Her son and daughter-in-law-to-be. Oh, damn. He was human, but the Rules wouldn’t stop Anaria.
    Deacon moved to Rosalia’s side. She turned her face into his chest. “One other person knew,” he said to Taylor. “But he’s not talking. He has his own agenda.”
    Taylor nodded. The big take-away here obviously was: don’t go anywhere near Anaria for a while, if she could help it. If Taylor couldn’t lie, Rosalia, Deacon, and quite a few humans would be in some serious shit.
    From somewhere outside the room, a bell rang. Rosalia looked up, seemed to steady herself. “That’s your blood being delivered. I’ll return in a moment.”
    Taylor watched her go, then turned back to Deacon, who was still looking toward the door with his concern hanging all over his face.
    She had a sudden flash of a different expression: his surprise. Of Rosalia, bleeding. Of pain through her throat, and a long, dark shadow. She shook her head, trying to clear the dim memory. “I seem to remember . . . Did I attack you last night?”
    He stared at her for a long second, then broke into a sudden laugh. “You