Demon Blood

sure as hell did.”
    God damn Michael. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
    “For me? No. Rosalia got tore up some, though.”
    She felt sick, almost seeing it now—her sword, striking the other woman’s back. The give of flesh as the blade slid through. “I’ll try to make it up to her. Somehow.”
    Deacon nodded, then Rosalia was back, handing a glass of blood over to the vampire and turning to Taylor with a warm, gorgeous smile.
    Holy hell. Taylor could have described Rosalia’s every feature a few seconds after seeing the Guardian for the first time, but it just now hit her how freaking beautiful she was. Not a fragile beauty, like Anaria had. And not like a supermodel, but closer to one of those Waterhouse paintings, where ladies gave favors to knights and lay amid flowery fields. Just all over soft and welcoming, but solid—like this was a woman who could shoulder anything, even when she’d been torn down and her heart completely vulnerable.
    Taylor glanced at the vampire, who couldn’t quite hide the admiration and longing in his eyes. All tangled up. Taylor wasn’t much of a romantic, but she hoped like hell they pulled it off.
    “I actually can think of a way for you to pay me back—and practice cleaning yourself up at the same time,” Rosalia said. “Are you busy this afternoon?”

    When Deacon emerged from the Lisbon apartment carrying the demon’s head in a black leakproof bag, Rosalia finally let herself take pleasure in how smoothly the evening had gone. She and Taylor had cleaned the garage until Gemma had woken from her nap, and Rosalia spent an hour with the young woman, first persuading her that she wouldn’t be lonely and then helping Gemma gather her things. When the sun set, she and Deacon still had to wait a little more than an hour before it set in Lisbon; they spent it in the courtyard, testing the range of his new speed and strength. More skilled, Rosalia could still defeat him with weapons and hand-to-hand combat, but he was stronger and faster than her—and in the first fifteen minutes of practice, he’d been clumsy with surprise at how fast and strong.
    That had worried her. From the moment Taylor had teleported them to Lisbon and left Rosalia and Deacon alone, her heart had been pounding and her lungs tight with fear. But the practice had served him well, and within a second of Deacon entering the demon’s apartment, the fight had been over.
    His grin flashed when he saw her waiting beneath one of the palms that lined the quiet street. Crimson darkened his black shirt, and the Atlantic breeze that had cooled the city brought her the scent of the demon’s blood . . . and Deacon’s.
    “Were you hit?”
    Stopping beside her, Deacon showed her his hand. A faint pink line crossed the center of his palm. Even as she watched, the scar faded. “I slung some of my blood around. If the demons come across that, they’ll know it was a vampire that killed him.”
    It was better than that. “They’ll know it was you .”
    “And that’s just the way I want it.” He hefted the bag containing the demon’s head. “So do we go bowling?”
    Oh, he made her laugh. When she finally managed to shake the ridiculous image from her mind, she said, “We walk. José Carvalho’s home isn’t far.”
    They started out—two miles through the city, on a warm and quiet night. It was inevitable that her memory would recall Brussels and their first walk. She could barely recognize herself—the dame in distress, curious about the man who’d rescued her. Yet here she was, ninety years later, needing his help and still wondering about his every thought, fascinated by everything that drove him.
    So much the same . . . and yet completely changed. Compared to now, ninety years ago her feelings toward him had been like a puddle to an ocean—and she’d only begun to fathom the depths.
    And ninety years ago, she hadn’t feared that she’d drown.
    She glanced over at him, and a cold hand seemed to squeeze at her chest. She’d been quiet as they walked, and so she hadn’t thought much of his silence—but now she saw that his silence was a hard thing, like the stone set of his jaw.
    As if noticing her sudden attention, he stopped and seemed to brace himself. “The demon is dead. So tell me why we’re headed to Carvalho’s.”
    To gain the vampire communities’ respect and confidence. He knew that; she’d told him. But she hadn’t had time to tell him the rest. Taylor had teleported into the War