Demon Blood

was in the same room—which meant that Camille would be careful how she spoke, as well.
    Rosalia couldn’t relax, though. Deacon was looking at her, and the thunderclouds on his face weren’t promising. Rosalia sank into her chair and turned away from him. She couldn’t manage both. Not now.
    And she’d promised not to manage him, anyway.
    She kept her voice cool. “Deacon might want to pass on such sentiments to Yves, but I won’t. I thought your hospitality was lacking when you last met with him.”
    “At the hotel restaurant? I didn’t see you.”
    “Of course you didn’t.”
    There was a smile in Camille’s reply. “But I recognized your touch in recent events.”
    “I haven’t touched anything. Deacon has. He’s much stronger than a human, after all.”
    “I see.” Camille digested that quickly. Rosalia wouldn’t need to make it any clearer: She didn’t want anyone to know that a Guardian was involved. “But tell me, Eliska, what have you planned? He’s taken Budapest, Athens, Monaco . . . and now José Carvalho is ready to lay down his life for him. You must appreciate that we need to know whether Paris is next.”
    Rosalia sighed as she heard a burst of French from Yves in the background. Camille was trying to understand what Rosalia’s endgame was. Yves just wondered if his position was being threatened. “No. But I do expect you to welcome him with the respect he deserves.”
    “If I’d known—”
    “You’re too clever for that, Camille.” Complimenting the other woman always helped smooth over bad news. Rosalia didn’t intend to involve her yet—not until all of the other community elders were involved, too. “You don’t start moving a queen around the board on the opening gambit. We’ll need you, in time. But for now, Deacon has the maneuverability and the strength to set up the game.”
    Camille made a noncommittal noise—then sighed as, in the background, Yves asked about London and the nephilim.
    At his bidding, Camille asked, “Will you take care of that community, as well?”
    Not Rosalia. Another queen.
    Rosalia sat up straight, her mind racing.
    Anaria. Michael was gone. But Anaria had just as much power. Possibly more—and if the demons slaughtered the nephilim, no one would have more reason to kill them than the nephilim’s mother.
    But Rosalia would have to bring in Taylor, too. Oh, Lord. It would be so dangerous for them all.
    Failure would be worse.
    “Mother? Have you a solution for London?”
    “Let us pray so.” She heard Camille’s delicate snort of laughter, and then another sigh when Yves launched into an invective against the nephilim, opining that the British vampires deserved it, and expressing his anger that the nephilim had only targeted Europe and America. “Good night, Camille.”
    She hung up, and braced herself before looking up into Deacon’s face. His expression was rigid with controlled anger.
    “ Camille is the vampire who left before the others were slaughtered?”
    “Yes.”
    “How long ago did she work with you?”
    “The three decades preceding the First World War.”
    That was earlier than he’d expected, but the surprise didn’t abate his anger. He stalked to the wall, and back. “Let me guess: She learned everything from you.”
    Not everything. Camille had a natural ability with men that Rosalia could never claim. Camille could be funny and lighthearted, with a quick smile and a quicker comeback—talents which had won Deacon over, those many years ago. Talents that Rosalia did not possess.
    “She learned many things here, yes. But not everything.”
    “And there’s no question how you knew so much about me. She fed you—”
    “No,” Rosalia cut him off, and rose to her feet. “She didn’t want to work for the Church. But there were other things that needed to be done in those years.” And Camille needed her own purpose. In truth, Rosalia had manipulated Camille’s life as much as she had Deacon’s. Ninety years ago, his need and Camille’s had dovetailed, and Rosalia had used that knowledge to bring them together—though doing so had killed her. “But she did not feed me information on you. Everything I know, I saw myself.”
    “Bullshit. She has your direct number.”
    “To reach me if she ever needs help. Or if she knows someone else who does.”
    He didn’t believe her. She could feel his distrust, see it in the rigid stance of his body, as if he expected her to drop something else on him. First