Demon Blood

Malkvial, now Camille.
    And perhaps she deserved that distrust. She should have told him how well she knew Camille, but revealing their connection had felt too close to losing him altogether. The timing had just always been so wrong.
    It still was. Sighing, she glanced at the clock. “It’s almost dawn. You don’t want to be locked in here all day.”
    The tightening of his jaw said it best. Not in here with her. Not now.
    And she had to live with the decisions she made—even when it hurt. “Come on, then.”

    The garage had been built onto the back of the abbey about forty or fifty years ago, Deacon guessed. The only access was from the outside, though the eastern door. The place hadn’t been used often. Some oil scent still lingered, but not much. A man could have eaten off the concrete floors. The glass in the big bay door had recently been painted over to block the light. The tools laid out on the worktable sparkled, unmarred by even a fingerprint. She’d even set up a computer and phone so that he could research parts and order them. The whole setup was like a cleaner, sparser version of what he’d had in Prague.
    Rosalia watched him look around, the sadness in her eyes fading and taking on life. She was excited about this.
    He was wary. She’d put a hell of a lot of effort and money into this. And he couldn’t fault her choice of car currently sitting in the bay. He’d wanted to get his hands on a Ferrari 250 GTL for years—but then, Rosalia knew a lot about what he’d like. Knew that he’d used to do restore and resell cars like this for a living. And he’d made money from it, but he’d loved it, too. His garage and vehicles had been the last things he’d sold before leaving Prague.
    But it felt too much like how Camille used to give him gifts to help soften the blow of something she’d done, or something she wanted. She’d hand the gift over, talking about how much she’d appreciated him . . . and then drop a bomb on him a few days later.
    He slid his palm over the dull red fender. Solid. Not rusted out, just banged up a little. Tires rotted, upholstery a mess. Overall, not bad shape, but it’d take a lot of work. He lifted the hood and grimaced. She’d been stripped for parts, and what was left had corroded. He’d have to rebuild the engine.
    He was already itching to get in there.
    “It’s the best I could get on short notice.” Rosalia came up next to him, her hands tucked in her elbows. “If you’d prefer another vehicle, I can find it for you.”
    On short notice, because she and Taylor had thrown this together yesterday afternoon . . . just after Taylor had shown up and put a halt to Rosalia telling him about Malkvial. But she must have known that revelation was coming. The timing of this whole damn thing couldn’t have been better, could it?
    When he didn’t answer, she sighed and pointed to the back wall of the garage. “The sparring chamber is on the other side. After I sunproof that room, I can open this wall up. The War Room is right above it. It shouldn’t be difficult to construct an access stair through the floor—and then you could move around between here and the second-level chambers during the day.”
    Wasn’t that convenient? “That seems like a lot of work, when your plan should be all finished up within a week and a half. I’ll be out of here then.”
    The excitement in her eyes dimmed. He watched her back-pedal as if she realized the big prize she’d dangled wasn’t as tempting as she’d hoped. “Well. It’s best that you’re comfortable while you’re here.”
    “Comfortable will win you points, sure. But if you want to give me something to do and keep me comfortable while I’m at it, just put me in your bed and fuck me.”
    He’d discovered how calculating she could be—but she didn’t run cold. Never cold. Her eyes began to glow, a fierce yellow light.
    “Yes, you’re right. This isn’t about giving you something to keep you occupied for the day. It’s not about knowing how you enjoy restoring vehicles, and that you sold yours to pay for revenge. It’s not about any of that. It’s about scoring points, and managing you.”
    Her anger burned against his shields. The hurt that sounded beneath made him want to reach out.
    But maybe that was what she wanted. Maybe she counted on him taking that step toward her. Now she stared at him, as if waiting—for what? An apology? Fuck that. It wasn’t like Camille had been a passing