Demon Blood

acquaintance. He’d lived with her for twenty-five years . Longer than many human marriages. That wasn’t something a person failed to mention unless there was a reason to hide it. And the only reason for Rosalia to conceal her history with Camille was that she’d gotten something out of it, and didn’t want him to know.
    Had Camille told her every string in him to pull? God knew, Rosalia’s fingers were right in there, right around his heart. He couldn’t take a fucking breath without feeling her and the hold she had on him.
    Rosalia decided not to wait anymore. Throwing up her hands, she spun away from him. “All right. You think fucking earns points? Then go fuck yourself, Deacon. You’re guaranteed to win.”
    Faint sunlight stung his eyes as she slammed through the door and into the dawn. Deacon turned, resting his palms on the hood, resisting the urge to pound his fist through steel.
    Twenty-four hours ago, she’d come into his bed. In less than a day, it’d all fallen apart—and he couldn’t even dredge up surprise. He’d never deserved anything she’d offered. And even though he was good and fucked now, he hadn’t won.
    He’d lost something, instead.

CHAPTER 18
    Her leaving set a pattern for the next several days. Dawn found Deacon in the garage, where he’d work until the sun set. Then he’d snag a unit of blood from the kitchen and join her in the War Room. She’d lay out the plans for the evening, and they’d be off. Deacon would slay another demon in another city. Then she crammed yet another city into their nightly schedule, and barely got him back to the abbey before the sun rose again.
    During the day, she swam. He heard her as she swam. And gardened. Her hair smelled like chlorine and her hands like earth. He imagined her out in the sunshine, with the War Room doors open and listening to the surveillance on St. Croix and Theriault the same way another woman might listen to the radio.
    And she didn’t touch him. The first night, he saw the way her fingers clenched when he’d emerged from her bedchamber, showered and dressed for the evening. But she didn’t straighten him up.
    The next night, he’d deliberately left himself a mess. She’d crossed her arms over her chest and tucked her hands in tight, and he remembered where he’d seen her do that before: with Vin, as if she’d been afraid her son might slap her hands away.
    Since then, he hadn’t had a hair out of place or a collar bent wrong.
    And once he got over being pissed, not a minute passed that he didn’t think of taking that step toward her. After Malkvial and Camille, she couldn’t possibly have anything else to drop on him. And though she was only a few rooms away, he missed her like hell. Warm and sweet and clever, yet so vulnerable. She looked at him like he was worth something. She truly believed he could pull her plan off. She’d trusted him. And he knew the pleasure they’d found in bed had just been them—no plan, no calculation there. They’d fit together well.
    But he didn’t go to her, and didn’t call her in. It was better this way. Once they’d finished, she wouldn’t have a use for him, and he’d be gone. Far easier to make the break now.
    And so he stayed in the garage, and the few words that passed between them were about the demons he’d be killing. She put the blood in the refrigerator and told him to help himself when he needed it. She asked him daily if he’d seen Taylor and to send the Guardian to her if he did.
    But they spoke only after sunset. During the day, she left him alone. She never came into the garage. He shut off the air-conditioning and let in the heat, stripping to the waist while he worked beneath the car. By afternoon, the garage sweltered. Sweat rolled into his eyes.
    He didn’t sleep, and no longer had nightmares, but the days were still his own personal hell. A hell of his making, and one he deserved. The small heaven of her, he didn’t.
    And when Taylor teleported in, both her eyes and her mind dark, empty voids, he realized that he was finally going to pay.

    Rosalia’s hands were deep in the soil when the psychic darkness rolled into her—the same she’d felt while flying over the Mediterranean.
    Taylor. Oh, God.
    She leapt to her feet and ran. The sparring chamber passed in a blur. Lowering her right shoulder, she rammed into the wall shared by the garage. Stone and plaster exploded around her.
    Rosalia stumbled through, her right arm shattered with