Demon Blood

pain, sword in her left hand. She froze.
    Deacon lay on the concrete, Taylor’s blade at his throat. She stood over him, her eyes empty, but she was struggling against Michael’s hold. Her hand trembled. A line of blood ran down the side of Deacon’s neck.
    “Taylor.” She tried to keep her voice calm. Agony engulfed the arm that she lifted toward the other woman. “Bring your sword here. You don’t want to do this.”
    The other Guardian made a soft sound, a whimper that wasn’t just her. Michael’s harmonic voice deepened it almost to a growl. Her shaking increased.
    Deacon’s gaze never left Taylor’s face. “Maybe she does, Rosie. Maybe he’s just giving her what she wants.”
    Taylor’s life had been taken away. Her will, possessed. They were both reasons to seek revenge . . . if Taylor had been another woman.
    But Taylor wasn’t seeking revenge. Michael was seeking it for her. And Rosalia had been appealing to the wrong Guardian.
    “Michael,” Rosalia said, and hoped to God that he could hear her. Hoping the tortures of the frozen field hadn’t just reduced him to base impulse, but that some semblance of reason was left. “If you make her do this, she’ll carry that forever. If you want this, wait until you come back and do it yourself. Don’t lay this burden on her.”
    Taylor gasped and began breathing again, air sawing past clenched teeth. Some of the darkness receded. Either he’d let go a little, or she was taking control. Rosalia pushed harder, striking Michael where it would matter most. No Guardian cared more about honoring free will—not just in humans, but in everyone.
    “Michael, she’s fighting you. You’ve taken her free will. Don’t use her for this. She’s not like us. She doesn’t kill for revenge—only for defense or to protect. Don’t make her into something else against her will.”
    Michael’s hold on her broke. Taylor’s sword vanished. She fell to her knees, retching and coughing.
    Rosalia rushed to Deacon. “Are you all right?” She could see he was, but she needed to touch him. His blood slid beneath her fingers when she checked the wound on his neck, but the puncture had already healed. Sweat bathed his skin. “Why is it so hot in here?”
    He didn’t respond. She looked up at him. His eyes were fixed and staring, like the daysleep . . . or death.
    Ice crept up her spine. “Deacon?”
    His psychic scent suddenly battered against her shields. Deacon’s . . . but not just a vampire’s. Dark and strong, it slid over her mind like the scales of a snake. A nephil’s psychic scent.
    Deacon sat up.
    “Deacon?”
    He faced her, spoke. His empty eyes sparked terror in her heart, but the words he spoke were worse.
    The demon language.
    She grabbed his hand as he stood. With frightening ease, he flung her away. Rosalia smashed against the side of the car. Pain ripped though her arm. Glass shattered and rained down. Fighting against tears, Rosalia struggled to her knees. She watched him turn and head for the door.
    For the sun.
    She caught him halfway across the garage, tried to tackle him to the ground. It was like wrestling with a mountain. Wrapping her good arm around his waist, she tried to dig her heels in.
    “Taylor, help me!”
    Deacon spoke again, still in that unintelligible language, his voice frighteningly even. He trudged forward, dragging her along, Rosalia’s weight nothing to his strength.
    Taylor appeared beside them. “He’s being called.”
    Horror gripped her. “What?”
    But Rosalia understood, too well. Like the nephil whose blood he’d taken, now Deacon was being called to enforce the Rules. He couldn’t resist the call—but he couldn’t teleport; he couldn’t fly. He could only walk out into the sun.
    “A demon has broken the Rules,” Taylor said, her voice harmonic and her eyes black, and Rosalia didn’t know if she was translating the words Deacon was shouting, or if Michael was speaking now. “The demon must be slain.”
    Taylor reached out, touched them both. And teleported.

    Darkness surrounded him. Pain screamed through his mind. But the pain wasn’t his. It was hers .
    The darkness suddenly receded, though the world remained dim, as if viewed through smoked glass. Deacon recognized Rosalia’s shadowy veil, her Gift enveloping him in darkness. He saw her, standing in front of him, a sword in her right hand, her left arm hanging limply at her side. The shadows beneath her boots stretched toward Deacon, bleeding