Demon Blood

into the veil around him. Beyond her, a nephil with giant black wings held a demon’s head. The scent of the demon’s blood pierced the veil, sparked Deacon’s hunger.
    Staggering, Deacon rose to his feet. It was so fucking hot here, bone-dry. Not anything like Rome. He smelled human blood—and saw a human male in a white robe, lying facedown on a yellow rock. His shadow stretched unnaturally long and thin toward the veil around Deacon. The sun was high overhead. In the distance, sand formed dunes against the horizon.
    He could almost piece it together. A demon had killed the human. The nephil had been called to slay the demon. Deacon just couldn’t figure out how the fuck he and Rosalia had gotten here. This sure as hell wasn’t Europe.
    The nephil’s gaze touched Rosalia before moving past her to Deacon. His lips drew back from his fangs as he spoke. Deacon didn’t recognize the words, but he felt the creature’s rage and grief.
    “He wants to know if you killed his brother,” Taylor said from beside him. “Rosalia, he can sense the blood in Deacon. He knows .”
    “And if he tells the others, Deacon’s as good as dead. They’ll hunt him down.” Her grim determination resonated through the shadows. “Get him out of here, Taylor.”
    The detective didn’t move. Her expression tightened as the nephil looked at her and spoke again. With a chilling smile, he began to edge toward her. Two swords appeared in Taylor’s hands—Deacon wondered if she realized that she’d called them in.
    “What’d he say?” Rosalia slipped between them, staying beyond the reach of the nephil’s weapon. “Taylor! What’d he say?”
    “He said, ‘My mother isn’t here.’ ”
    Dark humor slipped into Rosalia’s voice. “But I am.”
    She rushed forward. Darkness snaked around her, thickening her form into an indistinct shape, creating shadow limbs, until it was impossible to determine the exact position of her hands and her head. Her sword flashed out of the darkness—the nephil barely managed to block it. He stumbled back against the slashing fury of her weapon before recovering and bearing down on her.
    The shadows from the veil to her feet stretched thinner, thinner. The pain of her Gift was a volatile, living agony against Deacon’s shields. He had to get closer. Had to help her.
    He stepped through the veil, into the sun. Fire erupted from his skin, engulfing him in flames. Instinctively, he dove back into the shelter of her Gift, clenching his teeth against the flaring pain.
    Stupid. Stupid. Of course she couldn’t track both the nephil and him at the same time. He had to stay put.
    Taylor joined her, weapons awkward in her hands. Though her eyes were pure black, she was slow—slower than she should be. Not just fighting the nephil, but fighting Michael, too. She dodged the nephil’s blade, but not by virtue of her own skill. Each time, she was yanked back at the last moment like a puppet by her strings.
    She was fighting Michael . . . but Michael was fighting to save her.
    Deacon shouted, “Taylor! Let him have you!”
    Rosalia stumbled to one knee, her legs swept out from under. The nephil raised his weapon. Deacon broke out of the shadows, into the dazzling day. Instantly, his exposed skin caught fire. He didn’t give a fuck. If a vampire ball of fire barreling toward the nephil could make him hesitate for even a second—
    Just before the sun blinded him, the creature fell.
    Rosalia cried out his name. Pain engulfed him again, his and hers. He felt something cover his head and shoulders, smelled chlorine and earth and his own charred flesh.
    Jesus Christ, it hurt like a son of a bitch. He breathed shallow, controlling it. “What happened?”
    “Taylor cut off his head.”
    Deacon hadn’t seen it—not just because his sight had burned out. When Michael had taken over, Taylor had just been that fast. Christ Jesus. He almost laughed. “Then I’m damn lucky she’s been fighting him whenever he pops in to kill me.”
    “Yes.”
    He felt her shudder against him. “Rosie?”
    “I just . . . pulled the bodies into my cache. A few Bedouins have seen.” He felt her move, as if shifting around, being careful not to jar him. “Taylor! We have to go.”
    He heard footsteps, dimly saw movement beside him as Taylor laid her hand on his shoulder. Pain shot down his arm. Rosalia’s Gift vanished from around him—then he had hard concrete beneath him instead of hot sand. Judging by the scent of