Demon Blood

his face, telling him exactly why he was there and what he’d planned. And hitting the nail right on the head.
    She wasn’t out there now. None of the shadows was deep enough; he could see through them. But when they were impenetrable . . . that would be Rosalia.
    He curled his fist against the glass, wishing he could smash through it. Why the hell was he looking for her? She was the last person he wanted to run into again. She made him hunger. Made him think about a time when taking blood wasn’t just feeding. When it had been a part of something that mattered. But it never would be again. Not for him.
    Goddamn her. He’d rather it had been anyone but Rosalia. She’d seen him at his lowest. A man couldn’t get past that. Other Guardians and vampires might have heard what Caym and the other demon had done, but they hadn’t seen . But Rosalia had been hiding in her shadows, watching as Belial’s lieutenant left him for dead. Deacon had been glad she’d hung back and hadn’t saved him. Glad of it. Then for some godforsaken reason, she’d taken him away from Prague and tried to help him. He was beyond that. She should have found someone more deserving.
    But tonight she’d stuck her nose in it again. Helping him, when he could barely look at her square on. He hated being near her. He didn’t need a mirror when she was around. He couldn’t escape his failure or his guilt when she looked at him. Yet he searched the shadows for her. The temptation, the hope, of a single glimpse had drawn him to the window instead of the bed.
    Movement beyond his reflection froze Deacon in place. Someone had come into the room. The door hadn’t opened—not a demon or vampire, then. So Rosalia had come after all? She wouldn’t be staying. He’d run her out of here, the same way he’d run her off before. Uncivil bastards pissed her off. Lucky for him, being one came easy.
    Deacon let the drape fall back into place, began to turn.
    “Don’t move.”
    He tensed. No. Not Rosalia. The voice was a strange rasping harmony, both male and female and holding too much at once: threat, warning, and terror.
    But threats didn’t work anymore. Deacon didn’t have much to lose. He turned, but he wasn’t stupid. He did it slowly.
    She crouched in the corner, trembling. Pale as a vampire, but not one. Her clenched teeth formed an even line. No fangs. Tangled red hair framed a face with hollowed cheeks. Solid black filled her eyes where the whites and irises should have been. Deacon stared, unease crawling over his skin. He knew this woman. A detective. One who’d worked with the Guardians. He’d met her once, at a vampire club in San Francisco. She’d been human then. She wasn’t anymore. He didn’t know what she was.
    “He wants to kill you,” she said, then gasped. Her fingers dug into the wall, her nails gouging the plaster. Her heart beat a rapid pace against his ears. “I’m holding him back. But it’s hard . . . when you move.”
    Someone wanted to kill him? Nothing new. But she was new . . . whatever she was. And whoever was inside her. “Who?”
    “Michael.”
    The Guardians’ leader? Deacon tried to take it in. No surprise that the man was out for his blood. His only surprise was that it had taken this long. But like this ?
    “He’s controlling you?”
    Anger flashed through her psychic scent, dark and deep. “Hell . . . no.”
    From what he could see, that response held more wish than fact. But she’d gotten her breathing down, slow and steady. “Why is he—”
    “Shhh.” It came out like the hiss of a snake. Or a demon.
    Had Michael possessed this woman? Guardians couldn’t do that, but Michael was something more: one of the grigori, the son of a human and a demon. But demons couldn’t possess humans, either. The nephilim could—but they possessed the dead. The person inside didn’t fight their control.
    But even if Michael had possessed her somehow, why ? That wasn’t what Deacon knew of Michael, the man who valued human free will above everything, even life. Not even a man, but like a myth. He had power, strength. Michael wouldn’t use this woman. Michael wouldn’t need to use this woman. But apparently, he was, and she was fighting him.
    Deacon felt the sun coming, like the clench of hot fingers on the back of his neck. Quietly, he said, “I’m moving to the bed.”
    She nodded. “Slow.” Her voice sounded more like a woman’s now. Less male in it, and not so full of threat.
    But however