Demon Blood

for several days. Barely touching, rarely talking, never kissing. She hated it. But today had been better, giving her hope that they could take another step forward.
    She glanced up at Deacon, but he was no longer smiling. He stared ahead, his jaw set.
    “You hear that?”
    Only the puttering of motorboats on the canals, voices and appliances and televisions within the residences. Listening close, she looked toward the club, a tall, narrow building topped with steep gables. No lights shone through the windows. All was quiet. She didn’t dare try a psychic probe to find out why.
    And she hoped to God that the silence didn’t mean they’d been too late.
    But his senses were different, she remembered—stronger now. “What are you picking up?”
    “Vampires, blocking their minds. At least, they’re trying to. Their fear screams.”
    Anger wound up inside her, hot and hard.
    He glanced at her. “They’re pissed, too.”
    “Good.” Fear without anger too often led to subservience. If they got the chance, Rosalia suspected these vampires might fight.
    No one met them at the entrance. The heavy wooden door opened easily, and they passed into a large foyer, empty but for the paintings that filled the walls. Pastel landscapes, bold modern pieces, religious scenes that dated back to the Renaissance era, they all shared one feature: the sun. Rising and setting in shades of orange and pink, or high and brilliant in its full glory.
    “I’ve never been able to decide whether Stefan put these up as a welcome or a warning,” Deacon said. Though his voice was casual, Rosalia had never seen him as focused.
    Listening for sounds deeper within the club. Waiting to see if the demon came for him.
    Rosalia adopted the same easy tone. “Perhaps he does neither, but uses them to gauge a visitor’s personality. A cynical or suspicious vampire sees the sun that destroys him; an amiable and hopeful one sees a generous gift from their host, a room bursting with beauty and memory.”
    And though she said “perhaps,” Rosalia knew it for certain. A strong and thoughtful vampire, and a good friend of Tomás Lakatos, Stefan had come to Amsterdam from Budapest ten years before. He’d renovated this building, formerly a small hotel, into a club and boardinghouse for both community members and visitors, with his own suite on the top level, and in the basement, a reinforced chamber designed to keep out demons. In the public areas, he’d created meeting spaces much like those in Budapest, with billiards and game tables, surrounding everyone with warm woods, soft lighting, and comfort.
    Deacon pointed to the double doors leading to the community’s meeting room, formerly the hotel’s dining room and kitchen. Yes, Rosalia heard it, too—hearts thundering, and a small moan, almost like a whimper, as if someone was holding back a scream through clenched teeth.
    Deacon drew one of the short swords from the harness beneath his jacket, approaching the meeting room. “I told Stefan that since he’d included one of Eva’s paintings, it showed he had damn good taste. What do you think he made of that?”
    That Deacon was incredibly loyal to those he loved. But she said, “That you were only pleased that Eva had sold the work because you depended on her money. And that she was your sugar mama.”
    He choked back a laugh, but was still grinning when he opened the door. The effect was exactly what she’d hoped—the vampires saw confidence, and the demon saw a cocky male that needed to be put down.
    And though the vampires crowded into a three-deep circle around the room had been shielding too well for Rosalia to sense their fear, now she felt their hope, rising like warm air. They parted, giving Deacon a clear path to the demon.
    In the center of the darkened room, the demon stood in his natural form, a grotesque combination of goat, snake, bat, and man. Leathery wings stretched over a skeletal frame. Black horns curled back from his forehead. Red scales gleamed over bulging muscle. His taloned hands were empty of weapons—he didn’t need them. At his feet, Stefan lay on his stomach, his cheek against the polished wood floor and facing the door. With backward-jointed knees, the demon lifted his split-hoofed foot onto Stefan’s head, applying enough pressure that the vampire’s face distorted with pain. The demon’s threat was clear: one wrong move, and he’d crush Stefan’s skull.
    As threats went, it was a poor one. Painful and