Demon Blood

stifled, the threat was still there. And he was going to sleep with this in his room. Either he’d wake up, or he wouldn’t.
    Deacon hoped to God he’d be waking up.

    Paris never seemed content with what it had. Even at dawn, the city never allowed the sun its full glory. The day didn’t start with the rising sun, but with the warm glow of stone buildings, a glint against glass, and the steady brightening of colors that had been muted by the night. By the time the sun ascended, Paris was already shining.
    Rosalia watched the sun rise from her room, surrounded by the sounds of the hotel guests stirring. Gemma had crashed in her suite upstairs as soon as they’d arrived, but Rosalia didn’t need to sleep. She’d chosen this room solely for its view of Theriault’s apartments, and she’d been able to watch both the demon and the vampire who’d watched him . She’d stood on her balcony in her own form, wearing pink silk pajamas that wouldn’t look out of place if she was noticed. The demon wouldn’t have recognized her regardless, but to Deacon, she would’ve been as plain as day. Neither had bothered to glance her way. Deacon had left half an hour ago—he must not be staying too far away—but she’d forced herself not to follow him.
    On the avenue below, tourists were already ambling down the tree-lined walks toward the Place de Concordes, where Marie Antoinette had famously lost her head. Though Rosalia lived through those years and had heard news of the revolution, she hadn’t witnessed it. She’d still been training in Caelum. When she’d returned to Earth, Napoleon had been in power, and the nation embroiled in war. Ninety years ago, she’d met Deacon near the end of another war, in a situation that would have been laughable if she hadn’t been so stupid and careless.
    In Brussels, while hunting a demon, she’d been accosted by humans in an alley. Focused on her target, she’d let her guard down, and two drunks grabbed her wrists and manhandled her into a corner. She hadn’t been in danger. Unless they cleaved through her heart or chopped off her head, they couldn’t have killed her, and Rosalia wouldn’t have let them rape her. She couldn’t have removed their hands from her wrists without breaking the Rules, but she didn’t have to spread her legs. It had been a difficult position, however, one that would have forced her to reveal herself. And although she’d have happily shape-shifted to scare the drunken piss out of her attackers, she hadn’t wanted to tip off the demon she’d been trailing.
    But Deacon had walked by and seen that she was in trouble. He’d been James Buchanan Knox then, a Presbyterian reverend on shore leave. He hadn’t even waited for a plea to help. He’d come quietly into the darkened alley, wearing his chaplain’s collar. She could still hear the jeers of the men who’d equated that collar with softness and mercy. But Deacon hadn’t been soft. He’d asked them once, had given them one opportunity to let her go, before he began swinging.
    He’d easily taken them down, and she’d felt how tightly leashed he was. His anger burned hot, but once they were beaten, he’d stopped. Fascinated, she’d let him escort her to the building she’d told him was her home, and she watched over him after that, repaying the favor. Just making certain that he was all right until he made it back home.
    But he hadn’t returned to America. The war had taken its toll on his faith, and after he’d been discharged he also left his vows behind. He’d taken up boxing and drinking, and pursued both with focus and determination. In fighting circles, they’d called him the Deacon. Maybe in the beginning, some had known who he’d been, but later, they said he’d earned the name because he demanded “a tithe in pain.” She’d laughed the first time she’d heard that, but not the second or the third, when it became apparent that the only pain he hoped to extract was his own. How many bouts had she watched with her heart in her throat and her fingernails in her palms? He had fought so hard, yet always seemed disappointed when he won. As if he’d expected to hurt more. But he’d never managed not to care, which Rosalia thought he’d been aiming for. He’d never managed indifference, or cruelty. He never used women like he did the drink, never hurt anyone who wasn’t looking for pain, too. He just didn’t have people around him to care about. So Rosalia had sent