Demon Blood

obligation to procure a human—until Deacon passed around the files Rosalia had given him. One by one, the objections faded . . . and Deacon noted that some of the vampires suddenly looked eager, every trace of reluctance gone.
    Rosalia had chosen their targets well.
    By the time the vampires left, each taking a file and a list of instructions with them, Deacon was ready to return to Rome. Camille walked with him to the door, flipping through her human’s profile.
    “Everyone else was given the name of a human from their city,” she said. “But I have a priest from Rome. Isn’t that interesting?”
    “He’s included as a favor.”
    She arched her delicate brows. “To a friend of a friend?”
    He had no idea if Camille knew John Wojcinski, but he wasn’t naming names, anyway. “Something like that.”
    Camille nodded. “And it would be these kind of men,” she murmured. “Murder is so often called the worst crime, but there can always be extenuating circumstances—and let us be truthful, and admit that some of those who are murdered deserve it. But to hunt a child, to abuse them in this manner . . . it’s deliberate, predatory, and there’s no question of its immorality or the child’s innocence. There can never be an excuse.”
    He recognized those words. He’d said them to her once.
    Glancing up, she interpreted his expression perfectly. “Yes, you’ve said that to me. But you were not the first I’d heard it from; that distinction belongs to the woman I called Mother. But is this something we can all live with?”
    She was wondering whether Rosalia could, Deacon realized. Camille knew that this went against the moral fiber of every Guardian who’d ever earned her wings.
    But so did letting demons and nephilim slaughter her friends.
    “Yes,” he told her. “We can all live with it.”

    She hoped that she could live with herself for this.
    As a cop, never in a million years would Taylor have considered bringing even someone as blind and as dangerous as Anaria into a scenario like Rosalia had described. But the rules were different here. And she wasn’t a cop anymore.
    From the tallest tower in the city, she looked out over Caelum. God, it was beautiful here—a shining marble disk on an endless sea. She’d never imagined anything like this realm, with its towers and domes and temples. Every stone seemed to sing to her, to recognize her presence. When she rested her palm at the edge of the tower’s peak, the marble fit her hand, as if reshaping itself to her touch.
    She didn’t know if it sought her, or Michael.
    But she could feel his touch now, rising up almost gently. She didn’t trust that. Gentle . . . because he wanted something from her? Up until Rosalia talking to him, he hadn’t had a problem taking it.
    Her teeth clenched. Her eyes closed. “What the hell do you want from me?”
    The memory came on her quickly, not a flash but deep inside, the cold morning air against her bronze skin—and more death. So much more death. But not of demons or nosferatu. The strong scent of human blood saturated the air. Warriors wearing breastplates of bronze and greaves protecting their shins lay near shields cleaved in half.
    It had been a one-sided slaughter. All wearing the same colors, no opponents lay next to the fallen. It had been precise and methodic, each man killed with a single blow. It had been terrifying—many had run, but they hadn’t been spared. The scattering of the bodies and their positions told her they’d been cut down as they’d fled . . . and so, so many had fled.
    And there was Anaria, her sword bloodied, gazing up at Taylor with a soft, slightly disappointed smile, as if speaking to a child who continually failed to understand. Behind Anaria stood the Guardians who’d helped her massacre the human army.
    When Anaria spoke, Taylor couldn’t understand the words but their meaning was painfully clear.
    “These wars they wage upon each other, it makes them like demons! They choose to throw away love and kindness in return for power and fear—and I will stop them before they destroy all of humanity, Michael. I vow to you.”
    She swore—and Michael knew what he would have to do. The agony of it crushed his heart, stole his speech; he was certain he would never breathe again. Certain he would never be able to bear it, or live with himself for the decision he had to make.
    But if he did not, it wouldn’t end. Anaria would save everyone from themselves until they