Demon Blood

a strong Slavic accent. “You will not be revealed by me.”
    Rosalia nodded, stepping back and inviting her in. She led the Guardian to the courtyard, and when Irena spoke again, she heard the movement from within the garage stop, as if Deacon had frozen in place, holding his breath.
    “From the San Francisco community leader, I have heard that Deacon has made a bargain with Malkvial.”
    Unsurprised that word had already reached the States, Rosalia answered, “Yes.”
    “You requested him to do this?”
    “Yes.”
    Irena’s green eyes suddenly glowed with anger. “You dare risk his soul?”
    Rosalia blinked. She’d expected to be called a fool for trusting him, which she would have turned about very carefully. But Irena was concerned for him?
    Michael, it seemed, had left them in good hands when he’d passed the reins over to Irena.
    “No,” she said. “His part of the bargain is not so difficult. He only has to stay alive to fulfill it. And I will fight to my last breath to see that he does. We need but two days more.”
    “This was of his free will?”
    Rosalia gestured toward the sparring chamber, where curtains covered the ragged hole in the wall that opened to the garage. “Ask him.”
    Irena nodded. “I will return after sundown—”
    “No. Ask him now .”
    She led Irena to the garage, where even the air-conditioning couldn’t win against the heat coming through from the sparring chamber. Deacon waited for them, his big body tense.
    Irena didn’t hesitate. She called in her kukri knives, prepared to strike. “You have been fooled by a demon!”
    “No, Irena. Feel him,” she said, remembering her own reaction. “Look how he sweats in the heat.”
    Deacon held out his hand. Irena touched his skin, then looked up into his face. Astonishment dropped her mouth open.
    “The nosferatu blood did this?”
    “No. This was nephilim blood,” Deacon said quietly. He watched Irena carefully, braced as if for a blow—facing his friend for the first time since she’d discovered the truth of his bargain with Caym.
    “You killed a nephil?”
    “I helped.” Deacon wiped his brow, glanced at Rosalia. He was clearly uncomfortable—a discomfort probably made worse by her witnessing it. To her relief, she heard a knock at the door.
    “You’ll excuse me.” She lifted her hands, backing toward the sparring chamber. “A cohabitating couple becomes desperate, so marriage simply can’t wait.”

    Rosalia’s parting joke creased Irena’s brow. She glanced at Deacon. “You are marrying her?”
    A bark of laughter escaped him. He shook his head.
    “She smells like you.”
    That shut him up. What would the Guardians think of Rosalia, fraternizing with him? He knew she was afraid of their reaction regarding the humans. Would being with him, even temporarily, make their reaction harsher?
    But Irena didn’t seem interested in dwelling on it. Moving to the center of the room, she stood, her gaze skimming over the worktable, the GTL, the engine parts scattered on the benches and concrete floor. Her Gift lay in metal. He’d seen some of the amazing sculptures she’d created with barely a thought. And here he was, sweating over an old car. It probably seemed piddling to her.
    When she looked back at him, however, he didn’t read any judgment in her expression—and Irena never bothered to hide her feelings, for good or bad.
    He should say something. He didn’t even know how to begin. There were too many dead. But of those living, Irena was the one he’d hurt the most.
    But as usual, Irena did not hesitate to speak her mind. “You’ve chosen this bargain?”
    “I have.”
    “Of your free will?”
    When he nodded, she frowned. Her eyes narrowed and she regarded him more closely, her expression turning thoughtful. “I was certain that when I saw you, I would want to kill you.”
    Was that why she’d come during the day? “I expected to have taken a few punches by now,” he admitted.
    And he would have taken them. Hell, he’d like her to do it now. It wouldn’t make the past go away—but maybe it could make them both feel better.
    Maybe. Or nothing could.
    “Yes.” She looked at her hands, as if imagining them as fists. “And I thought I would be angry. But instead I am sorry. I am sorry it came to this. I am sorry that you felt I couldn’t help you. And I am sorry that even though you didn’t come to me, I still couldn’t save them—any of them. My friends and yours.”
    “Me,