Demon Blood

through the day.”
    So Rosalia was moving her stuff to Lorenzo’s place. That made a hell of a lot of sense. After the demons started breaking the Rules, then Deacon might be called along with them—and nothing in that little apartment next door would slow him down.
    Lorenzo’s dungeon might.
    They reached the main floor. The demons waited silently, each of them with glowing crimson eyes. All of them had taken on their real forms, red scales and leathery wings, horns curling back from their foreheads. At a word from Malkvial, they cleared a path in the aisle to let the vampires pass, and Deacon had to block his mind against the others’ terror, piercing his brains like a chorus of screams.
    Finally, they were outside. Deacon locked the church doors behind him.
    Lorenzo’s house wasn’t far. Rosalia was probably setting up the new feed in the basement dungeon. He ushered the vampires inside and directed them upstairs to the bedrooms—all of them were going to fall asleep in about three minutes. He got downstairs as quickly as possible, but slowed on the last step, managing his surprise.
    St. Croix, he expected—after all, they were using his dungeon, and Rosalia had agreed to let him watch. The human stood near the monitors, his hands tucked casually in his trouser pockets, his psychic scent emitting an almost revolting eagerness. Taylor waited near the steps, nodding at Deacon as he came in. As she’d be the one bringing Anaria into the catacombs and getting the humans out, he’d expected her, too.
    But not Irena and Alejandro. Rosalia wouldn’t have invited them here. Taylor must have made that call, and brought them. Or maybe Michael had.
    They stood together, watching Rosalia connect the monitors to the feed from the catacombs. Rosalia’s soft lips had flattened into a thin line; her body was stiff. And as she flipped the power on, he saw her bow her head, as if offering a prayer.
    Expecting to be rejected as soon as Irena and Alejandro saw what she’d done.
    Irena looked at the screens as they came online. Through the speakers, sobbing filled the dungeon, soft wails, cries for help.
    Aghast, Irena stepped back and turned to Rosalia. “Those are humans?”
    “Yes,” she whispered. Then, stronger, “You should go. This is not something a Guardian should stand by and watch.”
    “If a Guardian shouldn’t tolerate it, I will stop the demons, and then I will return for you.”
    Rosalia faced her. “I won’t let you stop me.”
    “Show them who the humans are,” Deacon told her quietly.
    Rosalia called in their profiles from her cache. She held out the stack, her hands shaking.
    Irena passed them to Alejandro, who opened the files. The crime photos were on the top page. The tall Guardian’s mouth tightened. He showed a picture to Irena.
    She turned sharply toward Rosalia. “All of them have done this?”
    “Yes.”
    “Pig-fucking bastards,” Irena spat. “We should let them all be killed.”
    Rosalia smiled, very slightly. “But we are Guardians.”
    Irena snorted out a laugh. The two women looked at each other for a long moment, and when Rosalia glanced away, still smiling, Deacon thought they understood each other perfectly. Michael might not like what Rosalia had planned, but the four Guardians here stood in agreement—and they could live with their decision to put human monsters in the path of demonic ones.
    St. Croix had been silently following the back and forth. Now he spoke up. “So that is what you are: a Guardian.”
    “Yes.”
    “And what does that mean?”
    “It means that we have died saving people from demons. And we live again, to save more.” She watched the screen. The demons were filing into the ossuary chamber, Malkvial speaking to them in the demon language.
    “Saving people from . . .” Sudden hope burst through St. Croix’s psychic scent. “You become a Guardian if you die while saving someone from a demon?”
    Rosalia was no longer listening, her attention completely focused on the monitors. Alejandro answered for her.
    “Yes,” he said.
    “Fuck me.” St. Croix gave a strange, hoarse laugh. “Five years ago, there was a woman—Rachel Boyle. She became a Guardian?”
    Alejandro exchanged a glance with Irena. “No.”
    “But she saved me. Then she died in my arms, and she vanished. Her body vanished. She’s not a Guardian now?”
    “I’m sorry. None of the novice Guardians was transformed at that time. I am certain of it.”
    St. Croix ripped his