Demon Blood

Rosalia had trusted him and given him her heart. And he’d thrown it back at her.
    What had he done ninety years ago? He couldn’t think of anything. Some small act of kindness that had meant so little to him.
    And he’d decided to leave, as if she meant so little to him. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
    Camille came back outside. “I have a message for you. It says: ‘Theriault is alone. His wife has left him.’ ”
    Rosie. He needed to talk to her now . “You have her number?”
    “It was given to me with the understanding that I would never share it.”
    “How do I get it?”
    She pursed her lips, as if indecisive. Camille was never indecisive—she was manipulating him.
    He didn’t even care. “How?”
    “Perhaps, as leader of the European community, you can apply for protection from the Guardians.” Her brows arched. “But do you really need a reason to see her?”
    No. But he might need to give Rosalia a reason to see him again.

    Though he’d hoped to find Rosalia at the hotel across from Theriault’s apartment, her surveillance equipment was missing, and humans occupied the room.
    All right. So she’d helped him out tonight by giving him that message, but she wasn’t hanging around, waiting for him, trying to make it all better between them.
    He’d have given anything to see her, but it was good that she was gone. He’d fucked up. He’d hurt her. But considering that she had a habit of overcompensating and trying to fix everything she’d felt she’d done wrong, this meant she wasn’t blaming herself for his mistakes. She knew exactly where to lay the blame: squarely on him.
    And that meant working his ass off proving to her that she’d never regret taking him back. He’d have to think it out, and plan—and by God, if he had to manage Rosalia a little bit to get her in a place to listen, he’d do it.
    But first things first. She’d given him info, and he needed to use it. He crossed the street and pulled his swords from beneath his jacket.
    Any demon living in this city was a threat to the vampire community here—and Deacon had a new job to do.

    Rosalia took the long route to Caelum, passing over three Gates before diving through a portal in South Africa. She dragged in a breath of warm, dry air.
    The city was still beautiful. Domes and towers of white marble reached up against a brilliant blue sky. Graceful arches and columns welcomed her into courtyards, into the temples. But it was just as sterile. No soil softened her steps; her heels clicked against unyielding stone. Nothing grew here. Nothing fragranced the air: no perfume, no rot, so smell of life. And the sun was still too bright.
    Ten years ago, she’d stopped coming here, and she’d told herself that Pasquale had been the reason why. That she didn’t deserve to be here. Now she wondered if she’d just been searching for a reason not to return. As beautiful as this city was, she didn’t love it.
    And she loved it even less when it was all but empty.
    Mariko’s quarters lay at the edge of the city, overlooking the sea, but Rosalia found her friend more quickly than that. The clash of weapons and the pulse of a familiar Gift drew her to a building that speared into the sky. Beside it, at the center of a round courtyard, Mariko spun around, sending a flying kick toward her opponent, a small woman with long black hair, whose only covering were the red scarves binding her breasts and fluttering around her pelvis and backside, and the paint that dyed her skin blue. Radha possessed a Gift of forcing an illusion past the strongest mental shields, and Rosalia didn’t know what she’d made Mariko see and hear, but the Guardian’s kick missed Radha completely. Mariko slammed into the side of the building, and Radha burst into laughter.
    Her laughter abruptly died when she caught sight of Rosalia. Her eyes widened in disbelief. When she shrieked, Rosalia braced herself.
    Radha tackled her with a hug, a tiny blue dynamo who lifted Rosalia off her feet and swung her around like a sock monkey. Limping, Mariko joined them.
    With a huge grin, Radha set her down and stepped back, clapping her blue hands to a happy beat, quickly picked up by her dancing feet. “Mariko and I were just coming to see you—with this!”
    A white satin ribbon dangled from her grip. It held up a solid gold medal, its face inscribed with Rosalia’s name and engraved with a laurel.
    “It’s plastic and she found it in a discount