Demon Blood

now.
    Jake shifted his feet, looked both apologetic and uneasy, so she turned to Alejandro.
    “Thank you for coming, but—”
    “We aren’t Michael,” Irena said.
    Rosalia glanced at the other woman. She didn’t know Irena well—had avoided her, in fact. Though small and compact, Irena’s loud laugh, brassy hair, and the serpent tattoos winding her arms drew attention, and Rosalia felt exposed just by proximity. She preferred to wait quietly and watch, unnoticed. She could not do so next to a woman who wore leather longstockings and a white fur mantle. Alejandro, however, was more like Rosalia, and the resemblance went deeper than their height and the darkness of their hair. Though Alejandro hadn’t been raised by a demon, he’d been a noble during the Spanish Inquisition, and it had taught him subtlety and how to maneuver gracefully around his opponents—in both his speech and his use of the sword. He and Irena were two of the oldest, most respected Guardians, but Irena was right: They were not Michael.
    Rosalia tried to frame a response that wouldn’t be taken as an insult—then decided Irena probably wouldn’t care. “No. You aren’t.”
    Alejandro signaled for Jake to leave them. The young Guardian vanished again, and dread began to rise through Rosalia’s heart. Despite her response, Alejandro hadn’t asked him to find Michael. Why?
    Irena said, “Michael is dead.”
    Michael was dead ? Rosalia shook her head. She couldn’t have heard that right. What could have killed him? “I do not—No. I don’t understand. Where is he?”
    Alejandro stepped forward. Rosalia wondered if he thought he’d have to catch her, but his hands remained at his sides. “We couldn’t find you to tell you.”
    A question lay in that statement— Where have you been? —but Rosalia couldn’t answer. The joy of that morning had turned into the heavy weight of despair. She had to know. “How?”
    Irena’s eyes flared a venomous green. “Anaria.”
    That seemed to be enough explanation for Irena. Rosalia looked at her helplessly, hoping for more.
    Alejandro elaborated, “Anaria weakened the barrier between Hell and Chaos. If she took the throne, her nephilim would return to Earth and rule over mankind. And if Lucifer broke through to Chaos—”
    “He’d bring another dragon,” Rosalia whispered. Dragons, demons, hellhounds—the Lord knew what other terrors.
    “Yes,” Alejandro said. “Michael sacrificed himself to strengthen the barrier. He’s in the frozen field now.”
    In Hell. Tortured, with the dragons eating his body in Chaos, his face frozen into the floor of the territory that surrounded Lucifer’s throne. Oh, God.
    Rosalia’s knees wouldn’t hold her. She staggered back. In a blur of movement, Alejandro raced forward and slid a chair behind her. She sat heavily, her elbows on her knees, trying to breathe despite the drowning weight that seemed to be filling her chest.
    “We’ll get him back,” Irena said, and again, Rosalia was at a loss. Get him back? From death ?
    “How?” she repeated, feeling stupid. She didn’t like asking questions unless she already knew the answers.
    “Khavi.”
    Khavi, the one powerful grigori the Guardians had left on their side. But was she powerful enough—knowledgeable enough—to pull Michael out of the frozen field? Could it possibly be done?
    Once again, Alejandro filled in what Irena had left unexplained. “As we speak, she is searching for a spell that will keep the barrier strong, and to return Michael’s spirit to his body.” He hesitated before adding, “It may take some time.”
    Rosalia’s every thought seemed sluggish. She forced her mind to work. “She has the Gift of foresight. Has she seen his return?”
    “Yes. But she does not yet know when or how it is done.”
    It was a relief, but not a significant one. In the meantime, one grigori and fifty Guardians stood against all of the demons, the nephilim, and the nosferatu. Only the Doyen, Michael, could transform more humans to Guardians. Unless Khavi could do that as well . . .
    “Can she make more of us? Can we increase our numbers?”
    “Khavi cannot.” Irena’s sigh seemed to soften her, and was filled with worry. “Michael bound himself to a new Guardian: Detective Taylor. You have met her.”
    Rosalia had a brief memory of a fragile woman with red hair. Tired, pale. “Yes.”
    “She can make new Guardians, but no humans are dying.”
    They were, but not in the manner that