Demon Blood

himself.
    He’d made a mess of everything else. Might as well start a big fucking mess here, too.
    “I am not sure which surprises me more, Deacon,” Camille said. “That we had to find out from one of our vampires that you were in Paris, or that when we find you, it is here.”
    Camille’s gaze lingered a second too long on Deacon’s empty plate. When her eyes met his, the conclusion she’d drawn was clear: He’d hidden from them.
    Like a coward.
    Smiling took effort. Judging by the way Yves shifted his weight, as if reaching for a weapon, that smile hadn’t looked friendly.
    “In other words, after your boys lost me, they called Mommy and Daddy for help. Can’t let the demon-loving bastard get away.” They didn’t confirm or deny it, but he knew that was how it’d gone down. “Untwist your panties, Camille. I’m just passing through.”
    “Passing through? But you’ve stopped.” Yves looked Deacon over. “And food obviously isn’t all you’ve been eating. No humans, Deacon. Not in our city.”
    Not anywhere. No community allowed vampires to drink from humans. “You’ve got a volunteer willing to feed me?”
    “No. Not for you.”
    “No” would have been enough. But the “Not for you” made it crystal clear.
    “We have enough trouble,” Camille said. “Watching for the nephilim, demons pressuring us . . . We don’t want the Guardians breathing down our necks, too, if they learn you’re in our community.”
    Oh, now, wasn’t that clever. Not enough to let him know he was damaged goods. Now he endangered the whole fucking community.
    “The Guardians let me go.” Deacon still didn’t know why Irena had. In her place, he wouldn’t have shown mercy. But maybe that was why she was a Guardian, and he was the bastard who’d betrayed her friendship. “They aren’t going to come hunting for me.”
    Except for their leader, in the form of a possessed detective. But even if Michael came for him, the Guardians wouldn’t make the community pay.
    “You understand that we don’t want to take that chance,” Yves said as he stood.
    Yeah. Deacon did understand that. He’d taken chances trying to protect his community, and they’d been slaughtered. Camille and Yves would learn from his mistakes, but they wouldn’t tolerate Deacon being around to repeat them.
    She rose to her feet. “And I’m sure that you understand that when we say, ‘Good-bye, and good luck,’ we truly mean it. Good luck to you, Deacon—and good-bye. If we see you in Paris again, it will be for the last time.”
    So it’d come to this? “You won’t see me.”
    Camille nodded. For an instant, regret flickered through her psychic scent. But she wouldn’t have been the woman she was—the community leader that he’d long admired—if she hadn’t squashed it. As she left, he felt nothing from her at all.
    Blocking, he hoped. Just as he blocked her from sensing the gaping hole in his chest—the hole that used to hold his community, Eva and Petra. It’d started to heal just a little bit, but Camille had ripped it open again.
    Fuck them. Fuck all of them. Under the table, his fists clenched. He wanted to drive them through the wall. Or head outside, find the pissants, and pound this rotting fury into their bones.
    He had only his goddamn self to blame, though. Himself, and too many demons.
    Killing Theriault came first, but then he’d make good on his word. Camille wouldn’t see him again.
    Feeding from humans, though . . . There wasn’t anything he could do about that.
    A few women had looked him over since he’d entered the restaurant, but none dined alone. The bar, then. Though judging by the wary look the waiter gave him and how quickly he scuttled back with Deacon’s check, maybe he ought to wait a while before approaching anyone. If one glance at his expression scared every woman away, it’d be another night wasted.
    He moved into the lobby. The lighting was brighter here, but still mellow. A young couple stood at the reservation desk. Near the lobby doors, a man in a suit spoke impatiently into a cell phone. At the seating area to his left, a dark-haired woman waited, facing the entrance. The knee-length black dress she wore hugged luscious curves. Either she was meeting someone . . . or hoping to.
    Deacon paused. As if she felt his attention, the woman turned. This time, she wore the face he remembered. Soft brown eyes met his. Lush red lips curved into a smile.
    That welcoming curve was a sucker