Demon Blood

asking for help? She had Guardian friends who could offer more help than he could.
    He glanced down at the blood in his hand, then back after her. So, she was a Guardian. She was also running a bit vulnerable and heading the same way he was. He could hang back, make sure she got where she was going. Then he’d go wait for Theriault again.
    Hopefully tomorrow, he wouldn’t still be around for her to find.

    Well. That had gone as badly as she’d expected. Worse, probably, thanks to Camille’s and Yves’s unexpected appearance.
    He’d been angry when the vampires had forced him into the hotel. She’d waited then for his anger to pass. She should have known better than to approach him after Camille had ripped out a piece of him.
    And it didn’t help that as soon as she’d faced him, nervousness had taken hold. The enormity of what she had to accomplish struck her—and that she needed to convince Deacon to help her, of all people.
    But she’d gotten the worst out of the way, and Deacon had been too wrapped up in his anger to notice how nervous she’d been. His rejection had been inevitable, so she’d lobbed at him the reason he’d be least likely to accept. She did need him to win over the communities, but he wouldn’t think it was possible, and wouldn’t want the distraction. Not when he was so focused on killing Belial’s demons.
    She’d give that to him, too. But she’d wait until he wasn’t so primed to reject out of hand whatever she offered.
    At least he’d taken the blood, though. It’d keep him strong. He wouldn’t have to hunt. She hadn’t mistaken his reluctance to find someone to feed from.
    And she wouldn’t have to know that he was with someone every night—or feed him herself, and risk revealing far too much. Psychic shields weren’t much good with vampires when they fed, and if the vampires were nosferatu-born, shields were useless. They couldn’t just read emotions, but thoughts.
    Deacon wasn’t nosferatu-born, but he had changed since drinking the nosferatu blood. His psychic senses were stronger. And even though Rosalia wondered what feeding him would feel like, she wasn’t ready to let him into her head. He’d already spent far too much time circling around her heart.
    Knowing that he was trailing behind her didn’t help kick him out of there.
    She didn’t look back, afraid it might put him on the defensive again. Maybe his following her meant nothing, anyway. Theriault lived in this direction, too.
    At her hotel, she went inside. Deacon didn’t follow her, but when she reached her room and went out on the balcony, he wasn’t watching Theriault’s apartment. His gaze found her the moment she stepped outside. He still carried the bag of blood. Well, he’d have nowhere to put it, would he?
    She should have considered that. He wouldn’t suck on it while walking down the street. While he waited in the shadows, though . . .
    Knowing he’d hear her, even from across the street, she said quietly, “Hold out your hand, preacher.”
    His brows pulled together, but he did as she’d asked. Dropping a small object out of her cache from that distance took concentration, but her aim was true. A drinking glass appeared in his palm.
    His gaze found hers again. His brow arched.
    “I’ve heard that fangs snag on the plastic.” She caught the amusement that pulled at his mouth. With a smile, she turned for her balcony doors. “Let me know if you want ice.”
    He didn’t ask for any, though the summer night must be uncomfortable for him. Tomorrow, she’d remind him that her room had air-conditioning. For now, though, she’d just work.
    Gemma had returned with Vincente to Rome the day before, but they both still searched for Malkvial. Rosalia’s equipment that recorded all of the conversations in Theriault’s home and over his phones had yielded their first small break: Malkvial had been in London the week previous. It wasn’t much to go on, but Gemma had already come up with several possibilities within Legion’s roster who’d traveled to England for business, and e-mailed them to Rosalia.
    Clayton Conley. Nicholas St. Croix. Karl Geier.
    She passed over Geier. Short, slightly overweight, and with thinning blond hair, he kept a modest home in Munich and hadn’t been promoted in more than ten years. Demons tended to adhere to a more striking and affluent template. With chiseled features and icy blue eyes, St. Croix certainly fit, and he possessed personal financial