Demon Blood

holdings that rivaled any tycoon’s—yet he’d been employed by Legion for the past three years as a financial consultant. He certainly didn’t need the money, but loyalty to Belial might have driven him to take a place at Legion.
    But she wanted to look at Conley first. After Deacon had slain Caym, Conley had taken over Caym’s position in Prague. Putting another demon in the same position would be the height of arrogance—or stupidity. Rosalia wondered which had won out. If Theriault had been leading them, she’d have wagered that Conley was a demon. But if Malkvial was calling the shots . . . She didn’t know. She doubted, however, that he would be that arrogant or stupid.
    But there was only one way to make certain: Rosalia would have to personally observe Conley and St. Croix to determine if they were demons. That would take time. She couldn’t use a psychic probe to test their shields, or they’d know a Guardian was there.
    For as long as she walked this path, she couldn’t use her psychic abilities. No moving too fast, never appearing too strong, and remembering to always breathe. Until everything was in place, she might as well be a human.
    A human with a cache. She thought of the glass she’d given Deacon, the blood. As long as nobody saw her materialize items from thin air, it wouldn’t give her away. Nor would changing her clothes. And if she kept her wings out of sight, those were still available to her, too. Unlike her Gift, a demon, vampire, or nephil wouldn’t feel her use her cache and her wings—and she was already accustomed to keeping humans from witnessing any of those abilities.
    Not using her Gift would be the most difficult. She was too accustomed to hiding in the shadows. Now the only way to conceal herself was to stay out in the open.
    The infrared monitors in Theriault’s apartment showed that he lay in bed, pretending to sleep for the benefit of his wife. She listened to the recordings from when she’d been out of the room while working. So much of finding demons came from details in financial trails. Travel, with no evidence of tickets. Patterns of purchases that indicated no regular sleep pattern. No evidence that they bought groceries—a sometimes misleading indicator, especially if the demon often sat through business meals or lived with a human.
    Some demons were careful about details and appearances. She suspected Malkvial would be one of them. Belial’s previous lieutenant had been.
    About two hours before dawn, Theriault rose from bed, but only went as far as his study. Rosalia left her computer and returned to the balcony.
    Deacon wasn’t in sight.
    She frowned, her gaze searching the shadows again. Each night previous, he’d waited outside until about thirty minutes before sunrise. Every night, as she felt his impatience grow, she’d expected him to draw the demon’s attention, calling him out. But the vampire continued to wait for an opportunity to take the demon off guard. Surely he hadn’t abandoned Theriault now?
    The knock at her door shot through her. She stared at it, but could only imagine one person who might be on the other side. Deacon?
    She couldn’t use a mental probe to find out; Theriault might sense it. Pushing her fingers through her hair, straightening her dress, she made herself walk slowly to the door.
    By the time she opened it, her heart had settled down. Not for long. She wasn’t accustomed to being so close to him. From a distance, he appeared strong. Tall and big. But now, here, she couldn’t help but compare his size to her own, her body informing her impression of his. Tall er . Bigg er .
    Without a word, he held the drinking glass out to her, and she took it—again, comparing. Not just a large hand, but larg er . So capable of holding more than hers did.
    “Thank you.” She opened the door wider, inviting him inside.
    He began to shake his head, then stopped, as if something had caught his attention. Perhaps the monitors, she thought. Or he’d heard something from the audio surveillance. Green eyes narrowing, he came inside.
    He hadn’t always moved so quietly, she knew. Boxing had lightened his feet, and, like the muscle, he’d carried it after his transformation. Despite that quietness, she didn’t know whether the surveillance equipment or the vampire looked more out of place among the blue-silk sofas, the delicate furniture, and the unused bed piled with white lace pillows. He wasn’t exactly a bull in a china