Demon Blood

head. “That’s not the same.”
    “You want them dead. Does it really matter if you do it with your sword or arrange it so that they all die at once?”
    His fists clenched, as if he was feeling his weapons gripped within them. A deadly smile formed on his lips. “Yeah. It does.”
    “So it feels better.” Crushing bones. Spilling blood. “That’s not revenge. That’s therapy.”
    Deacon, when he smiled for real, had a slow, sexy smile. Her breath caught. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen it in ninety years. This was the first time it’d ever been aimed at her.
    “Sister, there isn’t a shrink in this world who wouldn’t say therapy is exactly what I need.”
    That was probably true. “But they wouldn’t suggest a form that will end up killing you.”
    He wasn’t bothered by that. His smile didn’t fade. “No.” His gaze slipped down her form, then returned to her face, lingering on her mouth. “But the other type of therapy I’ve been getting hasn’t helped.”
    With the women he’d been feeding from. She couldn’t offer him any better. Her sexual skills were limited, and she couldn’t judge herself with him. How would she react if he kissed her? She didn’t know. She couldn’t control her reactions with him as easily as she did around others. Already, her heart beat a little harder, just imagining.
    But it was foolish, pointless. Even if she had experience, it wouldn’t compare to what he’d had with Eva and Petra. He’d been with them for sixty years. Judging by everything that Rosalia had observed, they’d been bighearted, fun-loving women. Partners even before they’d met Deacon, they’d loved each other in a way that their affection for Deacon hadn’t matched. But they’d all shared a deep friendship, and their love for one another was unmistakable, even to an outsider.
    When Deacon had witnessed their deaths, it had ripped out a part of his heart. And she wondered if anyone had said they were sorry for his loss in the past six months. A pariah in the vampire community, no condolences were laid at his feet. Only blame.
    “I haven’t said before, but . . . I am sorry, Deacon. About your community—and your partners.”
    “Me, too.” His shoulders fell. He glanced at the balcony doors, as if they could see through them to Theriault’s apartment. Then anger seemed to slip into him again, straightening his back, hardening his face. “All right. Good luck with all this, sister.”
    He was leaving. Rosalia fought her disappointment. She hadn’t expected differently, had she? But when he opened the door, he glanced back.
    Hope spurred her on. The words tumbled out. “Deacon, I truly need your help. Please.”
    He looked at her for a long second. Then he left, closing the door behind him.

CHAPTER 5
    The two vampires—one male, one female—lay facedown on the bed, their wrists chained together at the small of their backs. They’d both been sexually violated before their hearts had been cleaved through from behind.
    Or perhaps the violation had been afterward. Taylor wasn’t certain. Perhaps the physical trauma was telling her, but she didn’t know enough about vampires and their rate of bruising, bleeding, and healing to make an educated guess. Not that those details mattered here—those were for the criminal investigation and the courts. And whoever had done this wouldn’t face either.
    Even knowing that, Taylor still took in the details as she walked through the room. These vampires had led the London community, one of the largest vampire communities in the world, and it showed. The enormous carved bed looked like a prop in a castle from an Elizabethan television drama. The sheets had a designer label. An antique lamp lay in shards on the floor—the only indication that they’d fought their assailant. If they’d had any defensive wounds, those had already healed. But in the end, they hadn’t struggled; they’d turned their faces toward each other. To offer strength, to speak of love—Taylor didn’t know. But it was the detail that got to her. The one that made her stomach clench with anger and hate, the one that made her want to hunt the motherfucker down and make him pay, to bring these people just a little bit of justice.
    “So what do you think?”
    Taylor glanced toward the bedroom entrance, where Mariko stood with her shoulder braced against the door frame, her thumbs hooked in the pockets of her low-slung jeans. Dark, solemn