Demon Blood

had exploded with light.
    But when she’d woken up again, he’d been a dark scream echoing around inside her. Sometimes he was quiet. But when he wasn’t . . .
    Feeling her gorge rise again, she stared out into the street, breathing deeply. A jogger ran by, ponytail bouncing. Farther down the block, a small car started up and pulled away from the curb. London woke up just like any other city, apparently. A man in a suit and carrying a briefcase poked at his phone as he walked toward the subway station.
    No, not subway here. The underground, maybe, or the metro. Tube? Whatever the hell it was, she could feel the train clacking and rumbling beneath the street, could hear it shriek by, then squeal and brake. She’d been able to ignore most of the city’s background noise, but that one drilled into her head every time. God.
    She lifted her hand to rub at her temple, and paused when she noticed the guy watching her from across the street and down the block a little way. A good-looking guy, tall and dark-haired, but since Michael hadn’t come tearing up through her head, not someone to worry about.
    Not really someone she wanted to say hello to, either. That weird little noise in her mind that she’d begun associating with her psychic senses told her the man was curious—maybe wondering whose house the obviously screwed-up redhead had stumbled out of, and would he catch anything if he passed by too close?—but there was coldness there, too. It took a real piece of work to look at a woman hugging herself on a door-step across the street and not feel an ounce of concern.
    He turned away, and she thought about flipping the bird after him, then decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
    The underground train rumbled and squealed. She cupped her hands over her ears, sucked in a long breath, and caught a faint thread of scent—like hot metal, like dried blood.
    Then he was in her, pushing apart pieces of her mind, overwhelming every thought. She gagged and tried to fight, had a flash of memory— not hers, not hers —of a pale hairless monster and long bloodied fangs. Nosferatu.
    Kill.
    No. She yanked at her hair, trying to yank him out of her brain. Pain pushed him back, as if he wondered where it’d come from and whom he needed to fight, but it wasn’t enough. Shoving to her feet, she staggered her way back into the house, where the only scent was blood—fresh blood, vampire blood—and that cold, cold anger swept over her again.
    Then he let go. Taylor braced her hands on her knees, her chest heaving. The vampires’ murders pissed him off, but she thought there was something more to it—that he had realized something else was going on here. Probably the same reason why Mariko had wanted her to poke holes in the “It’s not a demon” theory she’d been forming.
    Something bad. Something that was going to kill more than just two people.
    “Holy shit, Taylor. Are you okay?”
    Taylor looked up. Mariko’s brow furrowed, concern sharpening her voice. Taylor nodded, forced herself to straighten.
    Mariko’s gaze fell to her feet. “Where’d you lose your shoes?”
    Oh, damn him. She didn’t want to see, but she could already feel the cool hardwood beneath her soles. She looked down. Her pale, narrow feet were bare.
    Just like Michael’s always were.
    Realization softened Mariko’s face. “Oh. Damn. Why does he do that?”
    I don’t know , Taylor thought, and she didn’t—but the words came out anyway, “Because even if you can’t see or hear them coming, you can feel them.”
    Mariko tensed. “He thought something was coming?”
    “Not coming. Just . . . somewhere.”
    “What was it?”
    Nosferatu. But she didn’t get a chance to say it.
    On a dark wave, Michael came screaming to the surface and took her away.

    Had she thought persuading Deacon would be so easy?
    Rosalia had known it wouldn’t be. She didn’t know why her failure bothered her so. She would convince him to help her, eventually. He’d already come further in one night than she’d expected him to.
    And she didn’t know why she took his rejection as a personal, emotional blow, when nothing like that existed between them. Yet Rosalia couldn’t let it go. She’d spent the past few hours reviewing every word of their conversation in her hotel room, every nuance of his expression, wondering if she could have said anything differently—or if she’d said something better left unspoken. She replayed him closing that door over and