Demon Blood

over. And each time was a spike through the heart.
    She shouldn’t do this to herself. Unfortunately, she didn’t have much else to do.
    Clayton Conley had spent the morning exploring Prague with Nikki Waters, an American who’d moved with him when he’d transferred from Legion’s New York offices. Shadowing the couple through the streets of Old Town hadn’t been a hardship; Rosalia had always loved this city, the pastel buildings with their delicately ornamented façades; the smoky fragrance of grilled sausages that billowed from restaurant doors and lingered; the people at the sidewalk tables, whose conversations over beer or coffee often sounded both intense and lighthearted, all at once.
    Not so Conley and his lover. As they sat for their lunch, Rosalia watched them from a café across the street and listened to their tense silence, broken now and again by her shrill complaints and his insulting replies.
    Such had been the entire morning. Though Nikki’s continual whining irritated Rosalia, she could dredge up some sympathy for the homesick woman. Her primary complaint cited how often Conley left her on her own in the unfamiliar city; Rosalia could have pointed out dozens of other foreign women on the same street who had been getting by on just a little backbone and initiative, but she understood the loneliness behind the woman’s complaints.
    Rosalia couldn’t feel sympathetic toward Conley. Every word he chose cut like the edge of a poisonous blade. He belittled his lover for her ignorance, made fun of the people around them, and treated the waiter like a servant. When he told Nikki to pass on dessert or risk turning into a fat cow, Rosalia began to hope that he was a demon, simply so that she’d have the pleasure of watching him die later.
    And his behavior did resemble a demon’s. Unfortunately, many humans could be just as cruel.
    So could vampires.
    Only seven years before, she’d sat at a café table similar to this one, in the same city, listening to a young vampire beg Deacon to take him into his community and offer his protection. The vampire had been fleeing Rome after serving Lorenzo for only three of the twenty-five years required by the community contract, unable to withstand any more of her brother’s mental cruelties.
    Many other community leaders would have refused to protect the vampire from Lorenzo. Before Rosalia had returned from Caelum, her brother had slain community leaders who’d harbored runaways, fearing that leniency would be interpreted as weakness. She’d managed to thwart him since her return, but by that time, vampires throughout Europe had become so terrified of him that few dared try to escape, and fewer communities would harbor those who did.
    Deacon had known that Lorenzo would come for him, yet he’d still given the young vampire his protection, confirming every belief she’d had in his goodness and his courage, even in the face of a powerful opponent.
    In ninety years, he’d confirmed it many times, so often choosing the right path over the easy or the safe one. She just needed to convince him that her path was just as important, just as right.
    Always easier said than done.
    A woman passing by Rosalia suddenly dropped into the chair to her left. Taken by surprise, Rosalia called in her bladed fan beneath the table and turned. When she saw Mariko’s familiar face framed by black hair cut into an angular fringe, she let out a breath.
    “No Gifts,” Rosalia said. “No psychic senses.”
    “I know. I’d heard you were hiding.” Mariko looked Rosalia up and down, taking in her jeans, sandals, and red T-shirt. “Not in your usual way.”
    “No.” Because she wasn’t hiding. The exposure made her uncomfortable, but she wouldn’t be recognized. She’d spent two hundred years wearing other skins, except for when she’d been with Guardians and her vampires in Rome.
    Mariko pointed to Rosalia’s plate, piled high with pastries. “Are those koláče?”
    “Yes.” Sampling food from carts and cafés throughout the morning had been the best part of shadowing Conley. Knowing her friend’s dislike of anything that had once resembled a fruit, she said, “The ones at the bottom are filled with cheese.”
    Mariko dug in and snagged two. Quick to laugh, quick to fight, the Guardian had trained in Caelum during the last twenty years that Rosalia had been a novice. Rather than being killed by her brother, Mariko had become a Guardian by saving hers. When