Demon Blood

cool and dry, as if the muggy Paris air had been run through a filter. The sheets smelled of lavender, not the harsh bleach of the bedding he’d fallen asleep on.
    He’d been moved. And whoever had brought him to this new room had remained here, heart pounding. His psychic probe touched a familiar mind. Sweetness and sadness rolled up into one.
    Rosalia. He should’ve fucking guessed.
    He sat up. “Get out.”
    In a red dress, she sat on a love seat printed with fat pink roses, her legs curled under her, hair spilling over her shoulder. Her arms were crossed beneath her breasts, her fingers tucked into her elbows. Her eyes, those big goddamn brown eyes, looked for all the world like she’d expected that response from him. Like she’d been waiting to be kicked.
    “Let me explain,” she said.
    How long would it take him to dress and get the hell out of here? He threw back the sheet. “You’ve got about five seconds, sister.”
    “The London elders are dead. In two weeks, perhaps a bit more, the rest of the community will be, too.”
    The nephilim. Shit.
    But it had fuck-all to do with him. “Sounds like a problem for the Guardians. I’m not after the nephilim.”
    “I know. But to get to them, I have to go through Belial’s demons. That’s where you come in.”
    No, this was where he got out . He found his clothes tucked away in the bureau. Quaint little place. The kind of hotel where porcelain figures of children in lederhosen probably kicked their heels up on the reception desk.
    He cleaned out the drawers, throwing his shit on the bed. Spying his weapons, jacket, and bag in the closet, he went for them. Rosalia came up off the sofa, shadowing him, still talking like she had something to say that might change his mind.
    “I need to get to Malkvial before I get to the nephilim. But I can’t do it without putting the Guardians in danger. And if the Guardians are in danger, then every vampire is, too.”
    “Guardians can’t save us anyway.”
    “We wouldn’t know, would we? You didn’t ask for help and let us try to save your people.”
    So she’d stoop to hitting below the belt, would she? His jaw tight, he looked over at her, but she already appeared to be regretting it. But she wasn’t giving up. Her lips pressed together before she tried again.
    “We stopped the nephilim in Seattle,” she pointed out.
    “ A nephil. One .” Deacon carried his swords and bag back to the bed. “Maybe if I’d known the Guardians had only stopped one of them, I wouldn’t have assumed you could take care of yourselves against a few demons, too.”
    “You thought that when you made the deal with Caym?” She stopped beside him, her gaze searching his face. “You thought we’d just be facing a few demons?”
    Damn his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say anything at all about Caym. Fucking over the Guardians hadn’t been Deacon’s choice, but he also hadn’t thought they’d be in real danger—especially not Irena. Hell, even the novices could handle themselves pretty well. He sure as fuck hadn’t known Irena and the others would be facing a posse of nephilim instead of a few of Caym’s friends.
    And now Rosalia was probably thinking that maybe if he had known, he’d have done things differently. Screw that. When Caym had put a knife to Eva’s throat, nothing else had mattered but trying to keep her, Petra, and the rest of his community alive.
    Without answering her, he shoved his extra clothes into the bag, stripped off his shorts. She sucked in a breath. When he glanced up, he saw a faint blush stained her cheeks. Her gaze didn’t lift to his.
    “Got a good look, sister?”
    She averted her eyes—and just in goddamn time, too. Knowing she looked was making him big, hard. Hunger stirred, a building ache in his fangs.
    “You still have that demon blood for me?”
    Deacon saw hope rise through her expression, a gentle lift at the corners of her eyes and her lips. She thought his asking for the blood meant that he was agreeing to her plan for tonight—whatever it was. Better to set that straight now.
    “That’s all I’m taking.” He hauled on his jeans, reached for a shirt. “Then I’m heading out after Theriault.”
    “We’re in Budapest.”
    He froze, the shirt bunched in his fist. One look at her face told him she was dead serious. She’d brought him to Hungary. “You’ll take me back to Paris. Now.”
    “There’s a demon here to kill. One of Belial’s.”
    “I don’t give a