Demon Blood

directed her activities.
    And they could not sever her connection to Father Wojcinski. For almost thirty years, she’d watched the gray thread through his hair, then flourish. She’d watched his laugh lines appear and had helped them deepen. She and the priest no longer worked together, but he was still a dear friend.
    Folding her wings, Rosalia landed on the church’s peaked roof, facing the rectory. The soft glow in his rooms indicated he didn’t yet sleep. Quiet contemplation lay over his psychic scent, but she couldn’t mistake an undercurrent of sorrow and anger.
    She threw a pebble. It pinged against his windowpane before dropping to the garden below.
    Soft footsteps sounded from inside his rooms. When he peered through the window, Rosalia spread her wings. After he lifted his hand, indicating he’d seen her signal, she leapt from the roof and glided to the rectory door.

    With drying herbs, strings of garlic and onions hanging from the ceiling, an enormous fireplace built into the wall opposite the large window, bowls heaped with tomatoes and peppers, and the ever-present scent of coffee, the rectory’s kitchen reminded Rosalia of the same room at the abbey before Gemma’s grandmother, Sofia, had passed away three years before. Sofia had become the abbey’s housekeeper shortly after Gemma’s mother had been born, and had been as much a part of the family as were any of the vampires. And when Vin had come into Rosalia’s life, shortly followed by Gemma and her brother, Pasquale, Rosalia had found Sofia’s advice and friendship invaluable.
    Rosalia liked to think that she’d picked up good habits from Sofia. One had been that a chat over coffee in a warm kitchen could help ease the worst pain in a heart.
    As this kitchen bordered on hot, Rosalia had brought the coffee iced.
    Father Wojcinski entered the room wearing his eyeglasses, his clericals, and a pair of slippers. His pleasure upon seeing her deepened when he spied the bakery box on the preparation table.
    “Oh, Rosa. Where have you been?”
    “Greece.” A small detour on her flight here.
    He opened the box and smiled. “Baklava? Bless you.”
    She sipped her coffee and waited for him to choose a towering piece before taking her own. Sticky, sweet, salty. Perfect. The priest settled into a chair at the large wooden table. “Vincente and Gemma came to see me today.”
    Her heart leapt. “About the wedding?”
    “Yes.” He carefully took a bite of baklava. Flakes of phyllo dough drifted down to his plate. Precise in everything, he savored the bite slowly. By the time he swallowed, Rosalia was ready to beg him to continue. “You know I cannot condone their cohabitation without the sacrament of marriage, but I also cannot regret where it has led them. Particularly if it has led them earlier than they might have.”
    Her chest full, Rosalia rose from the table and walked to the window. Father Wojcinski would never speak so warmly of her son’s marriage if he wasn’t convinced of the pair’s love and fidelity. Yes, her son and his chosen bride shared both. And soon, a child.
    Happiness was a poor word for the emotion filling her now.
    “I cannot tell you of anything they spoke about, Rosa.”
    “Of course not.” Yet something must be wrong. A softening of his tone alerted her that all was not perfect.
    “It would not be amiss, however, if you could clear some time to speak with them. And to listen .”
    She hadn’t been listening to them? My God, she could barely get Vin to talk to her.
    “Do you think I don’t?”
    “I think that you are so good at shouldering burdens, you often do not see the weight carried by others.”
    Worry gnawed at her. What weight did Vin and Gemma feel they carried? But she could not press for details. “Do I ask too much of them?”
    “No. But remember, now that he will be a husband and father, his world has changed. And his priorities.”
    Of course they had. “Yes, Father.”
    He moved to the sink to wash the honey and butter from his hands. “I am glad you have come tonight, Rosa.”
    Yes, she’d sensed that he was troubled and angry. “Can I do anything to help?”
    “No. Unless you can return trust to parishioners from whom it was taken. And if you can make it easier to forgive the one who has abused his position and taken advantage of a child.”
    Rage swept through her veins like fire. No, she could not make it easier to forgive such a man. Long before Father Wojcinski had brought a