Demon Blood

link between them—like a tuning fork struck and held near a sympathetic string until both vibrated at the same frequency. Every individual’s resonance was as distinct as a DNA strand and was the only reason Taylor hadn’t dumped his body out of her cache, breaking the link between them. If she did, he couldn’t come back. Khavi worked even now, trying to discover a way to bring his soul out of the frozen field—but it would be for nothing if he had no body.
    She hated him. But she wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer.
    And now she’d surprised Anaria. Her brows arched high, her lips parting. She leaned forward. “How did Khavi know to link you in that way?”
    That, she’d never explained. “I don’t know.”
    “He inscribed symbols into his body, yes?”
    Taylor had been dying, but she remembered that part. Using Irena’s flaming knife, the blade heated by the power of a dragon’s heartblood, Khavi had carved the demon script into Michael’s torso, his back, and his neck.
    “Yes.”
    “And you took his blood from the symbol for ‘merge.’ ”
    She hadn’t known what the symbol was. And she hadn’t known that sucking down a mouthful of the Doyen’s blood wasn’t a part of the standard Guardian transformation.
    “Yes.”
    “Then he took your blood, and—”
    “No.” Taylor shook her head. “He didn’t take my blood.”
    Anaria’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You tell the truth, but you must be mistaken. The link cannot be completed without an exchange of blood. What did he do, then?”
    His lips, always so hard, had been soft against hers. He’d tasted her, kissed her as if he meant it . . . and she’d been completely lost in every deep stroke of his tongue. Her head already spinning from the wound to her chest, and he’d blown through her mind. She hadn’t even cared that only a minute before, she’d been unable to breathe and coughing up . . .
    Oh, God. Coughing up blood. Her mouth had been full of it.
    She didn’t know what the other woman saw in her expression, but Anaria’s voice was suddenly sympathetic again. “So he took your blood?”
    Taylor had to swallow before answering. “Yes.”
    “He is sometimes so thoughtless and focused only on his goal, he does not see the pain he leaves in his wake.” Anaria sighed. “He should have told you that he has kissed many, many women, so that you would know it meant nothing.”
    It hadn’t meant anything , Taylor wanted to say. But she didn’t think it’d pass Anaria’s truth test. Despite all the dark and cold and screaming afterward, that kiss had been . . . warm. A moment of hope and clarity, after fear and pain and confusion.
    She refused to dwell on it, though. There was still so much to do—and two vampires who still needed their murderer confronted and accused. She lifted her gaze to Anaria’s.
    “If you’d introduce me, I’d love to meet your children.”

    Deacon didn’t need the dry air to tell him he’d been moved. That he was moving . Either the Guardians had invested in a private jet, or Rosalia had chartered a plane. He faced a line of oval windows, their shades pulled down. The steady drone of jet engines didn’t drown out her breathing and heartbeat. They sounded near and clear—and directly behind him.
    So she hadn’t taken the hint, after all. Instead she’d laid him out on his side in a half-reclined seat and pulled a blanket over his legs. Now she was probably waiting for him to roll on over, so that she could tell him which demon she’d set him up to kill.
    He’d just come fresh out of dreams of a demon crushing him, of killing his partners, and here she was pulling at his strings.
    Goddamn her.
    He closed his eyes, holding it in. Anger sparked the bloodlust, and he needed to be cold now. When he turned to look at her, he had to be a hard bastard, one who didn’t give a fuck about how soft she seemed.
    Not that he needed to look. The warmth of her breath touched the back of his neck. She had to be lying just behind him, in the same position as he was. Any closer and she’d be spooning him. And it was too damned easy to imagine these seats as a bed.
    He sat up. She remained half-lying in the seat, covered by a dark cloak that swallowed her body in its voluminous folds. The hood shadowed her face, concealing her expression.
    Irritated, he reached over and pulled it back, expecting to reveal her sad eyes and the gaze that saw right through him. She had them closed, instead. Relief helped him