Demon Blood

hadn’t been a wasted trip. She’d overheard repeated mention of one demon standing in Theriault’s way, one he’d considered too powerful to take on alone: Malkvial.
    She hadn’t yet learned who Malkvial was. Rosalia didn’t know many demons by their true name, only by the human identities they used. She needed to find this one out, soon, either by listening in on Theriault or by other means.
    A soft crackle sounded in her ear, and her attention shifted. The noise indicated that Gemma had opened the microphone connecting the tiny receiver bud in Rosalia’s ear to the surveillance van outside the chateau. Rosalia couldn’t perform a psychic sweep without revealing herself to the demons, but she hadn’t gone in blind.
    Rosalia possessed her share of arrogance. But unlike some demons, she was neither careless nor stupid. At least, not most of the time.
    “Mother, infrared is picking up either Davanzati or Murnau approaching the chateau. He’s moving south across the grounds. On foot.”
    Davanzati or Murnau. Code words for vampires and nosferatu. Though the receiver’s volume was probably too low for a demon to hear unless he was standing next to her, Rosalia wouldn’t risk drawing the demons’ attention. Both demons and Guardians could hear everything said in the ballroom, but they couldn’t listen to everything. Even if whispered, however, certain words and names pierced background noise like a candle lit at midnight.
    To cover her reply, Rosalia turned as if searching the crowd. “You don’t know which it is?” she murmured.
    Both vampires and nosferatu would register a lower temperature on infrared than a human or Guardian, but nosferatu were huge. Most towered at six and a half to seven feet in height.
    “He’s tall, but I don’t think he’s tall enough for Murnau. He’s not close enough for me to be sure, though.”
    “When he is, let me know.”
    A nosferatu posed a problem. People would notice it. Enormous, with pale and hairless skin, pointed ears, and fangs twice as long as a vampire’s, nosferatu were bloodthirsty, evil creatures. Even if it dressed to pass as human—difficult beneath the bright lights in the chateau—and even if people refused to believe what they saw, its presence would stir fear and revulsion. But Rosalia doubted a nosferatu would try to blend in. If one was coming, then it was coming to kill. To protect the people here, she’d have to slay it, revealing her presence to the demons. Then she’d have to slay the demons so they couldn’t report that a Guardian had been watching them. She didn’t want to give Belial’s demons any reason to unite against the Guardians, and she’d prefer not to kill Theriault yet. No matter how little his chances of leading his brethren were, the infighting over the lieutenant’s position benefited the Guardians. Even an incompetent demon might provide a distraction for Malkvial and prevent him from quickly uniting the others.
    If a vampire was coming, though . . .
    Rosalia glanced back at the demons. Bernard and Gavel were taking their leave of Theriault, agreeing to circle among the guests. Satisfaction emanated from each. Demon business finished, now they were conducting Legion business, building human contacts.
    Perhaps one of them intended to continue demon business, though. Six months ago, Belial’s lieutenant had ordered the slaughter of Prague’s vampire community; since then, fewer vampires willingly aligned themselves with the demons. But there were still some vampires who sought either power or protection from the demons—and the demons had their own uses for vampires who were willing to break the Rules in exchange.
    The Parisian vampire community had resisted Theriault’s attempts to make an alliance, but maybe a dissenter was in their ranks. A foolish dissenter, if he’d come alone. A human crowd provided some protection if the demons turned on him, but not much.
    The soft crackle came again. “Mother, I have visual confirmation. It’s Davanzati.”
    A vampire. “Anyone I know?”
    “Yes.” The hesitation told Rosalia that Gemma was thinking of a way to describe him without saying his name. “Six months ago, he stayed one day in your bedroom and left the same night.”
    Deacon. Rosalia’s champagne flute tilted in nerveless fingers. Her breath corkscrewed painfully through her lungs. Her mind could hardly comprehend it— Deacon, here —but the ache filling her chest said her heart had already taken it