Demon Blood

abbey. So I’ve taken over the van until you return. . . .” He frowned and peered more closely at the screen. The indifferent mask she was so accustomed to him wearing cracked. Concern bled through. “Mama, are you all right?”
    Oh, curses. Her lipstick and heavy eyeliner had suffered though kisses and tears. She must appear horrid. “Oh, that.” She vanished the makeup, gave a soft smile. “I’m fine.”
    He stared doubtfully at the screen for a few more seconds. “All right. I just wanted to ask you to check in on Gemma if you return to the abbey.”
    That hadn’t been what he’d intended to ask. “You be with Gemma. I’ll take over surveillance.”
    “No can do, Mama. After we visited Father Wojcinski, Gemma got it in her head that there will be no more cohabitation until the wedding.” He shrugged. “Anyway, putting in a late night will be good practice for after the baby comes.”
    “Vin—”
    “I’ve got a game up on the other monitor. You can keep an eye on me and on the Paris feed in your War Room. And you can take a few hours, take a swim.”
    “Thank you, Vincente.” Fearing that the tears were coming again, she moved on. “What of your surveillance?”
    “He’s sleeping. Or pretending to.”
    It had just passed midnight in Rome. A reasonable time for a human to go to bed . . . or a demon who needed to pretend for the benefit of a human.
    “Is he alone?”
    “Yes.”
    Odd. Then either St. Croix wasn’t a demon, or he was very careful about appearances—just as she suspected Malkvial might be. “All right. I’m en route now. I should arrive in another hour.”
    “Give me a buzz to let me know you got in all right.”
    Sweet boy. She disconnected and called the charter service. A few minutes later, it was settled: Deacon would soon be on his way to Paris, and she was heading for Rome.
    Maybe it was better this way.

    So, that was that. No Guardian using him anymore. He’d known all he had to do was be an uncivil bastard and she’d stop hounding him.
    He should have done it before driving away became so fucking hard.
    As she’d promised, the plane was waiting for him. So it was back to Paris. Back to what he’d been doing: stalking Theriault, and slaying him. And if slaying Theriault messed up Rosalia’s game plan, she’d come up with another. She had to, anyway.
    But he couldn’t stop staring at the empty seat next to him. She should be there, all curled up in that ridiculous pose. She was done with him, but so what? That didn’t mean she had to get back home under her own power.
    Too late now. She’d called ahead to the plane, but he didn’t have her number. He couldn’t tell her to get over herself. So he’d been a bastard. She could still catch a ride and . . . kiss him so sweetly.
    Because she’d wanted to kiss him.
    Christ. He still couldn’t believe that, but it didn’t matter anyway: She wouldn’t want to kiss him again. He’d made sure of that, hadn’t he?
    Fuck. Fuck.
    He had Camille’s number. If anyone could help Rosalia, it’d be Camille. A strong vampire—though not as strong as Deacon, now that he’d taken the nosferatu blood, but Camille’s skills made up for that. She’d taught him everything he knew that didn’t involve punching a man.
    Yves, though. He was used to Camille manipulating him from behind, but if she came out in front? There was no telling if Yves could handle that. He might accidentally expose both Camille and Rosalia, and send demons running after them both. If Rosalia ended up in the path of demons, she could probably handle that. But she was worried about the nephilim—and their mother, Anaria.
    Anaria, who had torn through the Guardians’ warehouse, and they’d been unable to defend themselves against her.
    Rosalia wouldn’t stand a chance against Anaria.
    And Yves, the little prick, would fuck it all up. Or Camille would, if she and Rosalia didn’t hit it off. Rosalia would have to start over. Again. Probably with some vampire who couldn’t hold a sword. Someone who would ruin the perfect setups she gave him.
    Hell, even resenting how she’d overrun him, Deacon recognized how perfectly she’d arranged the two kills he’d made. The demons had practically cut off their own heads.
    He looked out at the runway. It was an easy decision, to do nothing. To go where he’d intended. He just had to . . . do nothing.
    Shit.

    Situated near the old walls of the city, the abbey had stood unchanging for hundreds of