Demon Blood

years, orange plaster over stone, an old warm sanctuary amid the newer construction that came and went. Once surrounded by an orchard, now only a small fenced garden overgrown with roses separated her walls from her neighbors’.
    She didn’t mind. The abbey’s heart had never resided in its stone walls.
    Deceptively large from the outside, the building didn’t hold nearly as many rooms as its dimensions suggested. An enormous courtyard relegated the living spaces to a narrow string of rooms along the walls, and many of the bedchambers were accessible only from its paths. It was where the family had met, fought, trained, and talked. Abundant with life; with gardens planted for consumption and for beauty; cypresses; fig and orange trees, the courtyard formed the abbey’s center in a sense that went far beyond the physical.
    Rosalia flew directly to Gemma’s room, landing on the gallery that overlooked the courtyard and served as the walkway connecting all of the second-floor chambers. Beyond the door, the young woman slept. Vanishing her wings, Rosalia continued to her own chambers, two rooms separated by a corridor leading from the gallery. After checking in with Vin, she returned outside.
    The roses had folded for the night, but the jasmine had bloomed and filled the air with its heady fragrance. The birds rested quietly in the trees, and the tinkling of the fountain was the only sound in the still air.
    Fifteen years ago, she’d had a lap pool installed at the end of the courtyard. The scent of chlorine sometimes overpowered the flowers’ perfumes, but Rosalia had never regretted the change.
    She stripped off and dove in. Though she could swim at extraordinary speeds, she sought only a methodical rhythm: twenty strokes, and turn. She’d have liked to work herself into exhaustion, but Guardians couldn’t tire. Peace couldn’t be found in sleep. Only the rhythm.
    Once she found it, she turned her mind to the daunting task she faced. Of all the vampires she trusted, Camille was the only one who might pull off such a scheme. But Rosalia knew Yves too well. He was a good man, but he’d make a mistake.
    And Malkvial would have no reason to believe Camille, anyway.
    She pushed away the despair, the doubt. There had to be some way. But she still hadn’t thought of one two hours later, when a knock at the front door pulled her out of the water.
    She climbed from the pool, wondering if she’d been mistaken. Shaking the water out of her hair and slipping a silk robe on over her naked form, she listened—and the knock came again.
    At three thirty in the morning? That didn’t bode well.
    Typically, she used a psychic probe to discover the identity of the caller. But there was another way, just as simple. She brought in a crossbow from her cache. Forming her wings, she flew up to the roof, where the bell tower at the corner provided cover and offered a view of the door.
    Deacon.
    Her heart thudded. Her mind raced while she decided what to do. She hadn’t thought he’d come here.
    Why had he come here?
    His fist rose to the door, but he paused before knocking again. As if he’d heard her, his gaze swept her direction, found her atop the roof. He stepped toward her.
    Defensive mode kicked in. She fired the crossbow. The bolt stabbed the ground in front of his boot. He froze.
    “I can hear you from here. Just say what you’ve got to say, then leave.”
    He lifted his hands, as if in surrender. “I’m sorry.”
    “I’ve already accepted your apology.”
    “No. I never had time to give it.”
    “Well. Now you have.” She turned to go, but paused when he said—
    “Yves will fuck it up.”
    God. He could already see where she would go next, the best course of action? “You’ve stated, very clearly, that you don’t care.”
    “Then tell me why I should. Tomorrow.”
    Her eyes narrowed. “What?”
    “Tell me when we go hunting another demon tomorrow. Tell me another reason why I should care. And if I don’t, there’s the next day, and the next demon. I know you’ve got one lined up.”
    Rosalia sank to her heels. “Are you offering to help me?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    His slow smile caught her off guard, and her heart thudded again. “I’ll give you a reason tomorrow, too. But tonight, it’s because I was a complete bastard, and I’m sor—”
    A scream split the air—from inside the abbey. Oh, Lord. Gemma.
    Rosalia dove from the roof and hit the ground running. Across the courtyard, she