Demon Blood

our cohabitation as children. Father Wojcinski would not approve.”
    Rosalia laughed and squeezed her softly. Lord, but she loved this woman.
    Gemma raised her hand to cover a yawn before asking, “Vin must still be out?”
    It wasn’t really a question. They both knew that if he hadn’t been, he’d be in here with her—Father Wojcinski or not. “Yes. He says that the late nights will be good training for when the baby comes.”
    “And I’ve told him that since you don’t sleep, that makes you the perfect babysitter.” The laughter left her voice. “He says it’s not a good idea to ask, though. Why is he such a stubborn ass?”
    Now Rosalia’s eyes did fill. Sometimes, he really was a sweet boy. “Gemma . . . I can’t.”
    “You’ll be busy, but—”
    “No, it is not that. I cannot hold the baby unless she is sleeping. If she pushes at me, or tries to get away . . . even a baby’s free will must be honored. Toddlers are impossible. They always want down, even when it is not safe for them. If I want to remain a Guardian . . . when a child pushes me away, the only time to hold him is while he sleeps.”
    Gemma lay quietly as she absorbed that. Then sadness and understanding filled her psychic scent. “Oh, Rosa.”
    “I cannot regret a moment of it, Gemma. So do not be sorry on my behalf. Just hold your baby and Vincente tight, and celebrate that you can hold them. Yes?”
    “Yes.” Gemma’s nod was followed by a quick look over her shoulder. “Did Vin know that you couldn’t restrain him?”
    “Yes.”
    “No wonder he was the most spoiled kid I knew.” Gemma rested her head on the pillow again.
    Rosalia smiled into her hair. “Yes, he was.”

    His sweet, beautiful princess mama.
    Deacon would have agreed with most of that. But the last bit rattled him, like a right hook he hadn’t seen coming. And not just a mother, but one whose relationship with her adult son sounded strained at best.
    What was wrong with that kid?
    He wouldn’t find out by continuing to eavesdrop. They hadn’t spoken in a while, and he’d prowled through every courtyard path and open room by the time he heard quiet movement from upstairs. Stopping by the fountain, he glanced up. Rosalia closed the bedroom door behind her, quickly found him below, and vaulted over the balustrade. Her wings appeared, spreading wide. She caught air and drifted to his side, the bottom of her silk robe splitting open to flutter like another pair of wings and offering a glimpse of her inner thighs.
    A glimpse. He could probably count himself lucky to get that. Christ, what a bastard he’d been. Barely fit to look at her, let alone kiss her.
    Yet he knew that was one of the reasons why he’d come back.
    She landed lightly beside him. He’d expected wariness, uncertainty—at least defensiveness, considering that he’d just overheard an intimate conversation—but she simply smiled at him before sitting on the bench facing the fountain.
    Gardening, swimming, slaying demons. On that short list of pleasures, the last was the only one she wouldn’t find in this flourishing paradise. He’d never seen so many flowers open at night, small explosions of red, purple, and orange. Planted for the vampires who’d once lived here, he thought—or because a Guardian didn’t sleep either night or day.
    He sat next to her, and he felt the brush of her wing against his back before she vanished them. When she half turned toward him, he said, “So I guess I got a jump on tomorrow, and heard another reason.”
    “You did. And Gemma . . .” She trailed off as her gaze fastened on his neck. Her brow pleated, and a moment later her fingers were on his collar, tucking and smoothing. She continued, “Her nightmares haven’t stopped. This was worse than it has been, though. Perhaps hearing of London has brought it back to her. And although slaying the nephilim will not undo what has been done . . . I would like to tell her they are dead.”
    With a final pat, she finished straightening him up, but didn’t remove her hands. Her eyes rose to his. Her lips parted . . . and formed two unmistakable silent words.
    Don’t move.
    He heard it then, over the splashing of the fountain: another heartbeat. Despite Rosalia’s warning, he couldn’t sit still with a threat behind him. He turned.
    The woman—the red-haired detective. Her eyes were blue instead of completely black, and she was sitting . . . just sitting on the flagstone path a few meters away,