Demon Blood

like a bone-tired traveler. Rosalia caught Deacon’s wrist before he could reach for his sword.
    The detective’s weary gaze sought Rosalia. Her voice was her own, feminine—and she spoke in English. “I didn’t come when you wanted me to.”
    “It’s all right, Taylor. We made it there.”
    To Athens? Rosalia had planned to let this woman teleport them to Greece?
    She didn’t look possessed now, though. Just lost.
    Taylor rubbed her hand over her face. “I feel like I should be tired. But I’m not. I want to sleep. But I can’t.”
    “No. We can’t sleep.” Rosalia’s voice had deepened in sympathy. “Meditating helps, though. Do you know how to drift?”
    “The others have tried with me. But Michael’s never gone.” She touched her fingers to her forehead. “And I can’t push him out.”
    “Well, we’ll try anyway. And maybe it will work both ways, and offer him some peace, too.”
    Peace? For what? Deacon looked to Rosalia. “What happened to Michael?”
    Rosalia hesitated. Not just reluctant to say it, he realized. Reluctant to say it to him . What was it, top secret Guardian info?
    That was fair. But considering that the man kept trying to kill him, Deacon should probably know what to expect. “What happened?”
    Rosalia took a deep breath. “He’s dead.”
    Dead? Christ, no wonder Rosalia was so hell-bent on her plan, then. Without Michael, the Guardians were practically sitting ducks for any force of demons . . . or just a few nephilim.
    “Worse,” Taylor said. Her gaze settled on Deacon and didn’t waver. “He’s in Hell, in the frozen field. Anaria accessed Chaos, thanks to info you gave Caym. She made a spell that would have opened a portal between the realms. To close it, Michael sacrificed himself . . . and tied himself to me.”
    Was this true? Deacon looked at Rosalia. She gave a small nod. So Michael wasn’t just dead, he was being tortured for eternity —and Deacon was partly responsible.
    It had been some time since he’d felt this low.
    And he sunk lower when Taylor said, “And the vampire that you created for Caym killed me. That’s how I ended up a Guardian.”
    So that was why she kept jumping into his rooms, hoping to slay him. Deacon had no words. Explaining wouldn’t make a difference. I needed to save my community. That only mattered to him—and he couldn’t say he wouldn’t have done it again, or taken another route. He’d sacrificed everything to save them, and that was a reason he could never regret.
    But he could regret the fallout, and the innocents caught.
    He looked Taylor square on. “I’m sorry.”
    She nodded. “Me, too.”
    He glanced at Rosalia and searched for something to say. She turned away from him. “Come with me. I might be with Taylor beyond sunrise, so we’ll get you settled in first.”
    After retrieving the bag he’d left by the entrance of the abbey, he followed her up the stairs to the second level. She turned into a corridor, where a heavy door opened into a long, high-ceilinged chamber. He recognized this room. He’d woken up here sixth months ago, but he hadn’t noticed then the personal touches. Propped on a nightstand, a dark-haired boy smiled out of a silver frame. Books lined a recessed shelf in the warm yellow walls. At the far end of the chamber, cream marble tiles and half-melted candles surrounded a tub; pink and white bottles filled the corner niche in an open shower. In the sitting area, a delicate vase holding red roses adorned a carved wooden table. And the art . . . He’d expected pastorals and landscapes, but it was modern, all angles and bright colors.
    Recognizing one of Eva’s paintings was like a punch to the gut. He walked over to the canvas—had to touch it, feel the rough strokes beneath his fingers.
    When he turned, Rosalia was standing beside the bed, stripping back the sheets. A faint blush warmed her cheeks.
    “They’re clean, but I don’t air them enough. So they’ve become stale,” she explained, moving to a wardrobe and reaching in for a new set of linens.
    “I don’t care.”
    She smiled and returned to the bed. “I do.”
    He couldn’t argue with that. “This is your room.” He said it as flatly as possible. He wasn’t making assumptions. Not about her, not anymore.
    “Yes.” In the space of a breath, she’d changed the sheets and replaced the bedding, then glanced up at him. “With Taylor here, I want you as close as possible.”
    So she knew about Taylor’s darker