Demon Blood

side. “But you don’t sleep. Why would this be close?”
    She moved back out into the corridor, opened the door opposite her bedchamber. “I’ll be in here.”
    Though the smaller chamber had the same yellow walls and slate floor, there wasn’t any room for personal touches. File cabinets and racks of equipment crowded together at one side of the room, and several computers topped one long worktable. Five TV monitors hung from the walls, running the broadcasts from five twenty-four news stations at a low volume.
    “Vincente calls it my War Room. If you want to check in on Theriault and review his tapes, the feed from Paris is there”—she pointed to a computer—“and the surveillance van feed is here.”
    She moved to another computer and clicked a few buttons. The screen filled with an infrared image of a man sleeping. Another screen lit up and revealed a thirtysomething man in a narrow space, sitting with his chair tilted back and his feet propped up. A soccer game played on a small monitor behind him.
    “That’s Vincente. Here’s the mic if something comes up and you need to be in contact with him.”
    Deacon couldn’t imagine a single reason why he would. “All right.”
    “I don’t know how long I’ll be with Taylor. The bedroom is sealed against light; even if I open the door, no sunlight will fall on the bed. You’ll be safe sleeping there.”
    She was worried about his safety? Jesus. “Michael’s dead. How in the hell can you trust me?”
    Her brows drew together, as if for a moment she didn’t know what to make of his question. “I have to,” she said finally. “I have to trust that you’re the man I think you are, rather than the one Caym forced you to be.”
    He wanted to be that, too. He didn’t know if he could.
    “Why didn’t you throw this at me?” When he saw her confusion, he clarified, “Michael’s death. You were after me to help. You didn’t bring this up?”
    “Why would I? You didn’t kill him.” Rosalia sighed and came closer, her eyes deep and unreadable. “Deacon, Belial’s lieutenant already had the information that Anaria used to make her portal to Chaos. He told you that. You were just someone to play with.”
    And Rosalia knew that because she’d been in Prague, concealed in her shadows. She’d seen that the demon’s idea of “playing” meant killing everyone—except for Deacon. The demon had hoped that Irena would be the one to slay him, so that Deacon would die at the hands of his friend.
    “He dragged you down and slaughtered everyone in your community because he could . Because that’s what demons do. He didn’t use you to help Anaria. He didn’t do it for any other reason than because it amused him, and because it was another blow to you.”
    Not just him. “And to Irena.”
    “Irena’s pain was a bonus. So was Michael. So if you’re looking for another reason why I want to kill all of Belial’s demons and take Anaria, too . . . Well, there it is. Michael is my reason. And so is everyone else who died in Anaria’s path, and in the path of Belial’s demons.”
    The Guardian healer who Anaria had killed. Vampires in San Francisco . . . and his entire community. Yeah, he could get behind that reason.
    “Maybe I’ll put that in my column, too.”
    “No.” She shook her head, smiling again and backing toward the door. “Don’t tell me now. You aren’t supposed to tell me until tomorrow.”
    Deacon watched her leave. Everything she’d said was true . . . but that still didn’t absolve him of his part in it. Grimly, he turned toward the computers.
    He’d thought he wasn’t fit to kiss her? Truth was, he wasn’t even fit to kiss her goddamn feet.

    Watching Theriault pretend to sleep from seven hundred miles away wasn’t any more interesting than standing outside the demon’s apartment and doing the same.
    Restless, Deacon left the War Room and stood overlooking the courtyard. Moonlight silvered the trees and left a sparkling trail across the surface of the pool. Both Rosalia and Taylor floated motionless beneath the water. Rosalia’s long hair billowed like a dark pillow, and she’d exchanged her robe for a pale, thin sheath, which clung to her luscious curves. When he found himself staring at the dark shape of her nipples, he went back in.
    The surveillance van’s monitor flipped on. “Mother, are you—” Vin broke off and peered at the screen. “Deacon?”
    “Yes.”
    The younger man laughed. “So she got her