Demon Blood

examine and re-examine her plan.
    For today, she wanted to do it here.

CHAPTER 11
    Sunset brought Deacon hard out of dreams. He jacked up to sitting, facing unfamiliar walls, his mind still awash in pain and blood. He fought to orient himself.
    Rome. Rosalia’s abbey. Her bed.
    Jesus.
    He threw back sweat-dampened sheets and headed for the shower. Cranking the knob all the way left, Deacon stepped under scalding water. He gritted his teeth and bore it until the rage and pain faded.
    He’d be killing a demon tonight. That would help, too. But for the first time six months, it wasn’t his only reason for getting up.
    He hadn’t been going after Belial’s demons because it’d been the right thing to do—it’d been the only thing to do. It couldn’t bring him peace. It couldn’t bring his community back. It just made living with himself easier.
    But thanks to Rosalia, he had a new reason for taking down Belial’s demons and the nephilim. Pursuing Belial’s demons could be something useful, something for his community: a vow that they’d be the last. Never again would a city of vampires be slaughtered by demons or nephilim.
    He’d still take a hell of a lot of satisfaction by slaying them along the way.
    The water cooled, the heater tank running low. Deacon lathered up. The pink soap smelled like Rosalia, flowery and delicate. His bloodlust stirred, and he soothed his fangs with his tongue to stave off the insistent hunger. But even after rinsing, her scent remained all over his skin like she’d spent the day wrapped around him.
    He wouldn’t be kicking her out of bed if she did.
    And that was the goddamn understatement of the century. Christ. She hadn’t even pulled his strings and he’d come running after her—which just showed how much of a glutton he was for pain. Even if Rosalia was interested in burning up a few sheets, eventually she wouldn’t need his help, and he’d have to move on. And in less than a week, she already had a few hooks in him.
    He’d loved Eva and Petra, loved them deep—but the hooks they’d had felt different. From their first meeting, he’d liked the two women, and that had grown into affection and a sixty-year friendship. But something else was going on with Rosalia. Even resisting everything he liked about her, she hit him gut-level. She had from the day they’d met. And he wasn’t looking forward to knowing what her hooks would feel like if they went deep, because he’d be ripping them out when he left.
    Problem was, even knowing what he’d be in for, he’d take any opportunity she gave him. And, hell—maybe he deserved having his heart torn out.
    He grabbed a towel. His bag had been moved from where he’d dropped it beside the bed that morning. He glanced around, hoping he wouldn’t have to track down Rosalia in his shorts, asking where she’d put it. As hungry as he was, the bloodlust would grab hold of his cock the moment he saw her, and she’d get an eyeful in return.
    A second later, he found his clothes piled neatly on the bench at the end of the bed, cleaned and pressed—just as Eva and Petra once had done. Grief hit him out of nowhere. He sat, their absence a dark, yawning hole in his chest.
    God, he missed them.
    And they’d be so fucking pissed at him. Not for taking revenge, that selfish route—but for being a first-class asshole while going about it. A man could be hard, and he could be ruthless. Leading a community of vampires sometimes called for both, and they’d accepted that in him. Then there was just being an out-and-out bastard. They wouldn’t have stood for that.
    He had to do better. He had to be better.
    Resolved, he stood and dressed. When he opened the bedroom door, the ringing clash of metal drew him to the walkway overlooking the courtyard.
    Wearing black shirt and trousers, with boots propped by high heels that shouldn’t have been anywhere near the soft earth in the garden, Rosalia crossed swords with a tall woman in white fencer’s regalia. Gemma, Deacon guessed, though he couldn’t see her face behind the mesh mask. Both women used the hedges and fountains as obstacles, leaping after each other, and exchanging a flurry of steel when cornered.
    He recognized Vin sitting at a small table near the courtyard’s edge, watching the women. Deacon moved down the stairs and joined him.
    When the man stuck out his hand, Deacon shook it. “She’s going to break her ankle.”
    Vin grinned. “Father Wojcinski used to caution