Demon Blood

Poor Rosalia. Just bad fucking luck.
    “So if I find the nephil who took the blood, I can stop this.”
    “I’ve already said you don’t.”
    “Okay, humor me. What happens if I do, and we slay him?” It wouldn’t be Taylor. Maybe another Guardian could. Another three or four Guardians.
    “Then they will likely choose another community—and the more vampires, the better. One will kill that community leader, and it would begin again.”
    “But it would buy time.”
    “Perhaps. I do not see that. But perhaps it will change.” She held up a potato, put it in the bag.
    All right. Taylor couldn’t stand it. “What are you doing with those?”
    “I intend to teach Lyta to juggle. Potatoes now, demon heads later.”
    Lyta, Khavi’s hellhound who always remained in Caelum—thank God. Taylor could manage to be around Sir Pup, another hellhound who was often at Special Investigations, because he so often shape-shifted into a Labrador’s form . . . albeit a three-headed one. But Lyta remained in her demonic form, standing taller than Taylor did, peering out from glowing crimson eyes, her scaly hide covered with poison-tipped barbs and sparse black fur, three jaws full of giant serrated teeth. Taylor couldn’t help it; that hellhound scared the shit out of her.
    “You will have to face that fear soon,” Khavi said.
    Yeah? Taylor preferred to put it off. But at least she could lie to this grigori. “I’ll go see her as soon as she’s juggling.” She glanced at the two piles. “What’s the difference?”
    Khavi picked up one from the pile on the left. “These reminded me of demon heads.”
    Oooooo kay . “The shape?”
    Khavi gave her a strange glance, as if wondering whether Taylor was blind and/or stupid. “No,” she said, and squeezed the spud. The potato exploded into a pulpy mess, dripping over her fingers, clumping on the table. “You see? Just the same.”
    Taylor laughed, and faintly, thought she heard Michael laughing, too. Then the darkness abruptly swept up and grabbed hold of her, and yanked her away.

    Watching Deacon approach an unwary demon in Budapest had been difficult. Knowing that he’d been alone in the room with Valeotes had been worse, but Sardis’s attack hadn’t let Rosalia focus on her fear. Now she knew what it was to wait outside a hotel suite while Deacon talked his way into a seat at a poker table surrounded by six hostile vampires and one suspicious demon.
    Terror had her by the throat.
    She’d wanted to go in with him, but he’d insisted her presence would make getting to the demon more difficult, and Rosalia went along with it. She’d brought him, but the task of killing the demons fell on his shoulders, and she had to let him take the lead. This had been why she’d needed him—one reason among many. He could think on his feet, and knowing his own strengths, find the best way to slay the demon. Deacon didn’t need her to hold his hand, guide him through every step. He just needed to see the demon in front of him. And so she was left outside, seeing neither of them, only listening.
    She paced in the thickly carpeted hallway, her arms crossed over her chest, holding herself back. Deacon would draw his sword soon, surely. Would she hear it over the pounding of her heart? If he needed help, would he call for her?
    She knew he wouldn’t.
    Fear began to ratchet into panic, nerves stretched to breaking. Oh, Lord, she couldn’t do this again. She’d find a way to go in with him.
    Only . . . she couldn’t. When the endgame with Malkvial came, Deacon had to go in alone. So she had to become accustomed to this terror now.
    She didn’t know if she ever could.
    An alert from her phone startled her. Her heart stuttered, then resumed its quick beat as she read the text message from Vincente.
    Target on the move. Will update our location when he stops.
    She replied, then held on to her phone, re-reading the message. Deacon, her son, the woman who would be her daughter, their unborn child. She’d pulled them all into this with her, risked their lives, too. She closed her eyes.
    Dear God, keep them safe.
    Of course, that was what He’d made her for. When she opened her eyes, her heartbeat had settled.
    Farther down the hallway, the elevator dinged. Wearing sequins and a tuxedo, a middle-aged couple exited, clinging drunkenly to each other as they lurched toward their room. The woman giggled uncontrollably. Diamonds dripped from her ears and throat.
    Monte Carlo never