Demon Blood

slept, which made it an ideal location for vampires; its residents surrounded themselves with wealth and luxury, which made it ideal for demons. And the vampires here were the most moneyed of all the European communities, which made them ideal targets for a demon like Fournier.
    Unlike Sardis, this community leader hadn’t welcomed him in. Instead, Fournier had killed Henri David and taken over his identity.
    But the demon hadn’t been careful. Like Theriault, whose bid for leadership Fournier supported, he hadn’t taken steps to conceal his nature—and a vampire couldn’t attend a state function during the daylight hours. Recognizing David’s face in a press photo had tipped Rosalia off, and an overheard conversation with Theriault had confirmed her suspicions, sealing the demon’s fate.
    She didn’t think he’d have had long, anyway. The vampires here feared him, but their hate went deeper. They’d have either worked together to kill the demon or died trying.
    Despite that hate, however—and the likelihood that they’d heard rumors from both Budapest and Athens—the vampires hadn’t been pleased to see Deacon. They assumed he was here as Fournier’s ally, and treated him accordingly.
    A year ago, they’d have been honored to host Deacon at their table. For six decades, he’d been one of Europe’s most respected leaders—and unlike Lorenzo, he’d earned that respect rather than demanded it—but Caym had trampled that respect into garbage and Deacon had earned the reputation of a demon-loving traitor.
    A reputation that Deacon seemed to think he’d deserved.
    Now that deserved the “bullshit” Deacon so often tossed at her. He had to be the most blind and stubborn man in all of Creation, determined to see himself in the darkest light possible. He couldn’t recognize his actions in any description that contained a hint of goodness or painted any positive aspect onto his character.
    But his return to her abbey had exposed the truth: that his heart was as good as Rosalia had known. That he couldn’t turn his back when lives were threatened.
    She’d taken a risk by telling the story behind his transformation. All she’d concealed was a name—and of course he hadn’t recognized himself in that, either. But even if she’d revealed all, even if such manipulation would make him walk away, Rosalia didn’t believe he would leave until they’d seen the plan through. For now, however, she wouldn’t put him in a hurry to walk away once it was done—and she hoped by then he’d have more reasons to stay.
    A round of laughter came from within the suite, Deacon’s voice among them. Good. They’d all relaxed a bit. The demon wouldn’t know what hit him.
    It came with the shattering of glass and the sound of scattering poker chips. Rosalia’s fingers clenched, her whole being focused on the noise from within. Swords clashed.
    Fournier had managed to defend himself? Oh, no. Deacon’s advantage depended on speed and surprise. Barely realizing that she’d started forward, she stopped short at the dull thud of bone pounding into flesh. He’d used his fists? No. Oh, God, no. He’d lose every advantage in a hand-to-hand fight. She was reaching for the door when silence fell.
    Rosalia froze, wanting to scream, but she waited, trembling. A moment later, she heard Deacon’s gravelly voice.
    “He shouldn’t have cheated.”
    The vampires inside responded with laughter so giddy they reminded Rosalia of the staggering drunk woman. Relief hollowed out her chest. She put a hand to her stomach and backed away from the door.
    She heard Deacon take his leave, apologizing for the mess. Almost eagerly, the vampires assured him that the body would be taken care of.
    Of course they would. As far as these vampires were concerned, Deacon headed their community now. And even when it became clear that he didn’t intend to step into the position, no one here would forget what Deacon had done for them. Whatever his reputation had been entering the suite, he left as a leader—just as he had in Budapest and Athens.
    Deacon came into the hall, wrapping a handkerchief around a bleeding palm, an operation made awkward by the use of only one hand. His gaze found Rosalia and narrowed. “You were supposed to wait near the elevator.”
    She didn’t answer. Taking the ends of the handkerchief, she tied it tightly to stanch the wound until it sealed. Long, narrow, and deep—he’d obviously grabbed Fournier’s blade as