Demon Blood

can’t defend yourself if you’re holding me.” As Taylor moved closer, Deacon’s muscles tensed, rigid beneath her fingers. “And I can’t fight.”
    She knew. Oh, God, how she knew. She’d taken that ability from him by deciding to fly to Monaco. She’d rendered him helpless because she’d wanted to hold onto him.
    Taylor flew past them along the plane of the wall, less than ten feet away.
    Deacon stared after her in disbelief. “She can’t hear us? Our heartbeats?”
    Rosalia shook her head again.
    “She’ll smell your blood and come for you.”
    Maybe. She had Michael’s instincts but not his knowledge. Even now, she only searched with her eyes, not her other senses.
    Still, Rosalia wasn’t taking any chances. She vanished the blood as soon as it left her body—but she couldn’t stop the scent from surrounding them. A breeze the wrong way would reveal their position, and she had to wait until the wound sealed before using her Gift to take them away. She couldn’t now. Her blood would leave a physical trail behind them.
    Taylor passed into the shadow. Her confusion swirled against Rosalia’s mind, a dark miasma of uncontrolled emotion.
    Deacon’s anger and tension increased. Though he was shielded, she could almost feel how much he hated himself for being in this position, but it was her fault. She’d chosen to travel this way, for no reason other than having an opportunity to keep him close. She hadn’t needed the cover of his scent, and the expense of a chartered plane was nothing to her. Now he couldn’t defend himself.
    She’d been just as bad as a demon: arrogant and careless. She’d taken risks she shouldn’t have. She’d had to use her Gift . . . and it was just pure luck that they were over the sea when Taylor had hit them, and no one was nearby to sense it.
    Deacon’s hand sought her ribs. When he drew his palm back, his skin was red with her blood.
    “Is this why you’re so quiet?” The gravel in his voice had roughened.
    The blade had passed through her lungs. She wouldn’t be able to talk for several minutes. Not until she healed.
    Her nod made him swear. Helpless, she stared at Taylor. Then, recalling herself, she gestured for the phone.
    Awkwardly, she moved Deacon around, holding him against her side. With one hand, she texted Vin, telling him to retreat and wait. Soon, she’d use her Gift to arrive close to Rome, but she couldn’t push into the city. She couldn’t risk the vampires panicking and killing the human if they felt her coming.
    It wouldn’t be long. Her wound would seal in another minute or two, and they’d be able to go without leaving a blood trail. Her insides wouldn’t have healed—but she didn’t need to breathe, anyway.
    She put in another message, but not to send. She showed the screen to Deacon.
    I shouldn’t have chosen flying like this. Our movements are restricted. I knew better.
    “Then why take that chance, sister?”
    His anger felt like another slice through her chest. But she’d risked his life, and he deserved an explanation, one that didn’t use an excuse like needing his scent to fool the vampires. A true explanation, with a reason that came from the heart of her.
    I wanted to hold on to you. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.
    His jaw tightened. “Fuck.”
    Her vision blurred. But she couldn’t cry, not while watching Taylor. She vanished the moisture in her eyes.
    Taylor’s sword hadn’t touched her heart. Yet it still managed to ache worse than the injury.

CHAPTER 13
    This was a first-class example of overcompensation. Here she was, beating up on herself, when he was the reason Michael was after them.
    Christ, she’d gotten a sword stabbed through her chest while protecting him. She shouldn’t be apologizing for anything.
    Rosalia looked at him. This whole time, she hadn’t opened her mouth, as if she was afraid of blood pouring out. Now she nodded, and he realized the scent of blood that had surrounded them had faded. Her wound had healed—at least on the surface.
    The shadowy veil around them thickened into an impenetrable darkness. He couldn’t see her—couldn’t see anything. Then it pulled out from around him, like coming out of a sticky vat of tar. His stomach dropped in a brief sensation of free fall, then her wings pumped and water rushed into the shoreline beneath him. Then they were over land—fields and groves and communities passing in a blur.
    Christ. He hadn’t known how fast she could fly when