Demon Blood

St. Croix, the last thing you want is Guardians breathing down your neck, trying to get at the vampire who hurt a human. And they’d love to get at Deacon, wouldn’t they? But the Guardians can’t touch Vin.”
    Deacon exchanged a look with Rosalia. The faith these two young people had in them was pitiful. Rosalia rolled her eyes before turning to the other woman and holding out her hand. Gemma gave her a small receiver designed to fit over the ear. She offered another to Deacon.
    “If anyone else shows up, I’ll yell,” she said.
    They headed out. A tall, wrought-iron fence surrounded the house. Rosalia had called it a monstrosity, and Deacon had to agree with that assessment. Of black stone, it rose in a solid nightmare of Gothic architecture. Towers stabbed the night sky, and the ornamentation around every narrow window and along the roof was so heavy that the building seemed to be folding in on itself. It was nothing like the open warmth of Rosalia’s abbey.
    At the side of the property, Rosalia paused and searched the neighboring windows, as if making certain no one could see them. She wrapped her arm around Vin’s waist and they jumped over the high fence with an ease that spoke of practice.
    That kid must have had an interesting childhood.
    Deacon launched himself over and landed beside them. He took the lead, heading for the access point she’d marked above the front entrance. Columns supported the portico roof. He jumped up to the roof, landing heavily on the sloping surface. A moment later, Rosalia crouched beside him, her grip secure on Vin’s arm. Deacon found the small oval window tucked between two snarling gargoyles.
    He glanced through into an empty bedroom. Dust sheets draped the furniture. Putting his ear to the glass, he listened, but couldn’t make out movement or voices from any of the nearby rooms.
    Still, there was no reason to bring them running by shattering the window. He drew one of his swords. Irena had crafted the blade with her Gift, and after thirty years, the edge was still as sharp as a diamond-tipped razor. He etched a deep circle in the window near the frame, then thumped the heel of his hand near the cut. The circle popped out and he caught the glass before it fell.
    He slipped inside, moved quickly to the door. Rosalia came through, looking around. Her expression was both sad and wary, as if this place didn’t bring back good memories.
    It probably wouldn’t bring back good memories for anyone. Acciaioli had stuffed the rooms full of furniture, great looming pieces covered in sheets. All that white should have lightened the place, but it felt heavy and oppressive, as if one more piece would upset the balance and bury a man beneath the weight.
    This second level was clear. Quietly, Deacon used the stairs to the main floor. Muffled voices were coming from somewhere, but he couldn’t pinpoint the direction.
    A Guardian’s hearing was better than a vampire’s. Rosalia pulled up next to him, pointed at the floor. The dungeon, then. Probably constructed of thick stone, which usually conducted sound well—but if Lorenzo had used it as a real dungeon, he wouldn’t want the screaming and moaning in his living place all the time. Considering how indistinct the voices were, the stone must have been lined with insulation or wood.
    She gestured to another room—the library, where they’d find the stairs to the dungeon. Bare shelves lined the walls. Either Rosalia had sold the collection of books, or Acciaioli hadn’t been much of a reader.
    Someone had been using this room. The chair and desk had been uncovered, revealing ornate carvings in the dark wood, as overwrought as the rest of the house.
    Rosalia moved quickly to the stairwell door, calling in a second sword. Deacon heard the footsteps a second later—someone climbing the stairs. One person. Gun drawn, Vin stopped next to Rosalia, just behind her shoulder. Deacon flanked the other side of the door. When it opened, Rosalia and Vin would be behind it. Deacon would be the first person he saw.
    It was a human—St. Croix. The man’s baby blues had barely widened before Deacon’s hand closed around his throat, cutting off any call for help. Rosalia shut the door.
    To his credit, the man didn’t struggle. Vin quickly moved to Deacon’s side and patted St. Croix down, coming away with two semiautomatic pistols. Tucking them behind his waistband, he returned to the door. Rosalia moved to the opposite side. If the