Demon Blood

himself. The creature liked to toy with his prey. Fine.
    Anything that gave them a little more time.
    The nephil’s swords sliced the air. Deacon felt his skin open, the slide of his blood. The blades had been so sharp and quick he hadn’t felt any pain. Not yet.
    Rosalia cried out. She’d staggered to her feet. The nephil drew his hand back—he wasn’t fucking around with Deacon anymore. Not with a Guardian headed his way. The nephil stabbed his blade toward Deacon’s heart.
    At the last moment, Deacon pivoted to the side. The nephil’s sword sliced deeply across his chest.
    Vin’s hand closed around the creature’s crimson wrist.
    The nephil froze. They only had an instant. That was enough.
    Deacon brought his sword around, up through the nephil’s heart. Rosalia leapt, striking the back of its neck. The nephil’s head flew. Rosalia whipped around. Her boot smashed into its chest, sending the body flying back to crack against the wall.
    Deacon’s senses swam, the room spinning dizzily. His legs wouldn’t hold. He sat before he collapsed into a heap.
    Rosalia dropped to her knees beside him. She held her arm at an awkward angle, her gut still bleeding.
    Her face blurred in front of him. His head felt light, empty. He looked down. Oh, Christ. He’d been butchered. His blood was everywhere, pumping from gashes in his chest, his thighs. The nephil had sliced his arteries open—not in one place, but several. His blood pooled on the parquet floor, spreading slowly outward, almost touching Rosalia’s knees.
    Bleeding out weakened a vampire, slowed the healing—and if Deacon lost all of his blood, it’d kill him. He needed to feed, and soon.
    Vin crouched next to Rosalia, his hand gently cupping her face. “Mama?”
    She held his palm to her cheek, then glanced over her shoulder. Deacon couldn’t read the look she gave her son, but Vin apparently did. He nodded and stood.
    The softness left his face as he turned toward St. Croix. “Let’s check on your people.”
    They’d heard only one scream. Maybe the other vampire had made it.
    Deacon didn’t think there was much hope of that.
    Rosalia watched Vin escort St. Croix to the stairs. As soon as her son was out of sight, she clenched her teeth and gripped the wrist of her twisted arm in her opposite hand. She yanked it straight, then curled over, as if stifling a scream. She sat motionless for a few moments, her good arm wrapped around herself, before looking up and meeting Deacon’s eyes.
    Her gaze turned to worry. Reaching out to him, she touched his neck, where two more cuts spilled blood onto the floor. The slices had been long and deep, and he wasn’t healing fast enough.
    A plastic bag appeared in her hand—empty. She wouldn’t receive more blood until tomorrow, he remembered. The scent rose all around them, dark and luscious. He stopped breathing.
    Determination set her face. She pointed to her neck.
    Deacon laughed, though he could barely manage it. His vow not to drink from her wasn’t so easy to keep now. “No chance, sister.”
    His voice sounded wet. He felt blood dripping down the back of his throat and coughed it up.
    Her expression turned fierce. Grabbing his shirt, she hauled him closer.
    He pulled back. Drinking from her was a risk he wouldn’t take. When he was this hungry, when he needed to feed this badly, the bloodlust would roar. One taste, and he’d lose control, fucking her in a lake of their blood. She’d have to fight him off with a broken arm and her gut split open.
    He didn’t need living blood for strength. Any blood would do. So he had two choices: lick it up from the floor, or drink from the dead nephil.
    At least the nephil was still warm.
    “Not from you,” he told her.
    Her hand dropped away. Her expression registered disbelief as he turned toward the nephil. A worried noise sounded from high in her throat.
    He paused. A vampire’s blood weakened a nephil. Would a nephil’s blood harm a vampire? “Will it kill me?”
    She lifted her hand, a clear gesture saying she didn’t know, before pointing at her neck again. Her eyes pled with him.
    He’d had nosferatu blood before, and he’d taken demon blood. Neither had hurt. One had made him stronger. And even if the nephil blood did kill him, the alternative was unthinkable. Just the image of an injured Rosalia struggling under him while he was an animal at her throat, forcing her thighs open and stabbing into her . . .
    He shook the image away, feeling