Demon Blood

him?”
    “London.”
    They’d brought him from London in those restraints? “When?”
    “Monday.”
    The day after the nephilim had slain the community elders. “Why bring him here?”
    He glanced at the dank cell, his expression tightening. “I’d heard the dungeon was built to hold a demon.”
    No, Lorenzo had built it to hold a Guardian. But the cell probably could have contained a demon for a short time—or a Guardian whose Gift hadn’t allowed her to escape. “You heard that from whom?”
    “Gerry.”
    She could accept that. A vampire might have known about the dungeon. Lorenzo hadn’t kept it a secret. “How did you gain access to the house?”
    He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. “How did you?” he countered.
    Slowly losing patience, Rosalia thought. Though he’d been going along with her questions, she had the impression that he didn’t usually roll over this easily—and that the only reason he answered her was because it would eventually benefit him.
    The cold intelligence in his eyes reminded her too much of her father, as if he was constantly judging how useful someone could be. After only a few minutes in his presence, she would have been certain he was Malkvial if she hadn’t already known he was human.
    She briefly considered whether a human could masquerade as a demon, and rejected the possibility. Demons did not respect humans; they would never follow one, and they wouldn’t be fooled by one.
    And St. Croix wasn’t quite as slick as a demon. His London accent held more river than estate, something no demon would ever allow. And if he hadn’t been trying to conceal the rougher edges of his emotions, she would have wondered whether they were a mask he put on to appear more human. Instead, she thought those rough edges were something he hadn’t yet filed down—but he’d been trying.
    She didn’t like him. But he had felt something for these vampires, be it friendship or a deeper affection. For that, she could give him something back.
    “You’ll find a broken window upstairs,” she told him.
    His brows lifted. He seemed surprised that she answered. Then he nodded and said, “I own the building.”
    As soon as he made the claim, Gemma spoke up. “It’s true, Mother. I’ve just confirmed that Willingham Cross Properties belongs to him.”
    All right. But why buy it? “Did you need a house where you can lock up a demon, Mr. St. Croix?”
    For an instant, his gaze was no longer calculating, but pure ice. “Yes.”
    “Were you looking for any demon? Or did you just want to keep this one?”
    There, she hit a wall. She’d gotten close to something he didn’t want to answer. There was a subtle shift of his expression, a suggestion of humor and warmth. And that , Rosalia recognized, was his mask.
    His gaze slowly traveled the length of her, his interest palpable. Wondering if he could seduce her to get what he wanted? She suspected it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done so to a woman. “Maybe I’ll keep you.”
    She supposed he was incredibly handsome—for a human snake. “I don’t think so, Mr. St. Croix.”
    “Then tell me what you are.” His focus settled on her mouth. “You have no fangs, and so you aren’t a vampire. How can I be certain you aren’t a demon? You move quickly enough to be one.”
    “I could tell you, but if I am a demon, you would be foolish to believe me.” Rosalia smiled, though she had to acknowledge the problem: St. Croix had seen her. He knew she wasn’t human. And with the wrong word, he could reveal her to the demons at Legion and ruin everything. Which meant she needed to keep him close and slowly dole out information so that he wouldn’t go elsewhere to find it. “Now is not the time for telling you what I am, for there is too much to explain. Tonight, you have friends who need to be taken care of.”
    He glanced down at the bodies again and nodded. His hand rose, as if intended to push it through his hair again, but this time he noted the blood on his fingers. His eyes cooled, losing the warmth—his anger and grief ripping away the mask again, but now joined by the icy touch of hate.
    She would have wagered the demon he’d intended the cell for was a very specific one, indeed.
    Vin’s quick tread descended the stairs, and he was followed by a slower, heavier step. Rosalia frowned and listened more closely. Deacon’s gait wasn’t hesitant . . . not exactly. And he wasn’t limping. But it sounded as if he was