Demon Blood

like he’d pounded back a fifth of vodka. Everything around him appeared slowed down, as if viewed through thick water. Climbing up the stairs was easier than walking down had been, but the disorientation wasn’t going away. He was just getting used to it.
    But he hadn’t yet gotten used to the way Rosalia’s psychic scent seemed to vibrate with musical notes and sound. Apparently, nephil blood was a drug to vampires. Not a high. Just more , like opening a conduit. It brought too much into his head, twisted the input, cluttering his senses.
    Deacon made it out of the house without making a fool of himself. By then, he’d realized why Rosalia hadn’t threatened St. Croix. The man didn’t have anything on her, and he didn’t know she wanted to keep the demons from finding out about her. Right now, she had the advantage. But once St. Croix had that knowledge, he could hold it over her head. So she’d given St. Croix just enough, and then promised more. He probably felt like he’d gained something, but he hadn’t gotten anything important out of Rosalia.
    St. Croix had been an unexpected complication, but Rosalia had effortlessly put him in a position where she maintained control. Deacon doubted the man had any idea how she’d played him. He had to admire how well she’d managed it—and he hoped to hell she never tried anything like that on him.
    Outside, the heat and humidity immediately had him sweating. He could have used another swim, and another opportunity to get his hands on Rosalia, but he didn’t think that was on the agenda.
    Vin slid open the van door, and was knocked back when Gemma launched into his arms. The woman’s eyes were puffy and wet from crying. Christ, hearing the fight with the nephil go down must have torn her raw. Deacon watched them for a moment before turning to Rosalia.
    “What’s up next?”
    “Now we listen to everything he does, and dig deeper to find out what we missed. Then we start looking for Malkvial again.” Rosalia stopped next to her son, touched Gemma’s arm. “Are you okay, mia piccola bambina ?”
    Gemma unhooked one arm from around Vin’s neck and snagged Rosalia in for a hug. “You killed it.”
    Not fast enough. Over Gemma’s shoulder, Deacon saw the loss of the two vampires reflected in Rosalia’s expression. He felt it in the deep vibration of her psychic scent.
    Since when did anyone’s emotions start sounding like that?
    Rosalia patted Gemma’s arm before pulling away and climbing into the van. “Let’s head out. We’ll drive by his hotel, and I’ll wire it before he returns.”
    “What about inside the library here?” Vin glanced back at the house.
    She narrowed her eyes at him.
    “You did it on the way out,” he guessed.
    “Clever boy.” She flicked a curl back from his forehead. “Go on in.”
    Vin headed for the driver’s seat, with Gemma next to him. Rosalia’s smile faded as soon as their backs were turned. The engine started, and she sank into a chair, let her face fall forward into her hands.
    Deacon rolled a chair next to her. He remembered the desperation in her eyes when she’d faced the nephil. The dread in her psychic scent when she’d begged him to feed from her. And the devastation upon realizing that they’d lost two more vampires.
    She looked completely alone. Probably wondering what she could have done differently, what she hadn’t seen, obsessing over the mistakes she’d made. It killed him.
    And it pissed him off.
    “Get over yourself, princess.”
    She stiffened. Her hands dropped, revealing her face. Just as he’d suspected: Her eyes were sad and tortured. She’d been beating herself up over everything that had happened since they’d stepped into that nightmare of a house.
    “So you didn’t single-handedly save everyone. So you didn’t foresee that they’d take out the nephil’s IV, or even why they’d be pumping vampire blood into someone in the first place.” He pushed closer to her, got into her face. “Who’d have thought two vampires and a human could bring down a nephil? Who?”
    “ I should have.”
    “Because you’re omnipotent fucking God?” He didn’t know whether she flinched at the words or at the hard smile he gave her. “You aren’t his bride anymore, and you’re not a saint or a miracle worker. And beating yourself up over it won’t bring them back.”
    A yellow glow lit her eyes, and she replied with controlled ferocity, “So you are the ox and I am the ass.”
    God,