Demon Forged

never thought you and the Guardian that SI sent to Rome would survive the catacombs, and that the Guardians’ search for the nosferatu would provide a distraction while Mr. Lukacs carried out his task.”
    The demon might as well have slid a knife between his ribs. Stafford hadn’t thought he’d get out of the catacombs? That meant the demon had never intended to let Eva and Petra go, or to let his community live. The pain of that failure almost brought him to his knees.
    Don’t show it. Maybe the demon could read him, but Deacon would be damned if he’d give the fucker one visible sign of his misery. “What a shame, then, that Irena killed your nosferatu.”
    “A shame?” Stafford leaned forward, and every word was a twist of the knife. “Dead nosferatu or dead Guardian—both outcomes are equally enjoyable. As was the entertaining diversion you provided holding up your side of your agreement with Caym. But no, Mr. Deacon—I did not need you even then. You told us nothing that I didn’t already know about Ames-Beaumont, and the one piece of information I didn’t have—where to find Irena—resulted in failure. The only thing that you have ever been useful for is transforming Mr. Lukacs.”
    And then Deacon was dead. Yet Eva had been alive only a day ago, when he’d received her picture. Somewhere, she and Petra waited for him.
    But even if he discovered where “somewhere” was, he couldn’t let the demons leave here alive—Deacon would never win in a race against them. Once Stafford and Caym were dead, Deacon would have time to search for the women.
    He needed to buy some time here first, however, so that he could figure out how to do the impossible.
    “All right. I’ll do it.” He nodded toward Lukacs. “But you’ve got to bleed out first. I’m not drinking from you.”
    “My cancer won’t—”
    “No shit. But I don’t want to fuck you. So open your vein, and when you’re down to nothing, I’ll give you mine.”
    Lukacs nodded, his face tense. Caym passed him a dagger, and the human sliced it over his wrist.
    Deacon stopped breathing so that he wouldn’t inhale the rich fragrance. The bloodlust didn’t differentiate between the blood of a murderer and the blood of a newborn baby; it all smelled good to a vampire.
    Lukacs had cut deep, was bleeding fast, but a human body carried a lot of blood. Deacon had a few minutes now.
    As if bored, he leaned his shoulder against the wall and scanned the apartment, searching for inspiration. He couldn’t make a stand out here. This room was too open; Stafford and Caym could come at him from too many directions. The front door offered escape, but it wouldn’t lead to Eva and Petra. Deacon glanced toward the southeast corner of the apartment, where Eva had set up her studio. The screened partitions she’d used to divide the area from the living room offered no protection, but the exterior walls were stone; he could get his back against one and still have room to move, to fight.
    More room than he remembered. His eyes narrowed. The shadows seemed deeper behind the screens, as if the studio extended farther back than the building’s walls did. And even to his vision, the shadows looked dark , almost like . . .
    Oh, Jesus. His heart pumped faster. He fought a sick sense of unreality. Was Rosalia here? Or was it just wishful thinking? He hadn’t felt her Gift—but then, he hadn’t felt it outside the SI warehouse the first time, either. Not until she’d come out of the shadows.
    But if she was here, he didn’t want to alert the demons to her presence. He forced his gaze to move on.
    Stafford rose from the sofa. Deacon tried not to tense as the demon walked over to him. He failed.
    The demon managed to give a good impression of sympathy. “I understand what you’re feeling, Mr. Deacon. Truly, I do.”
    “Fuck off.”
    Stafford breathed a disappointed sigh. He turned and pressed his back against the wall in front of Deacon, and slipped his hands into his pockets.
    “I do know,” the demon insisted on continuing, so Deacon prepared himself for that blade to screw deep. “I know what it is to do anything for the one you love. You betray your friends and your brethren. Your liege. All so that you can lift her to the throne where she belongs and stand beside her. And I know what it is to pray that she thinks well of you.”
    Wherever Stafford had been trying to stick that knife, he’d missed. Deacon didn’t feel anything but sick that this