Free Demon Blood by Meljean Brook Page A

imagining feeding from one seemed to make the air around Deacon heavier, weighing him down. Fuck. He didn’t want to play that game tonight. He didn’t want to get into another stranger’s body—or her head. But without blood, he hadn’t a chance in hell of beating Theriault. If the opportunity arose. Three days had passed since the gala at the chateau. In the previous two nights, the demon hadn’t spent a single moment traveling or alone, and Deacon pissed away time and money while waiting for an opening.
    And he spent far too much time watching the shadows. Wondering if Rosalia was still in the city. Planning how to get rid of her if she stuck her do-gooding nose in his face again.
    Reminding himself that sucking her dry wasn’t part of that plan.
    The assholes tracking him were all but asking for it, though. He glanced back along the narrow street. No vampires in sight, but he knew they were near. They’d done a shit job of blocking their psychic scents. Even if Deacon’s mind hadn’t been stronger than theirs, he’d have felt their contempt. Their anticipation.
    Looking for a fight, were they? He’d give them one—
    Deacon stopped mid-turn. He’d curled his hands into fists. He forced them to open.
    Fighting would call attention to him. It didn’t matter if that attention came from demons, Guardians, or his own kind. Once he drew notice, he’d have to abandon the city, leaving Theriault for later. Teaching a few pissant vampires a lesson wasn’t worth it. They’d obviously recognized him, but if he got off their radar, they’d move on.
    A hotel sat at the end of the street. Constructed with a white stone block façade and large enough to employ several uniformed doormen, it housed a restaurant along with a bar. Deacon battled the temptation to wait near the entrance long enough to catch a look at the vampires’ faces. Teeth clenched, he went inside.
    He wasn’t hiding. Just avoiding a conflict he couldn’t afford to have. But god damn if it didn’t grate on a man’s pride.
    Resentment rolled through him like a hot and fetid stone as the hostess seated him at a dimly lit corner table. It cooled as he ordered and methodically chewed his way through a richly fragrant meal that was all texture and no taste to his vampire tongue. By the time he sensed Camille and her partner, Yves, entering the hotel, the resentment had become an icy weight, a bitterness at the back of his throat.
    A far cry from how he’d been feeling the last time he’d seen Camille. She and Yves had visited Prague, where they’d shared with Deacon everything they knew of the nephilim. Together, they’d made preparations to evacuate their communities if the demons targeted Paris or Prague. When had that been? Ten months ago? A year?
    She hadn’t changed. Her gaze searched the room for threats as soon as she entered, a habit she’d possessed for as long as he’d known her. Her dark hair still framed her pixie face, making her dark eyes seem huge and guileless.
    But the hardness in her gaze was new.
    Sixty years ago, they’d parted well, both recognizing that they were better friends than partners. Camille didn’t like that she couldn’t manage him, and Deacon didn’t like being managed. Yves, however, was an easygoing sort. He had to be, the way he let Camille run him. Deacon had never figured out if Yves knew how quietly she could maneuver a man. Perhaps the vampire knew he was the appearance of leadership in Paris, and Camille was the reality of it.
    But unlike the last time they’d met with Deacon, Camille and Yves weren’t here as his friends. As the Paris elders, they were here to run him out.
    Protecting the community came first. It always came first. And when protecting his people went really fucking wrong, friendship didn’t matter so much anymore.
    One side of Deacon’s table stood flush against the wall; a corner lay behind him. When Yves sat across from Deacon and Camille to his left, their backs were exposed