when He’d created her—and He was either kind to the men who looked at her, or cruel enough to test their character every time they did.
“Hello. Jake.” She waved her hand, hoping to snap him out of the surprised expression that was rapidly turning into uncertainty. “Ciao . I know I have dropped in on you, but I need to speak with Michael. Will you take me to him?”
His eyes widened. His gaze hadn’t dropped yet. Impressive. “Uh, yeah. But I don’t know if I can—”
“Will you try? It’s important.”
“But, you can’t—Shit. I need to tell you . . .” Doubt flooded his psychic scent. He ran his hands over his head, obviously flustered. “Hold on, okay?”
He vanished.
Rosalia smiled and closed her eyes. In the darkness, she listened. Upstairs, the novices chatted and played the card games that doubled as practice. Most of the rooms on the second floor were empty. Six months ago, she’d tried to seduce Deacon in one of those rooms, hoping he’d warm to her. It hadn’t worked, and she’d left—disappointed, frustrated, angry. She’d thought he’d been beaten by another vampire, rejected by his women, and tossed out of the community he’d once led. She hadn’t known his partners Eva and Petra had a demon’s knife to their throats.
Now knowing the true circumstances, she respected that he hadn’t accepted what she’d offered. Not that she’d been very good at seduction. She’d never included it in her repertoire of talents.
Perhaps she should have. She wasn’t likely to get the chance again, and she’d have liked to know what it was to be with him, even once.
She also liked to console herself by imagining that he’d turn in a terrible performance. A suck and a thrust and a haul off .
Heartbeats and a rustle of clothing told Rosalia that Jake had returned—but not with Michael. Irena and Alejandro accompanied him, still unsteady on their feet from the teleportation. Rosalia lifted her brows at Jake. Maybe he’d thought she just needed assistance slaying a demon. Alejandro and Irena were undeniably perfect for that. But they weren’t who she needed now.
Jake shifted his feet, looked both apologetic and uneasy, so she turned to Alejandro.
“Thank you for coming, but—”
“We aren’t Michael,” Irena said.
Rosalia glanced at the other woman. She didn’t know Irena well—had avoided her, in fact. Though small and compact, Irena’s loud laugh, brassy hair, and the serpent tattoos winding her arms drew attention, and Rosalia felt exposed just by proximity. She preferred to wait quietly and watch, unnoticed. She could not do so next to a woman who wore leather longstockings and a white fur mantle. Alejandro, however, was more like Rosalia, and the resemblance went deeper than their height and the darkness of their hair. Though Alejandro hadn’t been raised by a demon, he’d been a noble during the Spanish Inquisition, and it had taught him subtlety and how to maneuver gracefully around his opponents—in both his speech and his use of the sword. He and Irena were two of the oldest, most respected Guardians, but Irena was right: They were not Michael.
Rosalia tried to frame a response that wouldn’t be taken as an insult—then decided Irena probably wouldn’t care. “No. You aren’t.”
Alejandro signaled for Jake to leave them. The young Guardian vanished again, and dread began to rise through Rosalia’s heart. Despite her response, Alejandro hadn’t asked him to find Michael. Why?
Irena said, “Michael is dead.”
Michael was dead ? Rosalia shook her head. She couldn’t have heard that right. What could have killed him? “I do not—No. I don’t understand. Where is he?”
Alejandro stepped forward. Rosalia wondered if he thought he’d have to catch her, but his hands remained at his sides. “We couldn’t find you to tell you.”
A question lay in that statement— Where have you been? —but Rosalia couldn’t answer. The joy of that morning had
“Hello. Jake.” She waved her hand, hoping to snap him out of the surprised expression that was rapidly turning into uncertainty. “Ciao . I know I have dropped in on you, but I need to speak with Michael. Will you take me to him?”
His eyes widened. His gaze hadn’t dropped yet. Impressive. “Uh, yeah. But I don’t know if I can—”
“Will you try? It’s important.”
“But, you can’t—Shit. I need to tell you . . .” Doubt flooded his psychic scent. He ran his hands over his head, obviously flustered. “Hold on, okay?”
He vanished.
Rosalia smiled and closed her eyes. In the darkness, she listened. Upstairs, the novices chatted and played the card games that doubled as practice. Most of the rooms on the second floor were empty. Six months ago, she’d tried to seduce Deacon in one of those rooms, hoping he’d warm to her. It hadn’t worked, and she’d left—disappointed, frustrated, angry. She’d thought he’d been beaten by another vampire, rejected by his women, and tossed out of the community he’d once led. She hadn’t known his partners Eva and Petra had a demon’s knife to their throats.
Now knowing the true circumstances, she respected that he hadn’t accepted what she’d offered. Not that she’d been very good at seduction. She’d never included it in her repertoire of talents.
Perhaps she should have. She wasn’t likely to get the chance again, and she’d have liked to know what it was to be with him, even once.
She also liked to console herself by imagining that he’d turn in a terrible performance. A suck and a thrust and a haul off .
Heartbeats and a rustle of clothing told Rosalia that Jake had returned—but not with Michael. Irena and Alejandro accompanied him, still unsteady on their feet from the teleportation. Rosalia lifted her brows at Jake. Maybe he’d thought she just needed assistance slaying a demon. Alejandro and Irena were undeniably perfect for that. But they weren’t who she needed now.
Jake shifted his feet, looked both apologetic and uneasy, so she turned to Alejandro.
“Thank you for coming, but—”
“We aren’t Michael,” Irena said.
Rosalia glanced at the other woman. She didn’t know Irena well—had avoided her, in fact. Though small and compact, Irena’s loud laugh, brassy hair, and the serpent tattoos winding her arms drew attention, and Rosalia felt exposed just by proximity. She preferred to wait quietly and watch, unnoticed. She could not do so next to a woman who wore leather longstockings and a white fur mantle. Alejandro, however, was more like Rosalia, and the resemblance went deeper than their height and the darkness of their hair. Though Alejandro hadn’t been raised by a demon, he’d been a noble during the Spanish Inquisition, and it had taught him subtlety and how to maneuver gracefully around his opponents—in both his speech and his use of the sword. He and Irena were two of the oldest, most respected Guardians, but Irena was right: They were not Michael.
Rosalia tried to frame a response that wouldn’t be taken as an insult—then decided Irena probably wouldn’t care. “No. You aren’t.”
Alejandro signaled for Jake to leave them. The young Guardian vanished again, and dread began to rise through Rosalia’s heart. Despite her response, Alejandro hadn’t asked him to find Michael. Why?
Irena said, “Michael is dead.”
Michael was dead ? Rosalia shook her head. She couldn’t have heard that right. What could have killed him? “I do not—No. I don’t understand. Where is he?”
Alejandro stepped forward. Rosalia wondered if he thought he’d have to catch her, but his hands remained at his sides. “We couldn’t find you to tell you.”
A question lay in that statement— Where have you been? —but Rosalia couldn’t answer. The joy of that morning had
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