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might stumble across them. A few more nights of watching, and maybe he’d find his opening. Trying tonight would have been suicide. And although this journey Deacon was on couldn’t end any other way but with him dead, he’d like to take out a few more demons first.
    She’d been right about that, too.
    He stripped off. His shirt and pants went next to the weapons. No reason to have any of them near his bed. If a demon or human came in, he couldn’t defend himself. A bomb could go off during the day and he wouldn’t know it. A Guardian could teleport in . . . or slide through the shadows.
    He crossed the room toward the window, knowing he should hit the bed instead. Sunrise was almost here, and he’d drop where he stood when the sun came up. He pushed back the drapes. Not much to see. Scooters and chained bicycles lined the cobblestone alley. A few potted flowers folded in on themselves against the night. Deacon studied the shadows. Hell, he’d been watching the shadows all night, expecting her to step out of them.
    Rosalia.
    When she’d spoken to him on the stairs, he hadn’t immediately known it was her. Sure hadn’t looked like her. His memory held a vision of long dark hair and crimson lips against pale skin. A fairy-tale princess, locked away by the nosferatu—but she’d been wakened by betrayal rather than a kiss, when Deacon had followed Caym’s orders and guided the others down into those catacombs. But at the chateau, she’d been rail-thin, tanned, and blond, like half the models working the floor. She’d walked like one, too, all knees and shoulders. No lush roll of her hips. And whenever he’d seen her, she’d worn a wide-eyed, vacant look in her blue eyes, instead of a warm, soft brown.
    But when she’d looked at him, she’d seen right through him. So deep there wasn’t anything she didn’t lay bare. As if she knew him.
    It was a stupid thought. How could she know him? But he’d barely made it down the stairs before she’d been in his face, telling him exactly why he was there and what he’d planned. And hitting the nail right on the head.
    She wasn’t out there now. None of the shadows was deep enough; he could see through them. But when they were impenetrable . . . that would be Rosalia.
    He curled his fist against the glass, wishing he could smash through it. Why the hell was he looking for her? She was the last person he wanted to run into again. She made him hunger. Made him think about a time when taking blood wasn’t just feeding. When it had been a part of something that mattered. But it never would be again. Not for him.
    Goddamn her. He’d rather it had been anyone but Rosalia. She’d seen him at his lowest. A man couldn’t get past that. Other Guardians and vampires might have heard what Caym and the other demon had done, but they hadn’t seen . But Rosalia had been hiding in her shadows, watching as Belial’s lieutenant left him for dead. Deacon had been glad she’d hung back and hadn’t saved him. Glad of it. Then for some godforsaken reason, she’d taken him away from Prague and tried to help him. He was beyond that. She should have found someone more deserving.
    But tonight she’d stuck her nose in it again. Helping him, when he could barely look at her square on. He hated being near her. He didn’t need a mirror when she was around. He couldn’t escape his failure or his guilt when she looked at him. Yet he searched the shadows for her. The temptation, the hope, of a single glimpse had drawn him to the window instead of the bed.
    Movement beyond his reflection froze Deacon in place. Someone had come into the room. The door hadn’t opened—not a demon or vampire, then. So Rosalia had come after all? She wouldn’t be staying. He’d run her out of here, the same way he’d run her off before. Uncivil bastards pissed her off. Lucky for him, being one came easy.
    Deacon let the drape fall back into place, began to turn.
    “Don’t move.”
    He tensed. No. Not