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revolution, she hadn’t witnessed it. She’d still been training in Caelum. When she’d returned to Earth, Napoleon had been in power, and the nation embroiled in war. Ninety years ago, she’d met Deacon near the end of another war, in a situation that would have been laughable if she hadn’t been so stupid and careless.
    In Brussels, while hunting a demon, she’d been accosted by humans in an alley. Focused on her target, she’d let her guard down, and two drunks grabbed her wrists and manhandled her into a corner. She hadn’t been in danger. Unless they cleaved through her heart or chopped off her head, they couldn’t have killed her, and Rosalia wouldn’t have let them rape her. She couldn’t have removed their hands from her wrists without breaking the Rules, but she didn’t have to spread her legs. It had been a difficult position, however, one that would have forced her to reveal herself. And although she’d have happily shape-shifted to scare the drunken piss out of her attackers, she hadn’t wanted to tip off the demon she’d been trailing.
    But Deacon had walked by and seen that she was in trouble. He’d been James Buchanan Knox then, a Presbyterian reverend on shore leave. He hadn’t even waited for a plea to help. He’d come quietly into the darkened alley, wearing his chaplain’s collar. She could still hear the jeers of the men who’d equated that collar with softness and mercy. But Deacon hadn’t been soft. He’d asked them once, had given them one opportunity to let her go, before he began swinging.
    He’d easily taken them down, and she’d felt how tightly leashed he was. His anger burned hot, but once they were beaten, he’d stopped. Fascinated, she’d let him escort her to the building she’d told him was her home, and she watched over him after that, repaying the favor. Just making certain that he was all right until he made it back home.
    But he hadn’t returned to America. The war had taken its toll on his faith, and after he’d been discharged he also left his vows behind. He’d taken up boxing and drinking, and pursued both with focus and determination. In fighting circles, they’d called him the Deacon. Maybe in the beginning, some had known who he’d been, but later, they said he’d earned the name because he demanded “a tithe in pain.” She’d laughed the first time she’d heard that, but not the second or the third, when it became apparent that the only pain he hoped to extract was his own. How many bouts had she watched with her heart in her throat and her fingernails in her palms? He had fought so hard, yet always seemed disappointed when he won. As if he’d expected to hurt more. But he’d never managed not to care, which Rosalia thought he’d been aiming for. He’d never managed indifference, or cruelty. He never used women like he did the drink, never hurt anyone who wasn’t looking for pain, too. He just didn’t have people around him to care about. So Rosalia had sent Camille, and gave him new people.
    She glanced at the phone. Camille. She should have contacted the vampire. Too late, now that the sun had risen. Camille would be in her daysleep. Courtesy dictated that a visiting vampire alert the city’s elders, especially if he didn’t have a partner to feed from. A bloodsharer would be provided to reduce the risk of human discovery. Rosalia wondered if Deacon had bothered to alert Camille and her partner, Yves.
    Asking Camille would be particularly hard for him. Not because they’d parted sixty years ago as enemies, but because they’d remained friends. And because Deacon had trouble asking for help from anyone.
    Maybe if he had, this would all have turned out differently. No betrayal. His community still alive. And with Lorenzo dead, maybe Rosalia could have come forward and told him how she’d met him so many years ago. Told him why she’d sent Camille.
    And maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference at all.
    A sigh moved through her.