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had never risked enough—and thanks to the nephilim, she’d lost it all anyway. She pulled her hand free. And since she had nothing to lose now, she reached up and tucked his collar into place. She doubted he noticed. “If you need assistance tonight—”
    “I don’t.” His tone implied he’d already gotten everything he needed from her. He looked toward the demon. “So you can haul off.”
    Anger jabbed at her. She’d expected rejection and understood his need to go this alone, but she didn’t deserve that rude dismissal. “Or, as you once told me, ‘Get the fuck out of your face’?” When his startled gaze met hers, she smiled sweetly. “It will be my pleasure. Good luck to you, preacher.”
    To him, and to her. They were both going to need it.

CHAPTER 2
    Deacon returned to his hotel not far ahead of the sun. At his door, he flipped the housekeeping sign to Veuillez ne pas déranger , and listened for sounds from inside before slipping through. An empty room greeted him. Above the headboard of the single bed, a framed photograph of the Eiffel Tower provided the room’s best view. The flower-sprigged bedspread had been straightened; folded white towels were stacked in the tiny bathroom and the damp ones cleared from the floor. Judging by the wet ring on the sink, the maid hadn’t replaced the tumbler he’d used after brushing his teeth, just rinsed it out, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t taste anything that came out of the glass, and if they didn’t wash it for a year, he still wouldn’t get sick off it. All that mattered was that they’d done the housekeeping after midnight, just as he’d requested. This wasn’t the best hotel in Paris—far from it—but it suited his needs.
    Not that he’d ever had too many needs. But he’d whittled them down to a cheap room with heavy drapes and a solid lock, blood, and a mirror. Facing himself every day meant that he’d never forget why he was still going.
    It wasn’t as bad as it had been, though. Six months ago, every time he’d walked into an empty hotel room the punch of grief and failure had almost leveled him, and after he’d regained his feet, was followed by unexpected jabs. But now he automatically hung up his jacket, instead of slinging it across the back of the chair before realizing that Petra wasn’t there to cluck her tongue at him and iron out the wrinkles. The clothes he laid on the bed before showering were always the same as when he finished, not replaced with ones that Eva liked better. He never expected the odor of turpentine and oils from Eva’s studio to fill the rooms anymore, only the scents of strangers. The noise of the television was never punctuated by their laughter, but came through the walls or from another floor, accompanied by the sounds of people he didn’t know, eating and fucking and living.
    Eating and fucking and living. Deacon was still doing all of that, too. But he wasn’t doing enough killing.
    He laid his swords on the top shelf of the closet. This time, he’d left the gun in the room’s lockbox. When he’d had bullets coated in hellhound venom, which could slow a demon, the weapon had been useful. But he’d used two bullets slaying a demon in Madrid, and the rest in London. That one had been close. By the time he’d managed to kill it, he’d bled almost as much as the demon. He’d relied on those bullets too much. He wouldn’t make the same mistake with Theriault.
    Getting to the demon might be harder than he’d anticipated, though. Deacon had been hoping to get his chance on the sixty miles between the chateau and Paris, but the Guardian had been right. Those other two demons had remained with Theriault until he’d reached his residence on the Champs-Élysées—the best Paris had to offer. There, his protection had left him, but Deacon couldn’t take advantage of their absence. The fucker had a human wife. Considering she was pregnant and the baby couldn’t be a demon’s, maybe she