It wasn’t until he heard her voice that he realized his sight was gone. So sweet, that voice. Sweeter still, the siren call of her beating heart. Blood. Hope stirred inside. He’d learned his lesson with the rats. Didn’t move until she was upon him, nudging his remains with her foot, no doubt thinking him the dungeon’s last victim.
How wrong she was.
He lunged with power borrowed against the promise of blood. She beat her small fists against him, breaking bones, tearing skin, shrieking, crying. He held fast. Sank his gumless fangs into her soft, pliant neck. Her backpack slipped from her shoulders. He drank deep her throbbing, pulsing life. Drank until he almost swallowed her death.
Her dead body fell limp and warm across his rejuvenating form. Pain flashed over his body but he ignored it. After so much hurt, what was a little more? He shoved her aside and pulled his scrawny wrists through the shackles before the flesh filled out. A pool of light spilled from somewhere, hurting his eyes. He felt for it. No fire greeted him. Not sun. A flashlight. Hers.
With new strength, he smashed the shackles at his ankles with the steel torch.
It wasn’t until he heard her voice the second time that he realized the extent of the curse.
‘Vampire,’ she screamed at him.
He nearly toppled over he twisted so fast. Was there life in her still? That meant more blood.
A transparent, female image hovered over the girl’s lifeless form, pointing a finger at him. Accusing. ‘You killed me. All I wanted was to find a shard of pottery or a coin and now I’m dead.’ She flew at him, cutting through him like a gust of winter wind. A ghost.
He stumbled to his knees, gutted by the burst of cold after her blood had begun to warm him. The flashlight fell, its light directed at him. He stared at his shriveled forearms. Had his skin decayed that much? He stared harder and the bruises separated into names. Up his arms. Across his belly. Covering his chest.
The mother of three he’d taken in 1811. Her three he’d taken right after. The miller in 1860. The miller’s plump wife. The shipbuilder. The passel of street urchins. The farmer’s son in 1920. The whore in New Orleans not long after that. The midnight raid through a boarding school dorm. The policeman who’d tracked him …
The ghost girl hovered before him. ‘Killing me has activated a curse placed upon you. Blood magic. Black magic.’ She shook her head. ‘Monster,’ she screamed. ‘And now you’re going to pay. For every life you’ve already taken you’ll hear their voices in your head. For every new life you take, you’ll be haunted by their spirit. I am the first of those.’
She pointed at him. ‘I’m going to make your life a living hell. All of us are.’ She howled in rage as she hung over him, her ruined throat weeping bloody tears. ‘Can’t you hear them? The voices of everyone you’ve murdered. So many … ’ She clutched at her head.
Whispers echoed through his brain. The voices of his kills. The souls waking. Crying for vengeance. Screaming for blood. Berating him. Lashing him. A multitude of voices. A multitude of languages. Nagging, punishing, cursing. A fissure of pain threatened to split his head open.
‘Mal.’
That voice. Her voice.
‘Mal, you awake?’
He lunged upward. The shackles wrenched him back. Sweat soaked his clothing. His chest ached. He would kill her again if that would shut her up.
‘Mal, it’s Fi. Snap out of it.’
Light shattered his vision. He blinked and struggled to sit. ‘Where … ’ The voices laughed at him. His body shuddered with exertion. He was in the storage container, not the pit. Fi stood in the open door. Light filtered through her diaphanous form.
‘Go away,’ he snarled. As if she could. The curse had trapped her. Bound her to him. He turned away as much as the chains would allow. Go away, the voices mocked. Weak. Broken. Pitiful—
‘Trust me, I would if I could.’ She drifted closer. ‘Snap out of it. I have blood.’ She stopped and peered at him. ‘You look like hell and your nightmares are wrecking my head. We share that crap, remember?’
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
‘Hurry up,’ she called over her shoulder. Her image wavered.
‘I’m here.’ Doc came in carrying a clear plastic pitcher stained with crimson.
‘Take care of him. I need to go lie down … ’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Will do,’ he answered, but she’d vanished. He kneeled at Mal’s side. ‘Here, drink up.’ He lifted the pitcher to Mal’s lips.
He drank without tasting, gulping it down until there was no more. Familiar warmth flooded his body. He lay back, sated for the first time in many days. Warmth and relief. And worry. That blood had tasted— ‘Where did Fi get human blood?’
Doc set the pitcher aside and went to work unlocking the shackles. ‘You know Fi, she’s sly like that.’
‘Where did she get it?’
‘You know where she got it.’
The leg bands came off first. ‘She can’t do that. I told her after the last time—’
‘You don’t know by now she doesn’t listen to you? Or anyone for that matter.’
Fi had done this two years ago. Slit her wrist and drained blood for him. Problem was her solid form took forever to replenish the fluid. No wonder she’d disappeared so quickly to rest. They’d all be better off if she couldn’t become corporeal. Could real ghosts do that? Fi was the first he’d come across of any variety. He rotated his unlocked arm while Doc undid the other. Felt good to be whole again. But not at Fi’s expense. Their relationship was tenuous enough already. Not that he blamed her. Living with your murderer had to wear on you.
He watched Doc work. ‘You knew she was going to do that.’
‘Don’t lay that on me. You think I wanted her to hurt herself for you? I’m not the one who needed the juice.’ Doc tossed the key at him and hopped to his feet. ‘Unlock yourself.’
Mal grabbed the key. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Yeah, you did.’ He prowled toward the door. ‘Thanks for reminding me what a jerk you can be.’
‘Unlike Fi, you stay here of your own choice.’
Doc didn’t look back. ‘I stay here for her.’
Mal unlocked the last shackle and pocketed the key. Doc would cool off, no matter how much Fi’s actions had upset him.
Mal stretched, feeling better than he had in a long while. Human blood did an undead body good. He hiked up his shirt. The wound was gone. Only a fading bruise marked where the comarré’s blade had pierced his skin. The blood would quiet the voices for at least a day, maybe two, and with the hunger under control, she could no longer tempt him. Perfect time for a visit.
Why put off until tomorrow what could be interrogated today?
From the outside, Hôtel de la Belle Etoile had changed very little since the last time Tatiana visited Paris several decades ago. She left Mikkel to direct the unloading of the car and went inside, pulling off the mandatory burqa once she entered the lobby. Some of the staff were different. And now the windows sported the latest in helioglazing, as did all the hotels run by and reserved for vampire nobility. Gone were the days of suffocating velvet drapes and interior rooms.
Other than those changes, it was still the same beautifully maintained interior, decorated in unrelenting Charles X style. The lush drapery, expanses of marble, gilt chandeliers, and yards of carved paneling suited her perfectly. This was the level of style a woman of her rank should enjoy when traveling. Still, being here meant the blood whore might yet breathe.
That was enough to ruin her trip.
Maybe she’d recover the ring. A potential bright spot. She relaxed as Mikkel joined her and the fringe concierge bowed his greeting. ‘Mistress Tatiana, how lovely to see you and your guest.’
‘I’m tired. Where’s my room?’ Fawning bored her, unless she was in the mood for it. Which she wasn’t, strangely enough. Must be stress.
‘Of course. We have the Empress Suite prepared for you.’ He smiled like a dog waiting for a
biscuit. ‘I see the bellman is taking your things up. Is there anything we can do or provide to help you settle in? Anything at all?’
Sycophant. She smiled back, perfectly willing to test his mettle. ‘Female twins. No blondes. Not older than twenty-five, and still virgins.’ She glanced at her diamond and platinum Cartier. ‘Say … half an hour? I’d hate to spend my first night in Paris without a proper French meal.’
‘Good choice, darling,’ Mikkel said, giving her a wink. She returned his gaze and rested her hand on his forearm, imagining how delicious that blood would taste and how earth-shattering the sex would be afterward. There was nothing like a good scrog with virgin blood in your veins.
The concierge’s head bobbed in agreement. ‘Children then, my lady?’
A harsh memory flipped her smile to a frown. ‘Never children. Ever. Do you understand me?’
The concierge’s beatific glow faltered for a moment, then he recovered. ‘Of course, my lady, never. I shall make your request my number one priority.’
Muscle quivered beneath her hand. She relaxed her grip on Mikkel’s arm. ‘You do that.’
Chapter Nine
Eight feet by ten feet.
Chrysabelle counted off the room in steps. Slightly smaller than the guest cells at the Primoris Domus.
Not a useful tool anywhere. Not since Doc had taken the dinner fork back. Black paint obscured the single porthole. She used her nail to scratch near the edge. A thin line of paint came away. Well, that had potential.
Dismantling the fold-down bed was another option, but it seemed pretty sturdy. Her one attempt to rip the metal structure free had ended with her losing her grip and smacking her head on the opposite wall. The effort had also scraped the foundation off the backs of her hands. Hopefully, her face was still covered. Hard to tell without a mirror, but the chances this vampire would have one of those lying around was slim. Traditional silver-backed mirrors reflected a vampire’s true visage – the demon side of them. Not pretty. Not the way most nobles wanted to think of themselves, which is why they favored the pricey gold-backed mirrors. But this vampire wouldn’t have the money for a luxury like that.
She paced, getting angrier with each step. What had made her test him like that? With that much bloodlust in him, he could have killed her.
Maybe she didn’t care if he drained the life out of her.
Maybe he still would.
She stopped pacing. Her hand strayed to her throat. She rubbed at the curve of flesh between ear and shoulder. He would come to her angry. Punishing. He’d strike fast, his fangs sliding in with that white-hot spark of pleasure, breaking her open, sucking her in. Yes …
No.
She shuddered, instantly repulsed and compelled by the thought. How could she entertain such a fantasy? She was free. The days of servitude ended. Her blood rights were finally hers again. So why the drift into the ways of the past?
She knew why. Rushing to the single wall sconce, she thrust her wrist toward it. Holy mother, get me through this. Her veins pulsed fat and blue. Hypervolemia was setting in. Without a patron, without some way to rid her system of the extra blood, the buildup would continue to muddle her brain. Make her crave the delicate pain of fangs piercing her skin.
His fangs.
Her release.
Shame crept over her tightening body, even though she knew she couldn’t help herself. For the hundredth time, she scanned the room. No place to dispose of the excess. Not to mention that opening a vein in scent range of her vampire warden had ‘disastrous idea’ stamped all over it. She had to escape before she did something she might not live to regret. One by one, she unbolted the locks and eased the door open.
Doc leaned against the wall across from her cell. He gave her a little wave. ‘Going somewhere?’
She slammed the door shut. The varcolai couldn’t be out there all night. Could he? She took her frustration out on the porthole.
Finally, she turned off the light and lay down. The cot’s thin, itchy blanket stank of unwashed wool. Doing her best to ignore it, she closed her eyes and listened as hard as she could for any sign her guard might leave.
Nothing.
Then nothing turned into sleep.
At this late hour, the nearly depleted solar meant only the faint running lights along the corridor floor remained, and they weakened even as Mal passed. Not that he needed the light. These passageways were imprinted into his memory, and with the fresh blood in his system his eyesight was crystalline, lights or no.
Before he made the turn into the hall where Anna was being kept, he registered Doc’s slowed heartbeat and relaxed breathing. Mal padded around the bend and stopped. Despite snoozing, Doc’s feline balance kept him upright. A deep, throaty rumble purred out of him. Maintaining human form took the same effort in varcolai as it did vampires. Asleep, Doc had shifted to an in between state, the closest he could get to his true form under the witch’s curse he lived with.
His flattened nose and split lip disappeared as he shook himself awake, apparently sensing Mal’s presence. With a few blinks, his pupils rounded and his fangs receded. ‘S’up?’
Mal nodded.
Doc yawned and arched his back with remarkable flexibility, then rubbed the back of his neck. He stared at the floor. ‘About earlier—’
‘Forgotten.’ Mal tipped his head toward the locked door. ‘Anything?’
‘Stuck her head out once. But she’s been in sand land now for’ – Doc checked his watch – ‘almost three hours.’
‘I’ll take over.’
‘I’m cool.’ Doc eyed Mal as though his beast was about to rip through his skin and devour the city.
‘I’m fine.’ He forced his human face into place. ‘Go check on Fi.’
Doc ran his tongue over his teeth and, after another hard look at Mal, shrugged. ‘Later.’ With a quick wave over his shoulder, he jogged down the corridor, his stride long and quiet.
As Doc disappeared, Mal opened himself to the woman on the other side of the steel door. The blood made everything easier. His senses slid over her like a wisp of satin. Her breathing and heart rate mimicked what Doc’s had just been. She slept.
He splayed his hands on the door and inhaled, testing himself. Her perfume sang through his veins, and suddenly the blood he’d consumed seemed inadequate. Need. The golden haze was back, hugging his bones, making him ache for her. More.
How could her scent affect him this much after he’d just fed? The realization that he still wanted her chilled him, then he relaxed and accepted it. She was comarré. No vampire could be near her and not hunger. Not want to claim her.
Her patron was dead. Her blood rights were her own. Unless she chose to sell them again. Or give them away. Take them. Drain her.
A needy flame ignited in his belly. He doused it in reality. Imbecile. For once, he agreed with the voices. He was anathema. She was as close to vampire nobility as a human could get. The chance she’d share her blood with him was … nonexistent.
He inhaled again, drugging himself with her scent, pressing his cheek to the door. If anything, her scent seemed stronger, sweeter, more forceful. He tipped his head back and opened his mouth. She tasted of power and promise and blood as hot and sugary as a summer plum. The voices went dead silent.
He shook himself. Took his hands off the door and backed away. Where was this coming from? He wasn’t hungry. He was sated. Complete. He needed to snap out of it. Get away, get away, get away …
Maybe he should. Talking to her when he felt like this was a very bad idea. She was sleeping anyway. He should skip the talking. His hand strayed to the handle, surprised when it turned. She’d left the door unlocked even after he’d warned her. If she wasn’t afraid of him, she was a fool.
A little push and the door swung open. The paint had been scraped off the porthole in thin lines. Moonlight sifted through the scratches, suffusing the room with an underwater glow. She sprawled on the bunk, gleaming softly, her face toward the far wall, one arm in h
is direction, palm up, her fingers half-curled. Like she was beckoning him.
He stepped through. There would be plenty of time for talking in the morning.
He stood beside the cot and watched her sleep. Had her patron ever stood at her bed like this? Some old fanged creature with Lucifer’s bank account and a false idea of his importance. Had he been kind to her? Or treated her like one more possession? Used her? Mal hoped to hell not.
‘She’s not yours anymore,’ he whispered, hating the image in his head of some noble prat floundering on top of her. Rough when he should be gentle because he owned her and it was his due. Mal’s fists tightened with the need to shatter something. That was what he did best anyway. Not protecting. Not comforting. Destroying. Killing. That’s what he knew. What he’d always known. Mortal or immortal, death was his legacy.
She’d leave when she found out. He couldn’t blame her.
He needed to go. He shouldn’t be this close to her. Couldn’t be trusted. He’d told her that and yet she’d left the door unlocked. Pretty little fool.
Something glistened on her cheek. He leaned in and brushed her hair out of the way, the strands like cool water. The makeup covering her marks had worn off. The moonlight caught her signum and brought them to life in a subtle dance of gold across her cheekbone that turned into vines and flowers scrolling up her temple and arching over her brow.
Beautiful. Wrenching. Like he’d been privileged to see something both intimate and sacred. He should go.
He couldn’t.
Not until he saw the others. From what he knew about the comarré there should be more signum on her hands and feet. He desperately wanted to see them. Needed to. He kneeled beside the bed and slid his hand beneath her upturned palm. The veins at her wrist throbbed. Not delicate like he’d expected, but thick. Lush with blood. He should go.
He lifted her hand to his face, closed his eyes, and took her scent into his body. It plunged into his gut. His fangs dropped as his face revealed his true nature. He rested her smooth palm against the hard plane of his cheek and pressed his closed mouth to the soft, warm flesh of her wrist. His gums ached. His body throbbed. His brain found a hundred reasons to sink his teeth into her.
Blood Rights (House of Comarre 1) Page 7
